A Compulsion Story with a Clown Car

Letting Twitter and Facebook go was harder than I thought it would be. Point of fact, my using and reading had become a compulsion. I thought if I just kept on top of things they wouldn’t spin out of control.

By “on top” I mean trolling and shaming Newt Gingrich, Donald Trump, tweet-bellowing at Texas Governor and turdblossom Greg Abbott. Never mind that they and other Swamp denizens wear their wretchedness like shame-proof Kevlar.

The dumb old clown car of 2016 life just kept on rolling, and speak of wretched, I was. I’m an easy crier, but it leaves my eyes a mess. Gritty, sore, and damn any light over .5 watts. Every other day, my psyche was in full Chernobyl, and my eyes were like little round gravel vampires living in my face.

I yanked the clown car off the road. I deactivated my Twitter and Facebook accounts, and had my wonderful husband change the passwords. Facebook accounts never really go away unless you delete them, but Twitter flatlines after a month.

When you go through the process of deactivating Facebook, it tries to keep you. It pops up the people you interact with most often (it showed me my friends with babies and toddlers), and says, “They’ll miss you.” Oh damn, Facebook, did you just play with my feelings?

I chose “other” as my reason for leaving, because it’s the only option that doesn’t toss a solution at you like a well-meaning person that is about to get yelled at for not accepting “No, really, for the fifth time I’ve got this,” in a high C through locked teeth for an answer.

Then, Facebook insisted I had to put words in the box next to “other.” I typed, “I’m sad, fuck off,” hit enter, and Facebook let my page go to sleep.

Let’s see how I’m feeling in a week. Considering that the last time I left Twitter cold turkey my blood pressure dropped from “you need medicine” to “hey, lookin’ goooood,” I’m kinda excited. Getting rid of two time sucks ought to be ten times as good for my body as getting rid of one.

That ability to fly could be mere days away.


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