The Rest Of The Story – Part I
Social media stresses me out—the Father’s Day posts elevated my blood pressure. ‘You are the best; thanks for all you do; you are always there for me.’ It’s sweet, but isn’t that the gig? To provide cheer, support, wipe noses, etc. But that’s neither here nor there.
Scrolling through the feed leaves me conflicted. My internal battle erupts, a push-pull of inadequacy and yearning for more.
Whoa…Hold Up
Aww, social media, the fuckery of fakery, a bunch of smoke and mirrors, I say. But that is not entirely fair. Sure, there are those that filter and stage all the photos, but the moments are real, right? Friends are getting together, laughs are happening, places are explored, food is served, and opinions are being shared.
So, what’s up with my ambivalence? Honestly, I must reconcile my feelings with social media to continue blogging. Unfortunately, there is no way around this. I need a come-to-Jesus moment; what the heck is setting me off? So, I take pen to paper and purge…. and then it happens. I see it.
Curated
My disconnect lies with the meticulously curated posts that neglect to tell the whole story. We get morsels of fabulous, but I am salivating for the in-betweens. The speed bumps of life are what connect us. Complex and less-than-perfect moments are where we grow together, so I gravitate towards keeping it real. This means less of, ‘Being a mom fills my cup and brings me eternal joy, look at my perfect kids’ and more of ‘I love being a mom — most days, give or take, depending, sometimes, I don’t, but mostly I do.’
Black Kettle
Flipping through family albums, I realized I am a hypocrite. I whine about the slivers of perfection that don’t tell the whole story. And yet, I have systematically curated photos of my boys that reflect pure bliss, condensing the years into beautifully packaged bound books filled with flawless images.
Will they look back and think life was a cupcake? At my age, I rely on pictures to tell my childhood stories. The truth is, I can’t differentiate between a real memory and a photo that I have looked at two dozen times. Ah, shit. I want them to reflect on the whole of it, bumps and all.
Perhaps curating is a coping mechanism to protect, survive, and carry on. An attempt to forget the not-so-great moments—maybe social media is no different—coping with the environment and adapting by producing images of how we wish to be seen.
Hmm, feeling confused, less judgy, and have more questions than answers.
To Be Continued.
Xo-Mic
