I can’t remember much of life before Facebook, except that I had only a handful of friends and far too much free time. So when I hopped on the Facebook bandwagon in 2005, I would never have guessed the extent of its influence. I certainly hadn’t anticipated it to morph into a full-blown addiction.
Yet, can you blame me? Where else can my sedentary, voyeuristic self roam free? It’s like my second home, a virtual extension of my fabricated self, a link to a world full of new information and friends.
Life is just better here. I can consolidate myself into quotes, groups, pictures and favorite TV shows. I can form opinions of people before I ever get the chance to meet them, or more importantly, see how good-looking they are. I stake claim to a virtual wall, replete with emoticons and $1 gifts. I am able to compulsively keep track of everyone I have ever encountered and turn them into my friends. Facebook allows me to constantly be in the know without ever leaving the house.
Not an hour goes by when I do not log in, silently praying for a friend request from my (yet-to-be-found) soulmate or a wall post from an estranged friend. I seek out teachers and celebrities and politicians and add them to feel popular and elite. Yet, as I find myself sifting through photo albums of complete strangers, tempted to leave my own comments, I know that my hobby has gotten out of hand.
Now, in an attempt to reclaim my own life and to test my own resolve, I have decided to ignore Facebook for a week. So, as I log in one final time and update my status to “is abstaining,” I vow to prove to myself that I am capable of living beyond the virtual world. It will be difficult, and may involve frequent palpitations, but I have complete faith in myself.
My first day sans Facebook is off to a great start, mostly because I’m in class for the majority of the day. Sure, my knuckles are slightly sweaty after glancing two rows ahead at someone who, in favor of paying attention in class, is tagging himself in photos of what I can assume was his winter break, but I’m OK. I even feel better about my pledge of abstinence because I, unlike Mr. Cabo San Lucas over there, have taken some very elaborate notes.
The second day is tougher. I realize, much to my dismay, that going cold turkey means ignoring my UO e-mail in order to not receive notifications, because being conscious of wall posts yet to be read and friends yet to be added is anything but helpful. I can also feel the withdrawal begin to set in. I realize that communication is a tedious and elaborate process that requires good hygiene, presentation and social skills.
By the third day I am strung out. My mind wanders off to who might have updated their profile picture and I constantly daydream about Newsfeed. My palms and forehead are damp and my eyes yearn for their virtual sanctuary. I begin to poke those that I encounter, but no one reciprocates. I write a sentimental note in Sharpie on my best friend’s wall and she kicks me out of her apartment. The tangible world is a cruel one.
By day number four, I begin to mourn the death of my social life and the realization that perhaps I do not have 220 friends. That the moment I am propelled to leave the safety and security of my computer screen is the same moment I find myself to be oblivious to any and all upcoming events is a painfully ironic fact.
You might assume I would feel bad for caving in by day five, but you would be wrong. With a few keystrokes, I am again awash in a sea of pokes, wall-posts, friend requests and a plethora of other brilliant applications. I am home. My confidence is restored. My self-worth is renewed.
[email protected]