What’s the opposite of Xit?

[Note: this post has been originally written a day before Melon 1) endorsed Tr*mp as his dream US president, 2) two days before the news about him donating $45 million a month to his campaign – Melon called the figure ‘total gnus’ which I suppose means more than that?), 3) four days before the addition of ‘raining American flag emojis’ to the #tr*mp2024 and other related hashtags: “the first time X has added a custom hashtag icon in a partisan matter promoting a specific candidate”. Food for thought indeed.]

Somewhere Else

A few years ago, we moved out of Amsterdam. I literally couldn’t go on living there. I gradually lost the ability to leave the house altogether, even with sunglasses and noise-cancelling headphones. Amsterdam is battling the tourist problem and either losing or winning, depending on where you live and whether you’re making money out of tourism. At the end of 2019, we moved into a house in a suburb. Sometimes it’s so quiet Husby asks me to play some music, because he feels weird.

It takes 20 minutes from Amsterdam Centraal to get to our suburb, then five minutes in a bus and another five minutes walking. When I used to live in Amsterdam West, it would take me longer to get to my boyfriend, who lived in North-East. And yet… a large chunk of our Amsterdam friends not only don’t visit, they don’t even seem to remember us. Because we now live Somewhere Else.

Which is why I might return to X.

Improvement

In 2020, I began to flourish again. It was so quiet and nice here. I could go out again. Bike, even. I decided to start re-developing my social abilities slowly, starting with the next door neighbour, who, I had no doubts, would turn out to be very nice.

Then the pandemic started. Media and politicians alike made it very clear that we should NOT go out, NOT meet people, and NOT socialise. (Anti-vaxxers: fuck off. Husby used to work at a nursing home. He did not look or feel great when he reported the number of body bags removed during his shifts by people in hazmat suits. He knew those people personally, some for many years.) This did not improve my mental health. Neither did the discovery that our neighbour has, ah, anger issues. And every time Husby went to work, I fully expected him to bring back some virus or other. I also nearly died in May 2020, but that actually made me better, mentally, which probably says more about me than I’d like to reveal.

In 2021, I began to withdraw from social media. My therapy + pandemic + family + so-called real life + constant anxiety sent me down, then further down. I started only showing up on Facebook to apologise for never being on Facebook. On Twitter, I’d write a post, rewrite it five times, click cancel. I’d stay away for a few days, return to 99+ notifications, feel too terrified to check, go away again. When Melon bought Twitter, I wasn’t really on it anymore. I sometimes visited to check my DMs, or post that my books were on sale.

One day, I found out that Melon not only personally reinstated an account of someone posting CSAM (child sexual abuse materials), but also promoted this person as a ‘content creator’ which meant he’d be getting paid. I erupted into all-consuming fury. I even used a paid website to delete all my tweets/RTs/likes, and eXited, only pinning two posts: an article about the CSAM ‘content creator’ and links to my other social media. Not that many people noticed at this point. When you don’t leave the house, you don’t bump into friends much.

The fury was completely disproportionate, but I didn’t give that a thought, I was busy hiding from myself why this mattered so much to me. (This is not trauma porn, but you might have guessed. At that point, I haven’t, yet.)

Somewhere Elses

I tried Mastodon. It worked and didn’t. It was so much quieter than Twitter. But Mastodon is not a Twitter replacement. It’s mostly interest-based. So, once I posted something, I risked getting replies from people with similar interests, which meant discussions, and I actually felt safer shouting into the void. One of my posts went viral, i.e. 20 people boosted it, and I ended up deleting it.

Bluesky and Threads (which I am not on) suffer from the same problem Google Plus etc. did when people threatened to all leave Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, etc. Because X is like Amsterdam (that’s about as far as Melon’s ‘town square’ metaphor actually extends). Everyone lives there.

On Bluesky, I follow about 100 people, and only see posts from the same 10-15 when I switch to ‘following’ feed. That’s because the rest started accounts, posted “anybody there?” and the answer was mostly silence, so they left again. So, out of all the people who said they would leave X, maybe 5% actually did – for a while. Others mumbled about maybe leaving, or didn’t. At the end, 1% actually left. The rest got used to it.

The memory explaining why Melon paying a man distributing CSAM made me explode returned on a random afternoon, mid-2023. It was poorly timed. At the end of 2022, my trauma therapist told me she’d be on sick leave for a while. Nothing serious, she said. I didn’t get to see her until 2024. Trauma therapists get burnouts and if you think about it, it shouldn’t come as a surprise. My xmas present was what both I and my team believe is my correct diagnosis: “extreme cPTSD with dissociative states, child abuse.” (I hasten to add I was the child, I don’t know why the Dutch doctors chose this specific phrasing.)

2023 was a year of survival for me. I didn’t publish any book, only contributed a story to the Anatomy of Fear anthology. Wrote some reviews and interviews. (It’s easier when you ask the questions and someone else answers.) My erratic social media presence became absence. I was taken to emergency cardiology ward three times. The two therapists I had, neither of them specialised in trauma treatment, did all they could – kept me alive. 2023 is never going to be a year for me to think fondly about.

