How to Consider Your Sanity and the Internet
In 2009, social media and a 12-step group entered my life. In 2024, I am still sorting out how they intersect.
Sometime in 2009, a marketing group in Tucson invited me to participate on a panel discussion about building one’s “personal brand.” Flattered and confused, naturally I said yes.
“Personal brand?” I asked a friend the next morning on a hike. “What does that even mean?” I believe it was the first conversation either of us had had about the radical shift in the concept of the self as a strategy first. Posting on Facebook had developed utility for me though—I used it to promote the work of our nonprofit, an agency mentoring youth in the documentary arts, and myself as executive director.
I remember 2009 as a year of incredible change overall. Downtown Tucson was beginning to transform into a scene, which felt edgy and exciting, and we were among the cool kids. The recession caused government and philanthropic funders to redirect their dollars from arts organizations to basic needs, but at least for a while, we exceeded our fundraising goals. The Arizona Daily Star, which published and distributed our youth magazine, pulled their support due to economic woes in print journalism, but new media partners and options began to emerge, including the potential of self-publishing online. Obama was president. I got my first iPhone. I was in love—and then subsequently, a new member of Al-Anon, a 12-step group for those affected by someone else’s drinking.
I’ve been reflecting on this time in my life for the past few weeks, contrasting it to today’s late-stage era of social media with its proliferation of disinformation; the ways it makes organizing easy for anyone, including hate groups; and its inherent addictions. Until now, I’d never considered that social media fully burst into my life during the same time as I was beginning to examine my personal role in a system of addiction. I’d never thought about how the underlying presuppositions of these two worlds, each a movement of sorts, both with objectives to scale, looked next to each other: One is a program that taught me how to listen; the other demands engagement at all times. One sought to bring order to the chaos in which I’d found myself (and helped to build); the other fuels chaos by lighting it on fire. One models itself on a policy of attraction, not promotion; the other is a kingdom of promotion. Participating in both felt like trying to walk down a street in two directions at once.
In general, 12-steppers are a roughed-up crew, desperate enough to attend meetings in the forgotten rooms of churches and ugly, low-rent strip malls. The writers among us are quick to acknowledge how the program seems hokey, replete with slogans and mantras. We’re apologetic for the framing of the physical problem of addiction as a spiritual one, too. I winced at some of the language and practices myself, but I never got hung up on the spiritual foundation overall, or not to the degree others did. To me, the mental flexibility required to translate words like “god” or “higher power” into my own definitions was a jig, not a jam. I danced around what I didn’t need in accordance to the program’s adage, “take what you like and leave the rest,” because there was enough for me to like.
I did have questions about how it was spiritual though, like what did that mean, exactly, and what about its other parts? For instance, why is it pitched as spiritual over ethical (the steps, slogans); or spiritual versus a collection of shared practices (meetings, personal reflection, sponsorship, amends); or spiritual instead of a nonprofit with sound governance (traditions, concepts)? Because it was these elements in combo that earned my dedication and awe, and I clung to the program’s humanness as much as, or more than, its otherworldliness.
Yet here’s how it is spiritual, and I think this is important to articulate: The fundamental existence of “a power greater than ourselves” is not up for debate. There’s room to wrestle with, resist, and even hate this, but a sense of humility (translate: surrender) and an acknowledgment that I might not always be right, or my opinion may not matter—especially regarding someone else’s choices—is the tapestry’s warp.
My favorite meeting was held Saturday mornings at a hospital, and I attended like church. I’d get a hot tea and a granola bar from the cafeteria as a distraction for when my frustration or anxiety would spike. After all, this was a sharing meeting, open to anyone who felt like contributing. One of the program’s ground rules is no “cross talk,” meaning no one responds to another’s three-minute monologue with advice, redirection, or “feedback.” Instead, after the kitchen timer buzzed, signaling for that sharer to wrap it up, everyone said “thank you” in unison. I mean, this: If this alone was what I had come to learn—how to thank someone for whatever they contributed (which frankly could feel at times as if I was “liking” an objectionable Facebook post or tweet)—it was nearly worth the price of admission.
I am not exaggerating when I tell you it took me years to accept that other people’s beliefs, opinions, and choices around addiction—or practically anything else for that matter—might not be the same as mine, and that did not render them wrong. With practice, I learned to give people the benefit of the doubt and increase my capacity to sit alongside those with whom I disagreed. I learned to accept that I wasn’t more right, and that what others said wasn’t the totality of who they were. After all, we were all in these stupid rooms together, each trying to work out the logic of the Serenity Prayer:
The past few weeks, I’ve wondered whether I have the right take for living and creating in the digital age: Do I need a different evaluative rubric? After all, questions about the self and society have shifted from the circa 2009 “if I knew you in the third grade, does that mean I know you now?” to a darker, more virulent strain of inquiry. Is any of this good for us? Good for democracy? Am I enabling bad actors?
Another thing about living with, or amidst, addiction is that it’s never an entirely disastrous shit-show, either. Personally, I was in love with an alcoholic because he was as thoughtful, generous, curious, and loving as he was self-destructive. Similarly, there’s so much good online. We foster genuine relationships, learn and create together, laugh at jokes, and build valuable social movements and businesses. If not, we wouldn’t find ourselves here, reasoning it out. We would simply walk away.
But the warp of the social media world is a belief that a steady stream of broadcasting, and an abundance of cross-talk, is the best way to reason things out—and this “best way” is what we must accept because it is what cannot change.
Years ago, I remember telling a friend about my concern that I wasn’t speaking out enough on social media sites while others were posting and tweeting about their politics and causes. (Here I would like to note that aside from the one time in 2009, no one has invited me to sit on a panel about personal branding ever again.) She cocked her head and, with a quizzical look that always proceeded a move to challenge black-and-white thinking, said, “But isn’t there more than one way to be an activist?”
Another time, in the Saturday Al-Anon meeting that I mentioned, someone raised a big, existential question as a topic—the kind that I’m wrestling with here. One of the regulars, a guy whose wisdom I’d come to value even if we’d likely never be friends in real life, ended his three-minute share with, “I’m just glad the problem isn’t mine to solve.” You could feel the weight of the question shift from his shoulders to the center of the room, where we held it together. Everyone took a deep breath in and exhaled.
As before Steph, thank you for taking us into places we might not have the privilege to go and meet new people through your generous, appreciative and warm eyes. I have some of the same ponderings as you here and you've opened some others. Thank you.