Crossing the Bridge - Lessons From a Cyberspace Connection

DanieleB

6:00 at night. A difficult day, a hard drive home, and my husband was working late. When I got in the door with my four-year-old daughter, I said, "Come downstairs with me for a second."
"No, No!"
"What, Michelle?"
"No computer!"
(Realization here - I have a problem on my hands)
"No computer, I promise. I just want to change my clothes."
"NO!"
"Do you want to come down with me, to make sure?"

That seemed okay. She held my hand and walked down the stairs with me. At the bottom of the stairs, I headed to the bedroom and she bolted for the den. I looked in and saw her sitting on the computer chair, where she announced to me "*I* want to be the mommy."

Those six innocent words, and the quiet, hurt way they sliced through the still air of our home, brought me up short. As a certified "techno-geek" I spend an inordinate amount of time on the computer. There's legitimate work such as web designing and research, home uses like banking and shopping, of course games (what's a techno-geek without a few gigs worth of computer games?) and the on-line paper I'd recently begun editing -- the Bridge of Dreams. Clearly, my daughter was feeling neglected, and I needed to make some adjustments. But they were all such important activities. What could I do?

By far, The Bridge took the majority of my computer time. At least three hours a day were spent reading and replying to email, reviewing web pages, and editing articles. Occasionally, I spent several additional hours conducting interviews, writing articles, and creating and posting web pages (for me, a tedious, painstaking process). Obviously, the quickest way to dramatically cut back my computer time would be to cut back my newspaper work.

Always one to go to extremes, to me cutting back meant cutting out. Within 24 hours, I submitted a tearful, sincere "resignation with deep regret" letter which was, equally tearfully, approved by my manager. Neither of us could have imagined the hole it left in my life. Had we known, we never would have done it. But those 72 hours of isolation taught me lessons I will never forget and feel compelled to share. Many may seem trite or obvious, but my personal experience has brought them home with new relevance and power.

Lesson #1: Bonds formed by correspondence can be as strong as, or stronger than, those developed in face-to-face contact.

I should have known this, having some personal experience with long-distance bonding. My husband and I met only briefly face-to-face, and the deep bond we formed 10 years ago developed during a three-year snail mail correspondence that was probably to blame for local deforestation. Our sappy love letters and daily novellas are at least as responsible for recent weather aberrations as El Nino. I have no idea why I expected email correspondence to connect any less powerfully. Ironically, the same man who became a permanent part of my life via the U.S. Postal Service is unable to understand how I could develop full-fledged friendships online.

I have nothing to back this up, of course, but in my limited observations, it seems that correspondence bonds are far more powerful among introverts than extroverts. In fact, every tearful "goodbye" letter I received from the Bridge staff came from an avowed introvert. An introvert myself, and normally reluctant to commit to deep personal friendships, I felt the loss more keenly than I believed possible.

The sudden and total absence of those whose letters and thoughts had been part of my everyday life for over six months sent me into a profound depression whenever I saw a computer. The tears were allayed briefly by contact with family and coworkers, but there was undeniably a deep wound left by the absence of that daily email avalanche. It was as though 16 of my closest friends and relatives had fallen off a cliff. Insomnia, crying fits and loss of appetite followed the final staff mail.

The thundering silence that echoed through my life was instantly alleviated three days later when I swallowed my pride and asked to rejoin the group list, albeit in a limited capacity. Without receiving a single email, the simple act of re-establishing the connection lifted the depression I felt. I was able to go about my business with a happy heart for the first time in days.

Lesson #2: It takes more than pixels or words to create an online community.

Bridge of Dreams was originally designed as a newspaper or e-zine supporting an online graphic community. Somewhere along the line, without anyone realizing or remarking on the transformation, we became a community unto ourselves. This is attested to by the loss we feel when a staff member leaves, the belonging felt by new staff members, and the frequency with which we refer to one another as "family."

Other text-based communities have had some impact on my life. Some graphic services I frequent are "communities" to me, whereas others are merely "games." But never has any of them held the same appeal for me or created the emotional bond I felt in the Bridge of Dreams. The community wasn't built, caused, or created. It simply happened, silently, profoundly, like sunlight seeping through a window on a cloudy day. I doubt that anyone could point to a specific moment and say "Here. This is where it started." But undeniably, it did; and without a single graphic required and hardly any common spaces, other than our daily emails and the occasional inworld meeting.

