cells committing mass suicide.”
Internet humor is primarily based on find-
ing the specific absurdities in everyday life 
and spinning it into something everyone can 
relate to on a certain level. In the case of @
jovanmhill, who has 115 followers, a lot of 
that humor is based on the way he laments 
disturbing truths about his personal life. For 
better or worse, joking about mental health 
has become a primary avenue for people to 
forge an online community of shared suf-
fering, much like with finstas. The only dif-
ference is that everyone’s sadness becomes 
much more publicized and therefore harder 
to contain. 
“At first, it acts as a net where you feel 
validated and stand up for yourself more,” 
Merritt said. “But at the same time, when 
you transfer how you feel to this online com-
munity, you sort of alienate yourself in a way 
from the rest of the world. It turns from, ‘This 
community understands me’ to, ‘No one else 
does.’”
“It helps to see that other people are going 
through similar things and provides expo-
sure and perspective to it,” Brandon com-
mented. “But at the same time, it kind of 
enables it because I think there’s definitely a 
way in which we can romanticize it.”
Having a strong internet presence relies 
a lot on not only maintaining a brand, but a 
banter with followers. Twitter is particularly 
intriguing in how it breeds conversations 
between different accounts that share similar 
interests or, in this particular context, a col-
lective misery.
“The only reason you’re connected is 
because of your problems and they want to 
maintain that community,” Merritt said. “If 
you all of a sudden are like, ‘Oh, I’m better, I 
had an excellent day,’ you’re no longer relat-
able.”
LSA senior Regina whose name has been 
changed to protect her social media accounts 
offered a slightly different perspective about 
how Twitter feels like the only reliable source 
of comfort for many.
“Social media is one of the only places to 
connect to people like you about how sad it 
all is. If you do that in real life, people around 
you tend to get more upset than you neces-
sarily want them to be,” Regina said. “It feels 
better to just like, joke about it on the inter-
net, to commiserate in our mutual fucking 
misery. Sure there are tangible solutions, but 
I think we forget how inaccessible and stig-
matized therapy and medicine really are for 
a lot of people.”
As Regina noted, a lack of access to therapy 
and medicines can play a huge role in why 

people are prone to expressing their sadness 
so explicitly on Twitter, especially since the 
internet provides not only a safe space for 
those struggling with trauma or mental ill-
ness, but a free one.
Still, the line between genuinely express-
ing sadness online versus performing sad-
ness for a phantom audience continues to be 
blurred. As Susannah Chandhok, a second-
year doctoral student studying social psy-
chology at the University of Michigan, points 
out, this issue is intrinsic to the way Twitter 
and social media in general is structured.
“The psychological distance that exists 
online can facilitate being more open and 
making saying things you wouldn’t want to 
say face-to-face,” Chandhok said. “But then 
at the same time, it can also facilitate more 
confrontation because there’s more distance 
and people aren’t picking up on verbal cues as 
much as you would be with nonverbal cues.”
The almost uninhibited amount of per-
sonal autonomy that Twitter affords its 
users makes me wonder what lengths people 
are willing to take to talk about their issues 
before it becomes a serious situation — and if 
we, as members of the online community, are 
willing to take the responsibility for the con-
sequences that come with it.
Picking up on these cues are a huge marker 
for differentiating the tone of a tweet from the 
intention, especially in one recent instance 
where rapper Elizabeth Harris, known by 
her stage name Cupcakke, tweeted on Jan. 8: 
“im about to commit suicide.” Known for her 
more raunchy posts, Harris’s alarming tweet 
provoked confusion and unease from her 
fans. After being hospitalized, Harris issued 
an update on Twitter the following day: “I’ve 
been fighting with depression for the longest 
..sorry that I did it public last night but I’m 
ok.”
Harris’ tweet is a rare and harrowing case 
in which someone’s sadness on Twitter is not 
only fully and completely displayed, but done 
so without the heightened pretense of com-
edy. 
W

hile Twitter seems preoccu-
pied with turning communal 
sadness into a fun and often 
juvenile social space, Facebook seems more 
concerned with making collective sadness an 
aggressively earnest force. It’s a place where 
people can band together for the greater good 
of humanity over the most recent and rel-
evant tragedy, whether individual or collec-
tive, on a local scale or global scale.
“For one reason or another, it’s sort of 
developed as a cultural norm to express 
important events online,” Merritt said. “Peo-

