We’re Here Because We’re Lonely: Why I can’t leave Facebook

Were we happier before Facebook? I’ve been asking myself this a lot lately. I think I was much less angry before Facebook, or at least before it turned so political.

I was pregnant when I first joined, and my son was born shortly after. In those early years of postpartum anxiety, the isolation I felt as a new mom home full time with a baby, was lessened by being able to connect with friends and family easily via Facebook. It became my solace. I was supposed to be writing my dissertation that year — the year after my baby was born. Looking back now, I see how that was an absurd goal, at least for me, Facebook or no Facebook. I wish I had known myself a little better back then. Motherhood did not come easy to me. I loved and adored my son absolutely. But it was so hard. And lonely. I craved connection with other adults, parents and non-parents alike. I wanted to feel like a person with my own identity, part of which was being a mother, sure. But there was so much else.

And I wanted to share my son and his life with our extended family and friends who lived far away and rarely got to see him. Facebook was the perfect venue for keeping up and connecting with people. It still is, but…

These days, I spend a good deal of my time feeling pissed off. Mostly about the world, but also too often in reaction to things people on FB have said about the world. Those who know me know that I have a lot of strong opinions, and while I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, I know that I can be incredibly stubborn and passionate about my beliefs. Apparently this comes from my maternal grandfather, even though our world-views could not be more different. I want people to see things my way, and I know I am often dogged in my pursuit of this. I go back and forth in comment after comment with friends, friends of friends, strangers on FB posts, trying to get people to understand my point. I have a hard time letting go. Even when I step away from the screen. Even when I log out and force myself to go do other things, I can’t shake it; certain arguments stay there present in my thoughts, in my chest, in my gut.

I suppose along with my need for others to see things my way, I do believe that people can change or evolve their thinking on a topic because I know tI have. In a sense, this is optimistic, right? Like if I just arrange the words differently this time, in exactly the right way, then this person will get what I’m saying, they’ll see it my way, at least partially. I hate the feeling of not being heard, or worse, not being understood. I guess no one likes this feeling, but I think it is particularly hard for me.

Of course while Facebook has made me angrier, it has also made me more aware. I think we are all more aware now of the world, of politics, of injustice, all the horrible things that happen in our country and globally. All thanks to social media. Awareness is good and anger is even good, I think, but only if it leads to action. I regularly sign petitions and donate money to causes I see championed on FB. Occasionally I attend a march or a rally in support of a cause I believe in, which I have been educated about through social media. I try to educate my students with articles and with conversation that brings attention to important issues in the world.

Facebook has evolved into this entity where so much of “life” seems to take place. At least it feels that way to me. When I’ve tried to quit in the past, I rarely last for more than a few days. Why? It’s like an addiction, but I don’t think it’s ONLY because of my need to discuss (argue) with people until they see my point. I think it feeds something else in me too and I suspect this is true for many of us.

I think we are here because we’re lonely. Because whether our lives are fulfilling or not, we want to share them with people. We crave an audience. In the scholarly world that I am part of they call this “the autobiographical impulse.” The urge to tell one’s story is part of being human and is distinctly related to “the urge to locate truth,” as Patricia Hampl says. Clearly this urge exists for some of us in bigger and more obvious ways than others. And our “stories,” often come out in the form of photos or stories of our kids, our pets, our vacations, sharing a moment from one’s professional life or recreational pursuits. The bits and pieces of our lives that we’re excited about or frustrated by — they need witnesses, they need to be heard. I think most of us want connection.

And I think we want the kind of connection that we don’t get from our family or friends, at least not in the day to day. Not enough. There’s something thrilling, addicting obviously, about having conversations on a wide range of topics (both the controversial and the benign) with a wide range of people — often from a crazy variety of places where we have known them in real life. How many people do you know who are not on FB? Almost everyone in your life who you would want to talk to is probably here. I can think of only six people off the top of my head who are not. Two of them are my octogenarian grandparents. At any given moment, day or night, whatever is on your mind, you can start or join a conversation.

When I’m not angry and arguing (and sometimes even when I am) this connecting feels good. It feels like community. And that is something I have very little of in my real life. I wonder if that’s true for others. Is it true for you?

In NYC these days I have only about five friends I see on a regular basis. Six, if you count my roommate. That’s pretty sad, isn’t it? I’m in a long distance relationship with a woman in California and it is an understatement to say that my romantic life does not get as much face to face time as I wish it would. My work life is set up in such a way that I don’t really have co-workers — not ones I see for more than a few hours a semester anyway. I am not part of any clubs or religious community. And I spend an obscene amount of time commuting, sometimes alone in my car. So yes, in many ways Facebook does feel like my community. But I wonder how it would feel to really step away. Would I be less angry? Would I write my dissertation?

Could I leave forever? Abandon all my photos, my “memories” (as I’m shown each morning), not to mention the conversations I have come to expect with friends and family far and wide. What would it mean to give all of it up?

Facebook now is not what Zuckerberg had intended it to be. It has evolved into something much more complicated and bigger than it was originally — or even 9.5 years ago when I joined. It’s like some sort of Matrix that we are all apart of, and for better or worse, I cannot figure out how to get out.