I was reconstructing Madison, which meant simultaneously deconstructing myself. To be fully present in Maddy’s online world, I had to absent myself from my own. I was building Maddy more clearly—her thoughts, her important moments—from the data on a screen, drawing whole ideas and even conclusions from fragments of her thinking, from the slivers of herself that she dared expose to the world. Using the deluge of information held in that computer, I was building a portrait to make Maddy come alive. In attempting this, I became for varying lengths of time someone who wasn’t.
We’re all doing exactly this, all the time now. Even before I began learning about Madison, I had started the process of erasing myself from the present world in favor of social media—carving out chunks of myself, stretching them into an online skeleton: two people from one, like some kind of medical miracle. I had been doing this for a long time, of my own volition. In the past few years, I’ve spent almost as much time constructing and maintaining my online self as I have my real, human self. I’ve certainly spent more time on Instagram exercising my image than I have in the gym exercising my body.
These two presentations are not the same person; in fact, they are often two very different people. The online version is static, and therefore easily paused on perfection, because the conditions in that space allow it. The parameters of the actual world are expansive, and people can view you from any angle (literally and metaphorically), while online you need only fit yourself into a fixed box whose conditions you control and manipulate. The offline version of me is obviously deeply flawed, though it’s easy to start believing otherwise, because I spend so much time immersed in my online self. Online, I can create someone who is not impatient, does not misspeak, is not self-centered, is always standing in the best lighting, and on and on. The highlights of my life are posted in that space, and everyone reacts in predictable ways—that is, the ways I want them to. And sometimes it feels much easier to live in that reality than in the one where I am always flawed and challenged, and occasionally sad.
So what do these two versions of me have in common? Honestly, not much at all. For example, imagine that over the course of a year I posted images of sentences from this book online, and after seeing several hundred of them, you started to believe that you knew what the book was about, its energy and message. Imagine that you then actually got hold of the book and read it cover to cover. Perhaps I had carefully selected passages that reflected the whole—that’s possible. More likely, though, I had selected passages that made the book seem interesting, that put forth the story line or narrative I liked best. The book could seem like a romance but actually be horror, or it could seem like suspense but actually be comedy, or it could seem well written but actually be a mess. You’ve no clue.
I imagine this is true for almost everyone’s social persona, Madison included. One of the trickiest parts of social media is recognizing that everyone is doing the same thing you’re doing: presenting their best self. Everyone is now a brand, and all of digital life is a fashion magazine. While it’s easy to understand intrinsically that your presence on social media is only one small sliver of your full story, it’s more difficult to apply that logic to everyone else. Because you actually lived the full night, not just the two-second snapshot of everyone laughing, arms around shoulders. All you see of other people’s nights is an endless string of laughing snapshots, which your brain easily extrapolates to fantastic evenings filled with warmth and love, with good wine and delicious food. Comparing your everyday existence to someone else’s highlight reel is dangerous for both of you.
At the same time, existing online often feels less risky, less challenging, than existing in the real world, where things often become messy. Online, you can just plug in and edit everything. Plus, there is no body language that you’re forced to interpret. When you try to build a relationship in person, or meet a group of friends, you face the possibility of awkward pauses, confusing body language, and the disappointment of not saying precisely what you mean. In person, time moves steadily past and you either keep the rhythm of the interaction or you don’t. Online, there is only the artificial rhythm you create, the beat slowed down or sped up depending on what you choose. But that’s not quite dancing. Dancing is giving your body over to a larger energy. Dancing is finding the rhythm and beauty in whatever song is playing.
It’s easier to feel connected online than to truly connect in real life. So plugging in becomes addicting. We’d rather sign on and feel some superficial sense of connection than work and possibly fail at true connection offline. Being in the real world can be uncomfortable, especially after you spend so much time online.
“Split Image,” my espnW story about Madison’s life and her death, went online while I was sitting alone in a small room with the door closed. I was perched on a chair, bright lights overhead, staring into a camera, preparing to tape Around the Horn. Yet all I could think about was the story, which for nearly a year existed only in my head or on my computer screen, but now also existed on other people’s screens, in other people’s heads. Would anyone feel what I felt? What would they think? How would the story make them feel?