ple feel this obligation almost that if someone 
important dies, they have to show that they 
were important, to show their followers that 
they’re grieving about it. They had to leave a 
last memento.”
Facebook users seemed to have adopted 
an unspoken agreement, wherein folks often 
commemorate the death of a family member 
in a lengthy post or sometimes with a simple, 
sentence-length caption along with a picture. 
By and large, their friends will like or com-
ment on the post. The same is usually done 
on Instagram. Because both platforms are 
known for upholding more positive shared 
news or experiences, disclosing the despair 
that fosters from someone’s death or a nation-
al calamity is sometimes the only way in 
which someone can lay their soul bare.
But given that Facebook is built on giv-
ing our friends updates on our lives, there 
is a kind of social pressure that comes with 
partaking in the discourse surrounding seri-
ous subject matter. If you don’t show support 
for someone who has lost a relative, it comes 
off as insensitive. If you don’t acknowledge 
a mass shooting or a death of a pop culture 
figure, it’s almost like you aren’t part of the 
conversation or are uninterested in partici-
pating in it. The same goes for Instagram, 
where announcing the death of a loved one or 
memorializing the anniversary of a national 
tragedy becomes expected. Once again, our 
sadness becomes a spectacle, an easy and 
accessible way to manage the shock of sudden 
disruptions in our lives.
There’s another cost that comes with shar-
ing a bevy of negative information on Face-
book, particularly for those who have clinical 
depression.
According to a 2016 research study con-
ducted by members of the Department of 
Psychology at the University, depression was 
found to be positively correlated with social 
support from Facebook networks when par-
ticipants disclosed negative information, but 
negatively correlated with how much social 
support participants thought they received 
from their Facebook network.
“People with depression actually do 
receive more social support on Facebook, but 
they perceive less, so there’s a mismatch,” 
Chandhok said. “Social media can be a place 
where people find support, can reach out for 
help, but there might be a lack of seeing that 
support, perceiving and being able to benefit 
from it.”
W

hich brings me to my final 
question: Do social media and 
technology make us sadder and 
more vulnerable or simply expose how sad 

and vulnerable we actually are?
Along with the aforementioned paper, a 
recent study conducted by the University 
of Pennsylvania suggests the former, con-
tending that social media use — particu-
larly on Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat 
— increases levels of depression and loneli-
ness. But another recent survey reported by 
NBC News indicates that at least 90 percent 
of teens and young adults with symptoms of 
depression go online for information about 
mental health issues, using social media as a 
expository for a therapist.
Perhaps it goes even deeper than the way 
we express sadness. Tim Schwartz, an L.A.-
based artist and digital strategist, figures that 
some of the melancholy we experience online 
stems from the shift in format of the technol-
ogy we use today and our narcissistic obses-
sion with digital technology. He cited the 
“digital Dark Age” as the reason why.
“The digital Dark Age is the idea that if you 
write or print something on paper, paper can 
last 500 years,” Schwartz said. “If you record 
something on film, it can last for a couple hun-
dred years. But we have no long-term backup 
systems for digital information. Hard drives 
last five years. DVDs last 20 years. In order 
to keep information around for a long time, it 
takes a lot of upkeep for digital and we don’t 
actually have standards for how to do it.”
“My thought is that because we’re living in 
this state of euphoric production of informa-
tion,” Schwartz continued, “We just kind of 
don’t worry about the fact that it’s all lost or 
we just kind of internalize it and it’s just there 
and we’ve already decided that we don’t care 
that our things are saved.”
When we are confronted with our emo-
tions, the internet primes us to compartmen-
talize them. The online world becomes our 
coping mechanism, but also a way for us to 
make the transience of the sad moments in 
our lives feel permanent. Perhaps the reason 
online sadness is such a strange phenomenon 
is because there already is a sense of loss built 
into it.
We are constantly seeking the temporary 
gratification that social media provides us 
because there is something missing within 
us. As a result, we latch onto whatever we can 
to make us feel better, whether that’s paint-
ing a happy, flawless portrait of our life online 
or giving the online world the ugliest parts 
of ourselves. It’s a slightly unfortunate real-
ity, but I’d like to think that moderating our 
happiness with our sadness is the best way 
to reconcile with that missing part and hope-
fully leave an imprint that will last forever.

