I sense I spend far too much time on social media.
But it’s my time. I can spend it how I choose and, apart from being bossed around by an over-indulged cat, I don’t have to answer to anyone. 😂
And let’s face it, for those of us intrigued by human behaviour, social media is the modern version of people-watching. Except sitting on your comfy sofa is far more comfortable than sitting on a park bench. And reading what people spew out is often far more enlightening than observing them from afar.
But recently I’m finding that I’m battling with myself.
You see, by nature I’m fairly disciplined, so when I post or engage I try to respond constructively. Not everyone agrees with me, which is fine. It would be pretty vanilla if we all agreed. Some people appreciate my directness. Others most certainly do not.
Hence, I have earned a very long list of conflicting ‘titles’ — some amusing, some utterly contradictory, some downright deranged.
And increasingly I find myself having to pull back and submit my thoughts to The Director’s Cut before committing the digits to the keyboard.
Because there can be a significant difference between the Director’s Cut version in my head and what eventually ends up on my page.
On a daily basis I find myself screaming internally…
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. WHAT BLOODY PLANET HAVE YOU INVADED, YOU MORONIC FOOL?”
The published version might read:
“With respect, I think you’ve missed the distinction…”
Or there’s:
“Seriously, are they breeding you people in Petri dishes?”
Published version:
“Thank you for your considered contribution.”
And thoughts such as:
“Were you dropped on your head as a baby? Because there has to be a medical condition to justify that level of stupidity.”
Translate to:
“I think it’s possibly best if we simply agree to disagree.”
And one of my favourite reactions is reserved for those men who love to put women down. I come across a few of them.
My initial thought is:
“I bet you have a very small willy, you condescending twat.”
Evil laugh.😈
My more reserved reply, however, is usually:
“How condescending you are.”
I leave the small willy part out. After all, he has to live with it every day. Punishment enough. 😊😊
And they are some of my milder first thoughts. 😂😂
The eye-rolling follows, along with thoughts of a very stiff G&T — and it’s only 9am. 😂😂
Before anyone stages an intervention, I’m joking. The G&T enters proceedings at about 5.30pm. Large measure. Good hit of lime.
We have standards. 😂
So yes, there is that constant battle between evil Kate saying, go on, do it, do it… and the more considered adult Kate saying, is it really worth it?
Fortunately, there is an editing suite somewhere between my brain and my keyboard.
And perhaps that editing suite matters more than we realise.
We talk a great deal these days about being “authentic”. About saying what we think. Speaking our truth. Not filtering ourselves for other people.
But authenticity without any self-restraint simply becomes a free-for-all, and I’m not sure what that achieves.
Any hint of admitting to moderation would no doubt be met with BUT IT’S FREE SPEECH, belted back faster than a Wimbledon champion returning serve.
And perhaps so.
But free speech shouldn’t be the lazy excuse for dumb, foul or vicious speech. Sometimes it might be wiser to simply let the ball go by. ☺️
And I’m not convinced every thought deserves an audience anyway. In fact, I’ll concede some thoughts should never be presented to an audience. They should stay safely tucked away in our heads.
I appreciate anger is real. Frustration is real. Impatience is real. Occasionally wanting to metaphorically bang somebody’s head against a wall until the penny drops is probably fairly human too.
But feeling something and inflicting it on somebody else are two entirely different things.
Self-control isn’t pretending the first reaction didn’t happen. Nor does restraint make the more measured response dishonest.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
It means recognising the difference between reaction and response.
My first reaction tells me how I feel.
What I eventually say tells you something rather more important about me: the standards I choose to apply to my OWN behaviour.
And perhaps that is part of what troubles me about public discourse today.
Far too many seem increasingly inclined to publish their Director’s Cuts.
Every insult. Every flash of anger. Every contemptuous thought. Every vicious little observation.
Straight from brain to keyboard, often to an audience of thousands.
And whilst this type of behaviour has been building for some time, I’ve been shocked by the level of viciousness and foulness on display recently.
I sometimes picture these angry little mites furiously bashing away at their keyboards, hands hovering over the big red button.
The visual image in my head is probably best not shared. Yes, I do possess a very vivid imagination.
But I can see them very clearly as they gleefully…
LAUNCH THE MISSILES!
And they do it without pausing to consider that words can destroy people too. Not just emotionally, but publicly.
Social media, I sense, has become something of a public execution box as well as a personal confession box.
“I need to get this off my chest, regardless of the effect.”
Except many seem to absolve themselves immediately, turn around and do exactly the same thing again five minutes later.
Then these one-minute wonders question why political debate has become so ugly.
Hello… light-bulb moment, please. 😂
There are some awful people in our parliament. And there are some really good people as well.
But perhaps we should stop pretending politicians alone created the ugliness of modern political debate.
We participate in it.
Every time we applaud a vicious attack because we dislike the target, excuse behaviour from our own side that we would condemn from the other, or join a pile-on because everyone else is doing it, we add something to the very culture we then complain about.
And perhaps that’s the uncomfortable bit.
Because acknowledging our own contribution requires something far more difficult than pointing the finger at somebody else.
It requires being honest with ourselves.
I’m certainly no saint. But hopefully I demonstrate some level of maturity — and the ability to be honest with myself.
And maybe civilisation has always depended, at least partly, on the existence of that little space between what we want to say and what we choose to say.
The same as the space between what we want to do and what we choose to do.
The place where impulse meets judgement.
Where anger meets standards.
Where the Director’s Cut becomes the version fit for public release.
And thank heavens for that.
Because some days my Director’s Cut really is:
WAKE THE BLOODY HELL UP, YOU IDIOTS.
Fortunately, you usually get the polished version. 😇
Sense prevails. Normal transmission resumes.
Thank you, linesmen. Thank you, ball boys.
And thank you to my internal Director for overruling evil Kate. 😂
The battle continues.
