After a few years, I came to understand
Instagram dwellers as broken people – my people. By Dayna Tortorici
![Infinite scroll: life under Instagram](https://i.guim.co.uk/img/media/68d361bc9baf97aeee1261f7b98cb854201494b6/0_6_1441_864/master/1441.jpg?width=1200&height=630&quality=85&auto=format&fit=crop&overlay-align=bottom%2Cleft&overlay-width=100p&overlay-base64=L2ltZy9zdGF0aWMvb3ZlcmxheXMvdGctZGVmYXVsdC5wbmc&enable=upscale&s=176e4a7af405d1912e82698860acebd7)
I had reached the point of diminishing returns. I wanted to quit
Twitter, but my fingers were as if possessed, typing command+n, tw, enter at any lull in the workday, letting autofill take care of the rest. Like an old woman who finds herself at a familiar bus stop in her nightgown, I would blink at the new window and wonder how I got there and where I had intended to go. More than once I asked a friend to change my password and lock me out of my account. Weeks would go by without incident, sometimes months, but then a protest would break out, or my hometown would be on
fire, and the old media was too slow with the news. I would go through the password retrieval process, log on, catch up, lose my mind and repeat the process.
Finally, in July 2018, I thought: I’m going to have a heart attack if I stay on here.