I

t’s no secret that the happy moments 
we post onto the internet are often a 
façade for the sadness we hide from 
ourselves and the rest of the world. Whether 
it’s posting about a job acceptance on Face-
book, a video of partying at a nightclub on 
Snapchat or a photo at an exotic resort on Ins-
tagram, social media acts as a sort of smoke 
screen for our unfulfilled desires. We attempt 
to construct an idealistic, perfected image 
online in order to replace the gritty, flawed 
one that exists in real life.
But what happens when we do broadcast 
that gritty, flawed image online? What hap-
pens when we expose the part of ourselves 
we are so scared to share in the real world 
within our digital communities? How do we 
reckon with being vulnerable and open about 
our sadness without seeming performative?
Through my own deductions from hav-
ing spent a considerable amount of time on 
the internet, there seem to be at least three 
patterns of communicating sadness online. 
The first, most commonly found on Twit-
ter and finstas, comes in the form of dark 
humor, where irony and self-deprecation are 
employed as a vehicle for discussing mental 
health, unrequited love and personal insecu-
rities through unfiltered posts and tongue-in-
cheek memes. The second, most commonly 
found on Facebook and Instagram, comes in 
the form of melancholic sincerity, in which 
the loss of a loved one, the death of an impor-
tant figure in pop culture or the news of a 
national tragedy are commemorated through 
a series of heartfelt, essay-like paragraphs. 
The third, most commonly found on Tumblr, 
aestheticizes sadness under the guise of GIFs 
and pictures that juxtapose intense poems 
and quotes about loneliness and anxiety with 
attractive people crying alone, drinking alco-
hol or smoking cigarettes.
I

n her experience using Tumblr, LSA 
sophomore Rachael Merritt believes 
this third type of online sadness is 
especially unhealthy and toxic.
“On Tumblr, a lot of the time, (people) will 
make something disturbing sound beautiful 
or put a romanticized twist on it,” Merritt 
said. “There are so many pictures of roses on 
Tumblr, roses with blood.” 
“Lana Del Rey shit,” I interjected during 
our conversation. “Oh my God, so much,” she 
replied.
I reference singer-songwriter Lana Del 
Rey simply because her vintage Americana 
aesthetic and gloomy lyrics about love and 
loss are not only perpetuated to a fault on 
Tumblr but are also fetishized, stylized and 
celebrated among her devoted online fan 

base. The artist grew into popularity after 
the release of her 2012 major label debut Born 
to Die, right around the time Tumblr became 
a viral sensation among high school teens. 
Though Del Rey’s music has matured since 
then, her wistful, edgy artistic sensibility, 
matched with the glamorized heartache she 
exuded on Born to Die, left a long-standing 
impact on how internet users perceived their 
own sadness.
By branding sadness through this aesthet-
ic, Del Rey’s nostalgia-heavy iconography 
and other images like it have allowed people, 
not just teen girls, to buy into the idea that 
their sadness is not only valid, but also func-
tions as a kind of cool accessory. People on 
Tumblr who experience mental illness, self-
harm and eating disorders no longer had to 
feel ashamed due to the relatability of the sad 
aesthetic associated with Del Rey embedded 
within that space.
Merritt cited Effy Stonem, a character 
from the popular British TV series “Skins,” as 
another example of how sad culture on Tum-
blr exploits its users by appealing to their 
desire for validation.
“I’ll see a picture of Effy (on Tumblr) and 
she’ll be crying, tears running down her 
face,” Merritt said. “But at the same time, you 
want her life because you idealize her. It’s this 
bizarre thing where you see all these people 
doing negative things, things you relate to 
depression or mental illness or sadness or 
destructive behavior, and kind of glamorizes 
it.”
Tumblr’s obsession with Effy goes beyond 
basic depictions of her expressing grief and 
sadness. There’s a whole subculture dedicat-
ed to her, from fan art to style blogs to com-
prehensive commentary on the psychology 
behind her character’s actions.

As a cultural touchstone that represented 
teenagers who experience depression, anxi-
ety and suicidal ideation, “Skins” as a whole 
remains a prominent source of romanticized 
sad fodder on Tumblr. Along with Effy, the 
show incorporated other characters who 
were known to defy social conventions, which 
included experimenting with drugs and alco-
hol, engaging in casual sex and exhibiting 
antisocial behavior. Like with Del Rey, sub-
communities on Tumblr reframed the insta-
bility of Effy’s and other “Skins” characters’ 
lives into something attractive and exciting 
through which people can live vicariously.
Since Tumblr is known as a platform for 
escapism, pop culture is often used as a can-
vas for those who are most vulnerable and 
misguided to project their anxieties and 
emotions. Tumblr users don’t have to feel as 

ashamed about the darker elements of their 
suffering. Instead, they can find solace in 
their own misery through someone else’s, 
which inevitably realigns their perception of 
sadness from being a seemingly inescapable 
terror to an illusory spectacle.
I

