In all of our young lives, there will come time when our guts tell us that it's time to take control over our own lives, to squash the foes that stand in our way. It's a time that will take stoic discipline, a daring display of initiative, and an invaluable dash of smug confidence.
About two weeks ago, I decided it was time to squash.
The huge role that Facebook has made in our social lives has become so hilariously cliché that it's managed to fade into the background of a digital society, a society that is constantly plugged into a giant network of social interaction.
What I discovered a couple weeks ago is that when squashing your greatest foe means pulling the plug on that network, on what has become your primary social outlet, you're very likely going to get shocked.
My hand is still twitching a little from this: Two weeks ago, I embarked on an act of defiance and, saying "no" to The Man, I deactivated my Facebook account.
I thought that deactivating an account meant you essentially make it as though it never existed?Facebook would erase my name and e-mail, and forget about my existence entirely. Fighting a crippling addiction frequently means going completely cold turkey, and it seemed like this was my best option to do so.
But sometimes you just can't escape Big Brother. Because when you choose to end the relationship with the one entity that controls the very state of your social image, you'll find that the once friendly and dependent relationship quickly rots into a display of bitter manipulation.
In order to deactivate Facebook, this is what you must be prepared for. It will bribe you, trick you, and place you in such vulnerable situations that you have no other choice but to come crawling back on your knees.
When I first checked the box that stated I would like to deactivate my account, a paragraph appeared below the box asking my reasons for leaving Facebook. Fair enough. When you resign a job, it's not unreasonable for an employer to ask why. I checked the box next to a laughingly understated truth: "I spend too much time on Facebook."
What's this, though? I thought that was for mere statistical purposes, that I was perhaps offering them a reaffirmation of their success. Another paragraph! Telling me that one way to avoid spending too much time on Facebook was to adjust my account settings to not have e-mail sent to me. "Well, that's absurd," I thought to myself, "How would I respond to walls posts in a timely manner? All my friends will think I'm rude."
No, no. It had to be done, and it had to be done all the way. The next window opens: If I ever want to come back, they say, all I have to do is simply go to the log-in page, type in my old e-mail and password (like I could ever forget), and I'm in.
Funny, I thought. That doesn't sound like I'm deactivating anything. I then realized that this had simply become a contest of self-will to see how long I could go without Facebook. I had a mental image of trying to come back and having to think, once again, of my favorite TV shows and movies, which would be tedious, causing my laziness to eventually kick my addiction.
The most complicated thing that would happen, however, would be that Facebook would send me an e-mail making sure I wanted to come back. Although, it seems like pretending that they want to make sure only those who are truly part of the network want to come back is sort of a joke if they're leaving my profile there, just simply waiting to come out form under the covers.
Well, two can play at this game, I said. It's deactivated. I've made it inactive. There is no life left in Facebook, no wily seductions to tempt me back. I will forget that it ever existed.
I didn't. It was a trying first few days. I would find myself sitting down to my laptop, and my fingers automatically typing "www.fa" before realizing my mistake, slapping my own hands, and walking away. I simply could not shake the loss.
Then, one afternoon in Smith Union, disaster struck. Shaken and wearied from my time away from Facebook, I belligerently checked my e-mail. Top of the inbox, received from you-know-who, subject line: "Reactivation confirmation." My heart skipped a beat. I jumped back, throwing my hand to my open mouth.
"Keep your cool, Annie," I said to myself (because pulling the Facebook plug also sometimes leads you to talk to yourself in public venues). "This has to be a mistake." I slowly clicked on the e-mail. Their records tell them that I tried to log in ("dirty liars," I sneered at the screen). In order to confirm this, would I please click on the link below? ("Never!" I scowled, as the kid on the computer next to me to uncomfortably picked up his backpack and walked away).
I deleted the e-mail, and walked out of the union muttering obscenities to myself, shaking off the blow that my already fragile state of mind had just taken. They knew too much about me. They had made going back easy, and had in fact pretended that I had tried to come back. "I know you miss me," Facebook had said, putting on the innocent puppy-dog face that had lured me in to begin with. "I'm willing to forgive your misjudgment. Just press a button, and we can go back to the way things used to be."
But I didn't want things to be the way they used to be; or did I? To quote a wise woman I heard crooning on the radio earlier that day: "When you're gone, the pieces of my heart are missing you." Suddenly, I forgot what Facebook and I had ever argued about. He was controlling? No. He couldn't be. If he were sending me e-mails with confirmation links, he really must care!
That afternoon, I went to the log-in page. Standing at the threshold of an old love with whom you've realized you've made a great mistake is an intimidating and terrifying experience. But I knocked. He opened the door. And, via an e-mail with a confirmation link, invited me in.
When I entered, everything was exactly the same. My information, favorite books, movies, quotes, etc., were all still there. The photos of memories I had so carelessly deprived of life still lay beneath my profile picture.
Maybe I have walked back into a controlling, unhealthy relationship. Maybe I'm simply not ready to leave it. Leaving the Facebook nest is a step we will all have to take at some point, but it is not a step that should be rushed. Besides, the poinsettia from my "Growing Gifts" application hasn't even fully bloomed yet.