I'm in Ashley Madison's database. As a journalist who's written about marriage and social media for sites like YourTango, I signed up after reading a Redbook Magazine article about it to see if I could write a story myself. And frankly, I was intrigued. Really? Eight million folks had signed up to have affairs with neighbors? What brought about that level of marital unhappiness - and secrecy?
As expected, my inbox instantly flooded with vulgar responses. And then I chickened out. I never messaged anybody and simply logged off. Yet when I read of the leak, I broke into a sweat, not because I'd been on the site, but because of the tidal wave of judgment that was about to hit.
Over my morning cup of coffee, I shared with my conscientious husband that years ago I'd logged in and could be named. He laughed. With that sound, my fear lessened. Because it was sort of funny. He knows who I am but others don't.
As a writer, I've created quite the digital trail for myself. Over the years I've expressed ideas I wish I hadn't while attempting to push artistic boundaries and thoughts I've since grown out of. An idea that may have seemed fresh 20 years ago no longer dies with an obscure journal that goes out of print: it's still there, ever present. Only now it's not an idea that's developed over pages, but one that can be revived in a soundbite that can lead you right in front of the social media firing squad.
But what's worse for me, a mother, is that in light of the Ashley Madison leak what I regret most isn't what I've written about me, but what I've written about my kids. Simple things like e-mails to teachers, school records, texts I sent to friends, or even notes taken by doctors. Because this most recent data leak isn't about exposing cheaters in my mind, it's about the digital trail we've all created that could be exposed at any moment, one that can be hugely misinterpreted.
