A while back, I wrote about the affliction of avatar anxiety, in which one’s self-consciousness about one’s online self amplifies one’s self-consciousness about one’s actual self. Here’s the nub:
Your online self … is entirely self-created, and because it determines your identity and social standing in an internet community, each decision you make about how you portray yourself – about which facts (or falsehoods) to reveal, which photos to upload, which people “to friend,” which bands or movies or books to list as favorites, which words to put in a blog – is fraught, subtly or not, with a kind of existential danger. And you are entirely responsible for the consequences as you navigate that danger. You are, after all, your avatar’s parents; there’s no one else to blame. So leaving the real world to participate in an online community – or a virtual world like Second Life – doesn’t relieve the anxiety of self-consciousness; it magnifies it. You become more, not less, exposed.
So far as I know, avatar anxiety has not yet been declared an actual illness by the American Psychiatric Association, but I have no doubt that it will eventually make the grade, particularly after reading a brief article by Steven Levy, called “The Burden of Twitter,” in the new edition of Wired. Levy says that he “adores” social networking but that at the same time he is consumed with guilt and remorse over the activities of his online self. The guilt comes when he fails to participate – when he doesn’t post to his blog or when he lets his tweetstream go dry. “I worry,” he writes, “that I’m snatching morsels from the information food bank without making any donation.” That’s not so surprising. Much more interesting is the remorse, which he says he feels when he does participate:
As my participation increases, I invariably suffer another psychic downside of social networking: remorse. The more I upload the details of my existence, even in the form of random observations and casual location updates, the more I worry about giving away too much. It’s one thing to share intimacies person- to-person. But with a community? Creepy.
Levy ends by turning his affliction into a knowing little joke: “So now I’m feeling guilty—for being remorseful. Maybe I should complain about it in my next tweet.” The dismissiveness of the joke strikes me as unfortunate, because I think Levy is expressing something important here. I wish, in fact, that the article were longer, that he had spent more time delving into the source of his feeling of remorse and his sense of creepiness (both of which, by the way, I share completely). He does give a hint about that source when he refers to the fact that in the Web 2.0 world we talk intimately, or at least familiarly, not just with people we actually know but with complete strangers (even if they’re sometimes given the designation of “friend”). In describing what it’s like to send tweets to hundreds of faceless followers, Levy writes:
Since I don’t know many in this mob, I try not to be personally revealing. Still, no matter how innocuous your individual tweets, the aggregate ends up being the foundation of a scary-deep self-portrait. It’s like a psychographic version of strip poker—I’m disrobing, 140 characters at a time.
Though he never names it, what Levy is really talking about here is shame. And the shame comes from something deeper than just self-exposure, though that’s certainly part of it. There’s an arrogance to sharing the details of one’s life in public with strangers – it’s the arrogance of power, the assumption that such details somehow deserve to be broadly aired. And as for the people, those strangers, on the receiving end of the disclosures, they suffer, through their desire to hear the details, to hungrily listen in, a kind of debasement. At the risk of going too far, I’d argue that there’s a certain sadomasochistic quality to the exchange (it’s a variation on the exchange that takes place between celebrity and fan). And I’m pretty sure that Levy’s remorse comes from his realization, conscious or not, that he is, in a very subtle but nonetheless real way, displaying an undeserved and unappetizing arrogance while also contributing to the debasement of others.
The power relationships in social networking, and their psychological and social consequences, is a subject that deserves more discussion. I’m glad Levy has focused some attention on the subject.
After I click the publish button for this post, I’m going to go wash my hands.