Nobody lives a life of quiet desperation on Facebook. That’s why I quit.
Christine Gacharná in one small moment when the universe aligned to allow the creation of a happy self portrait with a recently acquired Leica that minimizes the quiet desperation she struggles to hide from the world.
(Editor's note: Perhaps you saw the recent hubbub over a Princeton study suggesting Facebook will lose 80 percent of its users by 2017, and Facebook's saracstic response that Princeton will lose half its enrollment by 2018. Here's one woman's story that -- coincidentally -- suggests Princeton may have the better of the argument.)
Three days ago, I deleted my Facebook account.
"What?!" exclaimed a surprised Bob Sullivan. "Why?"
I sent him a screenshot of the offending post, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.
He went silent for moments longer than I'd anticipated before he dared to ask, "Over composting?"
Yes.
Well, yes and no. Not composting per se, but the extent to which Facebookers take do-goodisms, to start.
Facebook glamorizes our mundane daily existence. We shout altruistic acts from our Facebook rooftops. We encourage others to be just like us — like my page! Like my photo! Like my opinion petition! Support this ah-MAY-zing business! We ask questions that would take us 2.02 seconds to Google and find the answer on our own. We "like" things because our "friends" do. And the final irony is that all of this sharing and liking and feel-goodism amounts to nothing that produces meaningful help and/or change — it's just a bunch of symbols on a screen that do nothing to advance actions or ideas for the better.
The flip side to this same Facebook coin shows the decidedly negative aspects of this social mask: we're just comfortably isolated enough to virtually attack one another for :gasp: daring to voice a difference of opinion. Citizens claim to value freedom, yet devalue freedom of speech to the point where it's no longer about meaningful discussion of issues, it's about "winning" the argument — and by winning, I mean friends agree to think just like us (publicly, at least). Our posse will stomp out any "friends" who dissent. Yay! We won a Facebook argument that "friends of friends" (and policymakers) will likely never see, and will never advance beyond Facebook to make a difference in the lives of those we love.
We speak in vernaculars as if we haven't already outgrown their stage-of-life-appropriateness (sorry, Pain Train.) Word.
Not to mention that prancing around in social media has an unintended, unchecked dark side: we're teaching our children to derive self-worth and a sense of identity from the “likes” of social media “friends.” Some of these young kids, the ones being raised by "friends" and/or "friends of friends," become victims of bullying or cyber attacks via social media. How many Facebook pages are devoted to memorializing and supporting these young lives after a suicide? Again, just words on a page, too little too late to make a real difference in the lives of those who've been hurt — or, better yet, to help those who might still stumble and fall.
And that’s how I finally put my finger on what I find so distasteful about Facebook:
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” — Henry David Thoreau
Nobody suffers a life of quiet desperation on Facebook.
Think about it. Profile pictures are rarely shot with small, harsh, directly-overhead light sources that real life provides almost all the time; rarely do profile portraits portray the many different faces friends shed in the process of waking up, facing the very real problems of adult life, choosing to be happy and optimistic amid the quiet desperation — even when, and perhaps especially when, we slip and mess up.
More often than not, profile pics feature that one small moment when the universe aligned to allow the creation of a vision of oneself that highlights the good we all try to stay focused on and minimizes the desperation we struggle to hide from the world.
These moments produce "likes" and the "likes" make us feel good. Except when they don't. And for some (especially our youth), the rejection of a non-like or the outright public defamation of an unsavory comment by a "friend" can be decidedly more devastating to bear than any quiet desperation.
Like profile pics, random Facebook posts share this very same quality, boasting an instant that is much more fake than real, but carefully selected (and filtered) to produce a like. Which makes us feel good. Except when they don't.
Rinse, repeat.
It’s one thing to boast our aspirations and/or pursuits, berate, belittle and/or bully those on Facebook who don’t share our views; it’s another thing entirely to go out into the world to work and/or volunteer meaningful change in the very causes one purports to believe in a news feed. Sadly, my news feed was only peppered with meaningful change amid the sea of self-righteous voters, boasters, and validation-seeking “friends.”
I am guilty of all of the above, but I didn’t see it until Thoreau pointed it out.
Thoreau, like many Facebook users, was a deeply social man. His words in reference to mainstream America (albeit written in a non-social-media permeated era) are spot on for me to digest as I resign my account. He believed that a lifestyle pursuit of success and wealth (which is, let’s just be honest, most Facebook posts) paradoxically cheapens the lives of those engaged in living such way:
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.”
I don't miss seeing the overuse of the word “amazing” to describe everyday activities and personalities. I don't miss the rants that have yet to convince me to change my political views (and in some cases, I don’t miss the “friends” who so loudly engage in the ensuing argument.) I don't miss the boasts, the parties to which I was not invited, the (horrifically unfortunate glorification of) ghetto gestures and lingo or the constant measuring-up of this unending masked soiree. Instead, I'm enjoying the time after the party ends, as the masks come off and partygoers exit the public gathering and return to their private lives, ploughing through the quiet desperation of a complicated, fully lived life.
I thought I would miss seeing the photos. However, it turns out that my friends still have my phone number, and they text me what they need me to see. For instance, last night, a friend sent a photo of her grandson, whom she has been raising as the forced result of her adult daughter's choices. In it, a tiny boy is captured mid-skip and laughing as his new adopted family, Mom, Dad, big brother and sister, lift him swinging along a pier in picturesque Whidbey Island, WA. It’s one of the most beautiful family portraits I’ve ever seen, everybody’s attention focused on the new “baby” of the family.
It is the resignation of the quiet desperation of his lovely Grandmother, my longtime sans-quotes friend, and I'm pretty sure she didn't share it on Facebook. I'm honored that she's shared it with me.
“I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.” ― Rainer Maria Rilke.
Christine Gacharná is a freelance writer and photographer who had to impose on Bob Sullivan to publish these thoughts seeings as he's still got Facebook friends to share it with. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and two teenagers, and is thoroughly enjoying a delicious Facebook-free life. She blogs at http://christinegacharna.com/blog/