Recovery

I got my therapist back in January 2024. Now that we finally know what we’re working on, we’ve been able to cut through the skin, find the metaphorical tumours – some of them 40+ years old, remove them bit by bit, start sewing me together. The improvement has been almost scary fast. It’s been less than 7 months and I am finishing a book. It will be ready in time. I no longer get panic attacks at the word ‘deadline’. I actually give myself my own deadlines and meet them. Sometimes I will do something and wonder – why wasn’t I able to do this for years? Because of something that was said or done to me when I was eight years old, and then was ‘proven’ again 35 years later. (I am working on a website about complex PTSD, by the way.)

People who roll their eyes at ‘psychosomatic pain’ might find it of interest to know that my heart is in “perfect condition” according to the cardiologist, who looked a bit offended. My visits to cardio ER, including my first and hopefully last ambulance ride, had nothing to do with my heart, unless we agree that heart is where we carry our feelings. The heart meds remain in the drawer, because what my past has done to me – Apple Watch’s detection of atrial fibrillation is a very interesting and useful thing – can happen again. (The cardiologist offered to do a quick lil’ surgery. I politely refused. The way she phrased it, this time sounding hopeful, made it sound like I should simply pop over whenever I feel like having a quick heart surgery.) I had psychosomatic atrial fibrillation. Good one, eh?

Coming off opiates is a beach, but I simply don’t need to take them – I suddenly stopped being in constant pain. I have to re-learn a lot of things; having spent years being literally unable to do something left me with learned helplessness, or rather learned anxiety. This includes all forms of socialising, including social media.

I’m back on Instagram and Facebook – no longer 10 times a day, but I can reply and don’t get panic attacks when there is a notification. I’m actually liking Bluesky’s relative peace and quiet. I show up on Mastodon sometimes to look at other people’s updates. Nevertheless, the latter two remain Somewhere Elses, and I’ve never been a fan of the former two (trivia about me: every time I post a selfie, that’s exposure therapy). I no longer get panic attacks at the sight of a message badge on Messenger or Signal, either. I take a while – sometimes months – to reply to emails, but I eventually do. My YouTube channel (like and subscribe!) still only has one video, but I have recorded two more I will edit once I am done editing the book they’re about.

The nice thing is that I don’t get FOMO. I also realise that the fraction of a cent Melon can get out of ads appearing next to my X posts isn’t likely to pay for his free lunches. Or the CSAM-posting creator’s earnings. The rage that blinded me has its place now and that place is not X.

I miss my people. Sharing others’ successes or sales or memes. Getting tagged by a complete stranger who wants to say something nice about my writing. Finding some rando who DMs me, and years later I consider them one of my best friends. The other places don’t really offer that – they offer a lot (Instagram has a lot to offer to a pogonophile, especially…) of something else.

Appearing act

Someone I know said on a public chat – it was unrelated to me, I just happened to be there – that they often forget about people who disappeared from X. Not on purpose. That place never stopped being busy, and if you follow 500 people and suddenly there are only 490, it’s easy not to notice those ten actually left. Most of those who are on X agree that it’s gone to the shitters. And yet, they haven’t gone elsewhere. (WHY are GOVERNMENTS on X? Why do presidents and prime ministers use a privately-owned platform moderated by a Very Stable Genius who thinks the word ‘tits’ is the peak of comedy?)

I’ve spent years of my childhood trying to be literally invisible. Being seen meant…trouble. But a child wants to be seen, complimented, hugged; to play with others, be accepted, skin their knee and have Mummy kiss it, etc. In certain ways, I am six years old, because that was when being seen became very, very dangerous. And remained that way for so long my amygdala kept the memory forever: if they can see you, they will hurt you. At the same time, both as a child and now, this invisibility feels very lonely.

I haven’t gone to Amsterdam – except to see my physio – since 2019 and don’t miss it; I wish I could return to my 3D friends’ ‘feeds’ though. I should, though, and I want to – not to walk through the crowds at Damrak (‘walk’), but to take Husby to our Ethiopian restaurant. And to visit a few people I’d like to visit. I will wear noise-cancelling earbuds, sunglasses indoors when I feel like it, and do it, because my amygdala needs to learn that the decades old defence mechanisms no longer work.

Am I though?

My old tweets aren’t coming back. Am I? I don’t know. (See note at the beginning. It did not encourage me.) From certain point of view, it would be good for me – exposure that I would actually benefit from. From what apparently goes on there… welp, my friends who tell me about those horrors stayed to watch them, so I guess I’d have to find out?

If/when I return to X, I may show up twice, discover a pool of sewage, post some ads, I mean – important information, and leave again. It’s not that I will never be allowed to leave again. I never did a Big Dramatic Flounce (unless you noticed what’s left of my account) (partly because I’d need to make myself visible to loudly announce I was going to become invisible, but the anger was there) and, if I come back, I won’t expect a huge welcome party. Or, in fact, anything. If I find myself waist-deep in a sewer, I’ll get out and go back to Somewhere Else, where I will take a very long shower consisting of photos of waterfalls.

Writing this post is exposure therapy for me. I hope it doesn’t go viral – I will delete it if it does. I don’t expect many people to be fascinated by my Deep Insights. Some will yell “NOOOOOO!” and others will nod with a hint of a smile and say nothing, or the other way round. I am contemplating a big step that looks like going back and would be a leap forward. This post is me thinking out loud.

Also, I have a book coming out in November. Have you heard about it? (“No” – the 99% who remained on X)

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