n contrast to how people on Tumblr 
channel their sadness through glam-
orized aesthetics, people with fin-
sta accounts advertise their sadness through 
unfiltered journal entries. “Finstas” — a port-
manteau of “fake” and “Insta” — refer to an 
exclusive Instagram account users create to 
share a more vulnerable side of themselves 
only for their closest friends to see.
Like an updated version of LiveJournal 
from the mid-aughts, finstas operate as a sort 
of secret haven, where people can talk about 
their most intimate thoughts, ranging from 
newly developed romantic crushes and fam-
ily issues to frustrations with friends and 
mental health. They can also be a fun way for 
the select group of people who follows you 
to see your flaws without fear of judgment, 
a reassuring alternative to Instagram, where 
the quantity of likes and comments tend to 
dictate self-worth. But similar to Tumblr’s 
detrimental reinforcement of one’s sadness, 
there is a drawback that comes with finstas 
if they’re used for the sole purpose of getting 
something off your chest.
I discovered finstas at the beginning of 
sophomore year, right about when they 
started trending on campus. Seeing that my 
friends had their own finstas, I decided to 
make one for myself. For two years, I created 
a litany of posts with lengthy captions about 
getting rejected, complaining about my heavy 
load of homework, venting about my fraught 
emotional well-being and my frustrations 
with my family. Sometimes, these posts were 
laced with irony and self-deprecation. Other 
times, they were much more open and honest. 
There were some posts that contained a mix 
of both humor and sincerity.
Even though I knew deep down that the 
constant reinforcement wasn’t good for me, 
getting a like on my finsta meant more to me 
than getting a like on an Instagram post. A 
like on a finsta post meant that people were 
actually seeing me for me, as opposed to the 
“me” I built on my real Instagram. A com-
ment was an even greater gift. It meant that 
someone was compelled enough to reveal 
themself and acknowledge this hidden facet 
of my inner world.
Toward the end of junior year, I accepted 
the fact that perhaps I was oversharing a bit 
on my finsta and took a break from posting. 
Despite the attention that comes with shame-

lessly telling secrets to a small group of close 
friends, there’s only so much you can share 
about yourself to the point where you no 
longer feel like you’re doing this just for you. 
You become aware of the fact that there is an 
audience of people you trust examining your 
posts and expecting you to churn out a spe-
cific type of content. It almost feels a bit like 
schadenfreude, but even more twisted and 
sadistic. People take pleasure from watching 
you joke about your pain, just as much as you 
take pleasure from giving them that satisfac-
tion. It is no longer just an ephemeral form of 
catharsis, but rather a comfortable self-indul-
gence.
“Over time, you get a community of people 
who slowly understand you and that you feel 
supported by, but that doesn’t necessarily 
fix anything,” Merritt mentioned. “They’re 
there to comfort you always, but it’s not like a 
real sort of comfort that helps you.”
Sadness can be a wonderful thing when 
we recognize it as a shared, universal expe-
rience. But as evidenced by Tumblr and fin-
stas, online sadness can be tricky and messy 
based on how it distorts the way we deal with 
our demons. The constant tension between 
the real feelings we put out into the digital 
world and the artifice of the digital world 
itself presents a troubling question: Can we 
ever truly be genuine about our sadness if 
the medium through which we express it is 
manufactured?
W

hich brings me to Twitter, per-
haps the most fascinating and 
depressing online space for 
expressing sadness. In the same way that fin-
stas allow people to rid themselves of their 
deepest, darkest thoughts, the anonymity of 
Twitter gives users a platform to eradicate 
those icky feelings to the extreme, sometimes 
without any repercussions.
“I’m always surprised by how willing peo-
ple are to share,” LSA senior Brandon whose 
name has been changed to protect his social 
media accounts said. “I see people tweeting 
about being back at some mental health insti-
tution or, ‘Yeah, I just took some pills.’ It’s 
kind of insane.”
Brandon is referring to a subculture on 
Twitter that circulates provocative and often 
risqué tweets regarding issues of mental 
health.
Popular Twitter user @jovanmhill, whose 
account is now disabled, is known for being 
unabashedly vocal about his bipolar disorder 
and mining wry humor from it. One example 
of his style is shown through an Oct. 5, 2018 
tweet when he reposted a video from TikTok 
user Enoch True with the caption “my brain 

It’s cool to be sad: the search to understand 
online grief and digital melancholy

Wednesday, February 20. 2019 // The Statement
4B
5B

BY SAMUEL ROSENBERG, DAILY ARTS WRITER

ILLUSTRATION BY MICHELLE FAN

”

Wednesday,February 20, 2019 // The Statement