Curating my social media exposure as a form of self-love

Better Safe Than Sorry by Teacher's Media

The never-ending onslaught of offenses, catastrophes, violations and disasters that pepper my social media news feed is a testament to the state of our world. As a life-long progressive activist, I am largely exposed to the posts of folks with similar views and politics. I stopped watching television news years ago, filtering my exposure to current events through the interpretations and actions of reporters who are activists and change-makers. This decision meant I no longer yelled at the screen or turned it off in a fury over the biased, offensive slant of patriarchal, capitalist, racist, sexist, homophobic "news" reporters. It did not, however, protect me from being affected by each horror in a never-ending loop of traumatization. While I freed myself from exposure to the infuriating biases of the news media, I have still been bathed in the injustice of each atrocity. Often I go through several days of depression, anger and grief upon learning the details of yet another violation. From Orlando to Oaxaca, the domestic and international reign of terror, force, control, violence and dehumanization never ends. And while I don't click on each article, analysis, protest announcement, or petition, I see the headlines and learn the basic facts of dozens of such events every week. And then there are the ones that I read in-depth. The ones that touch me too deeply to avoid, the ones that catch me at a moment of weakness, the ones that keep coming up over and over and over as I scroll down the screen. 

Most recently I became ensconced in articles and protests and community responses to the deaths of 50 mostly Puerto Rican, mostly LGBTQ young people in Orlando and the campus rape of a woman at Stanford. In both cases, the more I read and the more details I learned, the more triggered I became, and the more these atrocities took me over. In some ways, my rage and grief about these incidents connected me to others, reinforcing my sense of solidarity and community with folks committed to dismantling the systems of oppression that cause such violence. On the other hand, I lost sleep, lost peace of mind, and increased my sense of vulnerability and fear. 

While I believe it is crucial that we understand the big picture of how oppression, power, and violence function in our world, I am rethinking my exposure to each new example of these larger forces. This is what I know: powerful men are allowed to violate whomever they wish, however they wish, with minimal consequences. Women are raped with impunity. The US legal system is set up to maintain the wealth and power structures of this country, to target oppressed people and protect privileged people. The particular details of the Stanford rape trial reveal nothing new about the objectification of women and the perversity of rape culture. And yet, I am infuriated by the media's lauding of the perpetrator's athletic prowess, their use of his friendly, innocent, cute headshot rather than his mug shot, his refusal to acknowledge any guilt or offer any apology even after being found guilty, his father's letter in his defense, and the insult of a 6-month sentence to "protect his future". 

In the case of the Orlando massacre, I already know that queer people of color are targets of hatred, that gun violence is rampant, that anti-Muslim sentiment and cries of terrorism are prepared by the media and politicians regardless of any facts, and that internalized homophobia is deadly. After learning of this massacre, I participated in a vigil in a tiny town in the South where I was able to offer a Spanish-language reading of the names of the dead for a mostly monolingual-English community mourning ceremony. This felt like a meaningful contribution, and an important honoring of the lives of those who were killed. And yet, what about the days I spent in a fog before and after the vigil, the disconnection I felt from my own sense of love and belonging? And what about the angry days and restless nights I spent after reading about the victim-blaming trial and light sentencing in the Stanford rape case? 

Choosing to learn about these current events did not hone my analysis of inequality or increase my capacity to offer love and healing to the world. So, I am left wondering what this anger does for me. It does not make it any easier to face each day or to sleep at night. It does not make each personal brush with these power structures less troubling. It does not connect me more strongly to the vast majority of us who are oppressed by these truths. It does not explain my life's purpose more clearly. In fact, reading the details of these events is triggering and painful, causing greater physical harm to my body, already ravaged by decades of over-production of stress hormones. And it causes me great psychic strain, uprooting my emotional well-being as I read the troubling details of yet another instance of police brutality, war crime, or climate chaos disaster. 

As an activist, I have always believed that it is important to know what's going on in the world of social justice, to be informed about current events and to have an opinion about politics. I now believe that my understanding of rape culture, gun culture, and the impact of patriarchy, capitalism, racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and all the other forms of inequality is sufficient to inform my actions and activism in the world, and that learning the details of each new atrocity is actually perpetuating the violence on myself. When I consent to expose myself to each offense, I victimize myself. And while it is a privilege to choose not to know about every oppressive act, I believe that we all deserve it. Rather than sacrificing my own mental health because of the sickness of my communities, I want to uplift myself and those around me by spreading love and light in the best ways I know how. I may no longer be able to discuss current events with outrage and incisive political analysis. I may no longer be able to earn activist props for the stories I share on social media. But I will not forget what I know about the power structures of our world, or lose my conviction that they must be dismantled. I am curious to see how this will affect my mental health, my ability to support others in my communities, and my critique of the dominant culture.