I figured I needed to go on an FB diet.
I was amused by the text on the screens that instructed me how to commit FB suicide. One screen featured random profile photos of people on my friends list. Below the photos, it read: "A will miss you." "B will miss you." "C will miss you." I found it funny because FB really knew how to appeal to one's emotional side -- and I almost gave in. The attribution of feelings by this system to disembodied photos of people labeled "friends" gave one the impression that, the system itself was a friend, advising another against saying leaving without saying goodbye...and all those trite cinematic situations to which we're so attuned. Even if the photos of people they featured were just nominally friends -- and in fact, were ones with whom I have not interacted with for a long time -- it did get me thinking. Would people really miss my presence? Would others even notice? care? I figured I'd find out. When I finally clicked the "deactivate account" button, FB told me "We hope you return soon," or something like that.
It was bittersweet, parting with the communities and groups I identified with online, and shared unique life experiences with. I quickly realized how much of my self was sketched by the interactions certain people and I had, the kinds of exchanges we'd have on our walls, and how, somehow, I revelled in the fact that "others" could see whom I was "talking" with and what we were discussing. This indeed offered some form of legitimacy to my own perception of who Data was, and who I was projecting myself as to other people. Now that I was no longer connected to them, I had to negotiate with myself: just where and when did I start anchoring my identity on experiences long gone, and with people with whom I have not had any common experiences with since? It made me realize just how deeply these virtual experiences could shape how we see ourselves, and even our lives...all because we invited ourselves to do this.
So this made me thankful that I decided to let go of FB when I did. I was able to study better. I was spending less time online and found myself reading, talking to people face to face, actually having some time to myself! I spent a weekend out of town with the hubby, and I was glad I didn't have FB breathing down my neck: although the habit was difficult to break, I successfully resisted posting photos and status messages about my weekend. Suddenly, we had the time ONLY to ourselves, and the compulsion to tell everyone where you were and what you were doing helped define a private space again. No one knew, no one could "see," no one could judge. It was liberating. And for the first time in a long time, my mind was present in the moment. I wasn't thinking about how this would look on FB or who would be interested. It was all about me and the hubby and our vacation. And it was good.
I will admit, however, that I could not let go completely. I had to be tethered to something...just in case. Twitter was the dock peg of choice. Though I was not able to share a lot of media as on FB, I was, at least, contactable to my followers and those I was following. I still had a toe in the virtual pow-wow. I still needed to know what people were talking about and what they were sharing. I suppose it was also my way of reminding people that I still existed, although I felt that I was starting from scratch, building up a new community again. However I noticed that on Twitter, people were more independent in their thoughts. Sure, they may retweet links or messages, but generally individuals on Twitter seemed to stand "alone." They didn't need to plugged into any group and were solely accountable for all that they tweeted. There was no one to back you up with a "like" or a comment -- if they did it would come several tweets later, when others already made up their mind about what you just wrote. It called for a certain disposition of responsibility -- at least in my view. I found myself correcting my tweets, checking and rechecking links I wanted to retweet. I made sure my posts could fit the character limit but still be sensible -- without resorting to text spelling.
Again it forced one to be in the moment, and to appreciate the small things -- which for me are a reflection of one's politeness and even compassion. Why impose your horrendous spelling and grammar on an innocent audience?
Eventually I decided to reactivate my account. I found out people had been asking about me and wondering what happened to my account. I won't deny it felt nice to be noticed, but then of course, I had to answer people's questions about why I was gone. I decided to be vague, and instead just reassure them I was back.
Unfortunately, I realized it wasn't as easy to come back as it was to leave. Not only is my profile still un-visit-able, some contacts were having trouble even tagging me. The hubby said, perhaps the system needed time to propagate. All right, but, does it take five days to get it up and running like before? It's starting to frustrate me, and for all my fantasizing about people actually "missing" me, turns out, I am still probably just another profile on the system. This time, however, I am sort of a ghost: people can see "me", but they can't "touch" me. I am un-connect-able.
I left, thinking I was being noticed for the wrong reasons, and I came back, noticeably unconnected, virtually just an "other." There wasn't even any emotional welcome back message from FB either, none of the sentimental farewell ones that appear when you're going through the deactivation process. I suppose FB felt when deactivation occurs, there's one less profile to maintain, but when it's reactivated, they're not too happy with the additional work to get it functioning properly like before. They're too busy, so they'll skip the welcome party.
This is fine with me. The past two weeks showed me that I can discipline myself regarding my use of technology and I can regulate my consumption of social media products. I also know which people are truly my friends, online and offline. I can define who they are to me and who I am according to the encounters we've had in real life -- and I don't need to depend on FB's categories to tell me if I am accepted in certain groups or not. Technology is important but it need not run our lives, not does it have to define who we are. We define technology's function in our lives, and make it work for us, not the other way around.
