The art of erasing yourself 😶
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My relationship with Facebook is complicated. I want desperately to quit, but I can’t. For all its threats to democracy and problems with privacy, it is still essential to certain parts of my life. Managing social media at work, participating in budgeting and houseplant and writing groups, organizing events and keeping up with local politics, monitoring my dad’s right wing memes. This was Facebook's plan the whole time, and it worked.
And so, instead of outright deletion, I draw clear boundaries. I removed the Facebook app from my phone years ago. I very rarely post my own status updates. And I am slowly, day by day, erasing my entire Facebook history.
How does this erasure work? Each morning I log onto Facebook via my laptop, navigate to the “Memories” tab, and click. Here, I'm taken to a feed of all my updates from that particular day in time, going back at least twelve years. I read each post and look at each photo and then, one by one, I delete them. I’ve been doing this for so long that soon, when I click on the Memories tab, nothing will be there.
From the age of twelve until the age of eighteen, I meticulously kept a journal. Every day, I would recount what happened in school, what the boy I liked was wearing, the number one song on MTV’s Total Request Live. Then I went to college and left my journals behind. I started a weblog and began recording my life digitally, except now I had a (tiny) audience. This changed what I wrote and how I presented myself, which is a newsletter for another day, but still: I felt the need to document my life, to share it with others, to keep a record.
For a while, Facebook updates were another record, another impulse to document, share, record. The difference is that, while my journals are locked in my parents attic and my blogs are shut down, my Facebook memories continue to resurface, a constant reminder of a life that no longer exists. Plus a lot of what I felt moved to share is just, well, dumb.
When I was a teenager and even in my 20s, I thought it was important to preserve every scrap of myself. I couldn't imagine how much I would change over the decades, how little I would need those souvenirs. Now, I feel the complete opposite - I'm not interested in my history, or who I used to be. I don't want to look at photo albums, or thumb through old ticket stubs, or read the yellow pages of my middle school journal. I only care about now, about next.
Is this healthy? Is it normal? Will I wake up one day and regret all the memories I deleted? Will I need those updates for an archive or a project or a reminder? It's possible, but doubtful. After all, those updates aren't the real me. They're the version I presented to an audience, the face I chose to show. They're a false memory, and I can't imagine I'm losing too much by letting them go. 💛
🍠 Snack of the Week 🍠
My husband is now a full time PA student and lives three hours away during the week, which means my dinners have been... lackluster, to say the least. This riced cauliflower bowl from Trader Joe's makes an appearance at least once a week, and while it is delicious, it's a habit I'm trying to break. (Plastic! Microwavable! Kind of sad!) If you have any recommendations for healthy and fast vegetarian recipes for one, please send them along.
Relatable Reads
The Controversy Over the New Immigration Novel, American Dirt, Explained, Vox. Literary Twitter was up in arms this week, and with good reason. This article does a great job of breaking down the issue, including who gets to tell what stories, why certain people get a platform and others don't, and why barbed wire center pieces are never a good idea. 🙅🏽♀️
Millennials Love Zillow Because They'll Never Own a Home, OneZero. I bought my first house at the tender age of 36, so I spent many years feeling everything this article so aptly describes. 🏡
When Buying in Bulk Is A Mistake, New York Magazine. "In my early 20s, I bought a 300-count box of dryer sheets at Costco. The first problem with the box was that it caused me to contemplate my mortality: The box was going to last me six years, which meant I’d probably only ever need to buy nine more such boxes, and then I would be dead." 📦
A Tiny Challenge
Is there something you're holding on to out of habit? This week, set yourself free, whether that means deleting, discarding, or donating. Make room for someone new.
See you next Sunday! 💌
Thanks to Sarah K. and Sandra L. for your generous support!
I promise to never delete this newsletter.
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