Dear Facebook: It Was Really You, Not Me
It's been three weeks since last we were together, Facebook. And in my breakup letter, I offered the old platitude that it wasn't you, it was me. Truth is, it really was you all along.
Some distance has helped me see that you're a time-waster. A black hole of lost energy and effort. You put people into my life who didn't need to be there. You wielded unyielding, gleeful control over me. Your constantly fluctuating "What should we show people today?" algorithm meant that every encounter I had or post I saw was what you wanted me to see. You manipulated my reality.
You're like the worst boyfriend in the history of the world. Really. I know.
I won't say that being without you has been easy. In fact, I caved at the one-week mark and used my work account -- where I have no friends, no photo and exist only to post things on one page -- to slip through a back door and stalk someone. And of course, I saw what I didn't want to see and I felt terrible about myself and my life for days afterward. A week later, I hit rock bottom. I sat in my living room (after I'd plunged my sink), convinced that everyone in the world was out having a giant party together and I wasn't invited. Or maybe they were having babies, getting married, feeling #blessed and I couldn't hate on them. Or maybe they were all talking about me. Or maybe -- and this stung the most -- no one even realized or cared that I was gone from your universe.
That's when I woke up and stopped caring, Facebook, about you and what you stand for. At a party last weekend, I listened to some friends discuss how much they hate being added to sales groups, or being guilted into buying things because someone they legitimately like won't leave them alone about it. They expressed frustration over how real friends had turned into salespeople overnight, filling their newsfeeds with product updates instead of fun stuff and photos. I sat there listening, and realized that leaving you had given me one of the best gifts a person can give herself: the chance to experience the world on her own terms.
Without you, Facebook, I decide when and how I get my news. I voluntarily go to in-person parties that I want to attend instead of being guilted into sales groups because I don't want someone to be angry at me. I interact with my family on my own terms, and, frankly, enjoy them much more not knowing their deepest, darkest racist thoughts. I see the people I want to see. I make actual plans. I do stuff. I'm not glued to my newsfeed, waiting to see what other people are doing, or to see who liked my latest witty update. I write. I read. I nap.
Do I miss out on things? Occasionally. But someone always tells me what I need to know eventually. I miss seeing photos of my nephews. I miss having a place to vent about the world where I get almost immediate feedback. But I don't miss anything so much that I can't live without it.
That's right, Facebook. I know we were originally just on a break, but the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that this might be permanent. You're a big cesspool of awfulness, and my life without you is getting better and better.
Maybe see you later. But probably not. I'm still with Twitter and we're getting along great.
Some distance has helped me see that you're a time-waster. A black hole of lost energy and effort. You put people into my life who didn't need to be there. You wielded unyielding, gleeful control over me. Your constantly fluctuating "What should we show people today?" algorithm meant that every encounter I had or post I saw was what you wanted me to see. You manipulated my reality.
You're like the worst boyfriend in the history of the world. Really. I know.
I won't say that being without you has been easy. In fact, I caved at the one-week mark and used my work account -- where I have no friends, no photo and exist only to post things on one page -- to slip through a back door and stalk someone. And of course, I saw what I didn't want to see and I felt terrible about myself and my life for days afterward. A week later, I hit rock bottom. I sat in my living room (after I'd plunged my sink), convinced that everyone in the world was out having a giant party together and I wasn't invited. Or maybe they were having babies, getting married, feeling #blessed and I couldn't hate on them. Or maybe they were all talking about me. Or maybe -- and this stung the most -- no one even realized or cared that I was gone from your universe.
That's when I woke up and stopped caring, Facebook, about you and what you stand for. At a party last weekend, I listened to some friends discuss how much they hate being added to sales groups, or being guilted into buying things because someone they legitimately like won't leave them alone about it. They expressed frustration over how real friends had turned into salespeople overnight, filling their newsfeeds with product updates instead of fun stuff and photos. I sat there listening, and realized that leaving you had given me one of the best gifts a person can give herself: the chance to experience the world on her own terms.
Without you, Facebook, I decide when and how I get my news. I voluntarily go to in-person parties that I want to attend instead of being guilted into sales groups because I don't want someone to be angry at me. I interact with my family on my own terms, and, frankly, enjoy them much more not knowing their deepest, darkest racist thoughts. I see the people I want to see. I make actual plans. I do stuff. I'm not glued to my newsfeed, waiting to see what other people are doing, or to see who liked my latest witty update. I write. I read. I nap.
Do I miss out on things? Occasionally. But someone always tells me what I need to know eventually. I miss seeing photos of my nephews. I miss having a place to vent about the world where I get almost immediate feedback. But I don't miss anything so much that I can't live without it.
That's right, Facebook. I know we were originally just on a break, but the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that this might be permanent. You're a big cesspool of awfulness, and my life without you is getting better and better.
Maybe see you later. But probably not. I'm still with Twitter and we're getting along great.
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