Even more surprising to me was the realization that the community feeling of the Bridge did not extend beyond the boundaries drawn by our day-to-day staff communications. I have maintained at least cursory contact with several friends I met online through alternate means, and assumed that this would be the same. I exchanged several emotional and business-related emails with staff members during my brief resignation expressing grief, support, understanding, and the weak hope that we could maintain contact. Although I clearly stated in my resignation letter that I planned to keep in touch, the lack of the structured contacts that were the building blocks of our small community instantly made me an outsider. Subsequently rejoining the group instantly converted me to membership again. It was like walking through a veil -- I could see outside, but I couldn't see in. The barrier was flimsy, but real.

The only factor to which I can attribute the difference is accepted forms of communication. The friendships I maintain outside the Dreamscape take place primarily through community "approved" forms of communication -- ICQ, email, and in rare instances the occasional phone call. In other words, those are all openly accepted as alternate modes of communication for those who meet in the Dreamscape. In the case of the Bridge, however, deep bonds were forged over the course of daily staff emails received only by group members, and occasionally through other group-approved modes of communication. All of those lines of contact were instantly severed by my resignation, and there were no acceptable substitutes to take their place.

Apparently, it is possible for a community to define a communication boundary outside which contact between community members is not considered community-based, and has a distinctly different flavor. The instant, subtle tonal change my communication with staff members came as a rude shock (to all of us, I think), and I was glad to have it restored to "normal" by my return to the staff. Although I am much less involved than before, and correspond much more infrequently, the sense of belonging has returned.

Lesson #3: One community cannot replace another easily.

I know, because I tried. I sincerely believed that leaving the Bridge of Dreams would move me out of the Dreamscape, as my community involvement there is limited. Instead, I found myself inworld repeatedly, attempting to fight feelings of depression and isolation. In three days, I racked up more online time than I had in the previous three weeks.

Interestingly, I did not seek out new activities or even close friends outside my Bridge circle, but continually searched for Bridge friends in an unfulfilling effort to rebuild the community feeling I lost upon my resignation. However, even the few conversations I had during that period could not relieve the sense of loss. Only rejoining the original community, even in a limited capacity, restored my sense of connection.

Lesson #4: The key is balance.

At first glance, this seems almost too obvious to merit comment. But considering the number of people who experience the addictive quality of online communities, it bears repeating. Balance for one person, of course, may be completely out of proportion for another. Some members of the Bridge staff are able to devote time and energy to that group that I simply can't accommodate (as my daughter made plain). Similarly, members of any online community, as with any other undertaking, should actively assess the role the community plays in their life and adjust their involvement accordingly.

I believe this is where many of the departure-and-return scenarios we witness in the Dreamscape originate: they are not ploys for attention or manifestations of addiction, but instead are symptomatic of someone's recognition of a community's importance in their life after the fact of separation. Parting may be sweet sorrow, but the pain of separation may be such that at least some presence or contact is required to maintain balance.

Having crossed that bridge, I can vouch that it takes a strong person to swallow your pride and return after declaring that you're "gone for good." Some are probably motivated by a need for attention but others, like myself, probably just didn't realize until too late the impact on their lives and hearts.

Seventy-two hours after my resignation, my resolve collapsed under a chance email from a staff member, and I asked to rejoin the staff as a scribe instead of a manager. My sense of balance was immediately restored, the depression lifted, and I slept peacefully. I have received fewer than a dozen emails in the week since I rejoined the staff, and I used to receive twice that many daily, but I feel connected again.

By relinquishing my management role I freed more time for my family, and my daughter is much happier as well. I'm not as active on the paper as I once was, but I'm still there, which is more important to me than I ever knew before.

Never again will I question the balance of those who say they are unable to walk away from an online community. I may never meet these people face-to-face, but they are part of my life. Failing to acknowledge the importance of that contact was one of! the worst judgments I've ever made.

The moral, I suppose, is "Never burn your Bridges, even if they're built in cyberspace."