A week or so ago I deleted my Facebook account. My history with Facebook is like an after school special cautionary tale of drug addiction:
1. I am adamantly anti-Facebook, suspecting it to be a silly time-waster.
2. I join under my cat’s name so I can play Scrabulous.
3. I change my online name to my own and start to log on for more than just online Scrabble.
4. My 20th high school reunion is largely planned via Facebook. I slip down many multi-hour K-holes obsessively “catching up” (Facebook stalking) with people I haven’t seen in years, most of whom I didn’t care much about when I did see them regularly.
5. I add, and quickly delete, the Facebook app to my Iphone. Am I getting the DTs from withdrawal?
6. Words with Friends on the phone is a constant methadone drip of pseudo-interaction.
7. I spend hours poring over my posts over the last four years to prepare for “Timeline.”
8. Checking Facebook starts to feel like my job. I estimate I spend, in little ten minute increments and in longer chunks, about three hours on Facebook a day.
9. I hear a story about a job applicant being forced to turn over his Facebook account – and password – to his prospective employer before being hired. This is the kick in the teeth I need to inspire me to admit my problem and do something about it.
It’s a daily battle to avoid reengaging: so often I will click on a link from elsewhere on the internet and unwittingly end up on that seductive log-in screen.
In the long run, I am glad I deleted my Facebook account and I think I have been more productive.
The day I deleted my account I write a whole short story from start to finish.
I started a new Etsy shop. I started to make jewelry again.