“I’m off the grid!” I remind my friends whenever they ask me to search for a picture or RSVP to an event on Facebook. Two years ago I deactivated my Facebook account—and the greatest challenge has not been resisting a desire to rejoin the social network but constantly telling my friends that I won’t go back.
I’m not sure when my aversion to the site was born, but it was fully developed and raging the day I closed my account two years ago. I felt oddly empowered, not to mention a bit snobbish. Perhaps this was my own “Walden Pond” moment—my personal declaration of independence and a simpler existence. I no longer aimlessly clicked through Facebook profiles and postings when I was bored. I found myself “virtually” adrift—lonelier, but oddly happier.
Media critics have noted that Facebook is declining in popularity among young people as new social networks have emerged—though nearly all of my friends, and even my parents, use Facebook daily. The clubs I belong to, and the sorority I’m in, rely on Facebook heavily to share information and opinions. In many ways, by opting out of Facebook I have disenfranchised myself.
I’m in no way an Internet recluse, nor do I shy away from other social networks. Like Thoreau—who lauded self-sufficiency despite living two miles from town—I’m a bit of a hypocrite. I’m an avid user of LinkedIn, Pinterest, Tumblr, and Instagram—platforms designed for professional networking, creativity, and personal expression. So what’s the difference? Many would argue there is none, and that Facebook’s popularity and convenience far outweigh any consequences.
But for me Facebook was always a compromise. The content I shared—photos, messages, personal info—felt uncomfortably like a PR report about six years of my life. When less-than-glamorous photos of me were “tagged” by friends, I felt imposed upon and annoyed. Would this incessant public documentation go on for the rest of my life? Is this how celebrities feel all the time?
I’ve had a Facebook profile since freshman year in high school, and my online “friends” numbered more than a thousand. My awkward, brace-faced years were thoroughly documented and are circulating the Internet whether I liked it or not. My new friends at Cornell could easily learn things about me I would never have told them. In turn, it felt odd to be exposed to images of and knowledge about childhood friends whom I was no longer close to; I was witness to the lives of people I hadn’t spoken with in years.
Life without Facebook has had its ups and downs. In some ways it’s like living with blinders on—I rarely hear about events unless I get a direct invitation, and most of the pictures I see are ones I take myself. Many of my friendships have been stifled by a lack of communication, and I worry about keeping in touch with my seven housemates after graduation.
While not quite an exercise in asceticism, cutting myself off from the social network has been a stab at a simpler life. Facebook is an incredible resource—but it’s also an overwhelming and indiscriminate social medium that gives the same attention to major life events as to mislaid cell phones. Though I may have lost something, logging out has been a breath of fresh air.
— Brooke LaPorte ’14