For Ceally Smith, it felt like she was suffocating. The 33-year-old holistic health entrepreneur would spend hours consumed with conspiracy theories—about sex trafficking, children secretly being sold on a furniture website, the multimillionaire pedophile Jeffrey Epstein. There was always another video to watch, another media lie to investigate, another stranger to enlighten. Things that once fulfilled her—exercise, her meal-prep business—no longer seemed to matter. Instead, she dug deeper and deeper into the horrors the internet presented her every day, feeling obligated, as a sexual abuse survivor, to "be the adult I needed as a child," she says.
For Anna, a 23-year-old pharmacy student in Pennsylvania, it felt like being trapped in a vortex of fear. "I had feelings of hope, but at the same time, I was incredibly scared, distressed, and anxious and even had panic attacks," she says. She spent as many as eight hours a day poring over feeds on Telegram and Gab, listening to fringe podcasts. "Doing just about anything else," she admits, "was really hard."
Another person compared it to a "monster gnawing away at me." On a message board this summer, they wrote, "My mind keeps circling back to it, no matter what I do. I don't want this to happen, I've seen what it does to people, but I just can't shake it off, I'm losing my goddamn mind, I can't focus on anything and my anxiety keeps shooting up, this isn't who I am."
"It," for all three, was QAnon, the infamous and violent pro-Trump conspiracy theory whose followers mushroomed during the pandemic to include suburban moms, yoga teachers, grandmas, and seemingly half of your Facebook feed. The movement was so easy to get into—a provocative post by an acquaintance, a few clicks, a video that rang true, which then surfaced
other videos—but would prove to be much harder to get out of.
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