One winter we went to the Drakensberg. It was very cold. When we woke up in the morning, Thea opened the curtains and everything was white with snow. For people like us who live in the tropical swamp which is Durban, this was an awesome way to greet a new day. We were beyond excited and it was just beautiful. All the trees were drippy and transformed. We couldn’t find the cars. Everyone was ecstatically sliding about, especially the dogs.
My friend was coming up later that day, and in my anxiety to encourage her to come quickly and share in all this bliss, I sent her a host of pictures. Us joyously capering about in a brand new snowy world.
And her response, let us say, was disappointing. Her interpretation was that I was showing off. The subtext she read, was Look at Us Playing in the Snow and All that You are Missing Out On. At the time, I put this down to perhaps a misunderstanding, or grumpiness, or too little coffee on her behalf – perhaps 4.30am is a little early for whatsapping. I put it away and forgot about it, for I am pretty good at The Benefit of the Doubt.
But then just last week, I posted another joyous picture: this time of children jumping into the ocean and playing on the beach. I wrote about what a lovely day it was. My intention was to spread the love. I like to commune with others. I like to share things. I want people to do this too. I thought everyone, even angry people, even people living in Jo’burg or in other, more landlocked places, would be happy to see gleeful children playing in the waves.
But alas, not so. Among those who were indeed able to set aside memories of their fairly dud Saturdays and share in the wonder of this hour – one freely available to all coastal dwellers, let’s face it – this seemed to elicit a river of envy, a leaky flood-plane of passive-aggression. One does become hardened and accustomed to this by (interchangeably) midlife/midnight, depending on how much whiskey; and within the distressing moment, can always hold on to the truth that both Beauty and Envy are in the eyes of the beholder.
But in case you have forgotten this age-old adage. Or about how social media works. Or if you feel sad about being misunderstood. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If my pictures annoy you, and you think I am a narcissist, or if my posts are filling you with envy and anger please defriend me. I beg you. In the end it is really not going to work out for us. And if you think I am too sensitive, that is simply not for you to decide.
The other day, I was having coffee with my normally pretty perky friend. A friend who posts a lot of stuff on social media. Her children, her lovely holidays, cats and dogs being friends, people playing the piano to orphaned elephants. I like this stuff. That is why I look at it. And I see what my other friends who are far away are up to, what they think is awful, what they think is super-funny. I love their weekend snaps and their children growing up to be mini sassy Ingrid Bergmans. But while we were chatting about this, her usually bright eyes went all cloudy and suddenly huge droplets of water came spouting out and raining down all over the tablecloth. And she began to say no Jess. We are narcissists. We take things personally because we think it’s all about us. We are nosey and stalky and by sharing our children’s athletic triumphs they too will turn into mini-Trumps or come to nothing more than Mantlepiece Trophies. My beautiful friend, a source of joy for so many, now gaslighted to shreds, had fallen into that trap.
And I reminded her, that until People Out There, both walking through the halls of Real Life, Instagram and Facebook, prescribe meaning to what she says, her intentions belong to her, and their envy belongs to them. That there is nothing needy or wrong with wanting to connect. It is what life among others is actually for. Sadly narcissists cannot do this. And no true Narcissist ever asks the question she had just posed, of their own flawless personality. Well if they do, the answer is Yes, and they are very proud of getting top marks on the Levenson Scale of Psychopathy.
I don’t think this cheered her up particularly, and of course I am a peacock in many ways. But as solace, for the more sensitive among us, for all my friends who tell me they surround themselves in bouncy white light just to get through the day, here is the thing:
There are many wholly valid reasons why people are not on social media. We know all about its sinister side. We can choose to say goodbye. We all know interaction In Real Life is much better for us. We all know it is addictive and can be stalky and waste a lot of time. Once someone hacked into my Pinterest account and posted before and after pictures of a woman who had been on a gene-based diet (the before pictures of her squashed into a bikini, did unfortunately look a bit like me). This was scary and mortifying, and i’ve never been back to that particular platform.
But despite all this, and contrary to popular wisdom, narcissists are among those conspicuous by their absence on social media.
They don’t like it. They don’t like other people and they are not at all interested in what they are doing, unless this in some way benefits them. The very concept of sharing and liking and wow and heart emoticons is a confusing principle for the narcissist. They are entirely self-referential, so they think everyone is constantly competing. Of course they mistrust your motives. You are merely a reflection. They can’t bring themselves to like your picture of a horse. And they can’t bear to wonder why, so instead they blame and scapegoat the platform, and mock those upon it. Believing themselves needy and inferior, their shamed friends and partners have to invisibly check their accounts on stealth mode.
Narcissists say they are entirely above the whole phenomenon. They are far too important and far too busy to engage in the pathetic humdrum of Bourgeoisie connection. Standing on other people’s fingers on the way up the ladder is hard work. They say there simply is not enough time for pictures of sad elephants. Downtime is for competitive games.
They may have tried it out perhaps, because everyone desperately needs attention. But not even 10 000 likes bought on Instagram will ever be enough to fill up the leaky bucket that has become their soul. And the discomfort they feel watching someone else’s kid excel at backstroke just becomes too taxing. Their heads are just about exploding with hatred and their eyes are virtually popping out. And then they are in a extra bad mood because they are anxiously and hastily organising extra backstroke lessons for the little mini-extensions of themselves and looking for a minion to help with lifts.
Look, this is an unusually depressing essay, I realise that. This one does not have Joy as it’s theme. This one is about Spoiling Joy. I could post a meme of the White House in the picture section with the caption. Does this spark joy? Like I saw today on Facebook. And the answer will be no. We can do our best, but we can’t always be Frida Kahlo being carried through the streets of Durban with happy eyes and unplucked brows. If I make you feel shit, please defriend me. As the Icarus Project wrote “The year is 2035. Marie Kondo holds up the condemned man to the crowd. “Does this man spark joy?” The crowd jeers, “No he does not!” She nods silently and throws him into the pit.