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It’s Saturday night, and I am at the house of a good friend. After the usual hours spent playing Xbox and watching “1000 Ways To Die,” I ask him if it would be OK if I used his computer. I want to check my Facebook, because I’d last checked it that morning — and who knows what I’d been missing since then? Best-case scenario: a notification from the girl who — despite the fact that our passion is unspoken — has posted on my wall claiming that she was checking my page and has suddenly realized her true feelings for me. Maybe on top of that a cool, funny kid sent me a friend request saying that I was “the man” and we should be homies for life. No big deal, I get that all the time.
I hit enter. My eyes immediately jump to the top left of the screen. The page loads and my heart drops. All I can see is blue. Blue, the color of 21st century social mediocrity. The color of people’s indifference towards you. I quickly realize the reality of my situation: The world does not revolve around me. My friends all have other friends. Every minute that I spend navigating the Facebook universe, I am shrinking.
But as I scroll down my home page, I realize that I’m not the only one desperate for attention. Every status and post seems to be saying “I’m here! Tell me that I’m somebody!” Hundreds of kids are selling their identities — like livestock at a market — for a couple of comments and “likes.”
As I scan my alleged friends’ profiles, I’m seized with feelings of jealousy and rejection. I want to say to them “I thought I was your friend! So who the are these 200 other guys commenting on your stuff?” As our circles get wider, our interactions become fewer.
I joined Facebook four years ago. and at first it was amazing. You’d friend someone, and you’d be linked to all their friends. In fact, the standard that classified a kid as your friend was quickly dropped. That girl your friend told you about was now your “friend”; that friend of your sibling was now your “friend.” You now shared everything with anyone whose name or face looked vaguely familiar.
This quickly wore me down. Being constantly informed that you make up just a small portion of another person’s life erodes the feeling that you are at all meaningful to them.
Adolescence, to begin with, is a time of awful social anxiety. Now a website exists that exacerbates your most irrational social fears to the point of paranoia. Instead of just a private hormonal case of nerves, this is a massive, corporate crowd-sourced paranoia that a huge economic sector is encouraging us to take part in.
On Facebook, I saw how I was taking time away from being with my real friends to feel bad about all the other people who were hardly even part of my life.
Leaving it was easier said than done, however. I couldn’t find where to deactivate my account. I had to look up “how to deactivate Facebook” on Google. After navigating multiple pages, I found a tiny link at the bottom of the security-settings page. After clicking the link, a page popped up with bright photos of my good friends and me. “Jake will miss you,” one caption read. “Jules will miss you,” and another saying “Aaron will miss you.” All of my friends were smiling at me and telling me they would miss me.
I was struck by the irony of this statement about how my different friends would miss me when I left. When you’re an adolescent, what Facebook is really all about is creating a sense of distance between you and your friends, not about strengthening the relationships. Distance because it makes you realize that you’re both lost in a crowd. Worse still, this website that profits off the data it collects about me by selling it to advertising companies is now trying to hold onto me by enlisting my friends to seduce me into staying.
Why are my friends going to miss me? My friend Raymond is still sitting next to me playing video games. I’m still talking to people in the halls at school. Maybe next time someone takes a cool picture, they’ll call me up to hang out and stare at a screen side-by-side, which is what real friends do.
I’m not the only one who is deactivating my Facebook account. I’ve had other friends tell me that they’re sick and tired of going on Facebook everyday hoping to connect, but ending up feeling only more disconnected. Lost in the hype of the company’s stock-market debut this year is that while Facebook is ubiquitous, it may also be a fad.
Before I went off Facebook, my friend made a status update saying,“Deleting your Facebook is like running away from home. You do it for attention but you’ll be back one day.” But I’m not doing it for attention. I’m doing it so I won’t go there when I’m hungry for attention, only to end up feeling more alone.
Zach Prochnik attends a Manhattan public high school.