Last Thursday, I attended a training session entitled ‘Digital Health Workshop’. As I stood in the centre of my ‘digital wellbeing landscape’ (mapped out in masking tape on the floor of 4E), I was asked to describe my personal journey in relation to the most popular social networking site of the moment – the mighty Facebook.
My Facebook experience began during the third year of university. Despite initially resisting the blue and white monarch of the social networking world, I inevitably gave in and within hours was convinced that Facebook was, in fact, the most amazing phenomenon ever created. Suddenly, in one digital space it was possible to find people I hadn’t seen in years – decades, even. From friends at infant school to people I’d been to Brownies with, everyone was there, each managing their own digital personality through photo albums, profiles, applications, groups and events. ‘What an amazing way to procrastinate’ I thought, as I hopped from profile to profile and ended up looking at generic photos of people I don’t even know dressed in fancy dress and downing ominous-looking pints in their university bars.
For a while – two years in fact - I thought Facebook was great. I used it for many constructive things including organising a large school reunion, planning countless birthday parties, sponsoring friends for charitable deeds and sharing hundreds and hundreds of photos. However, as I’ve found with many situations, all good things inevitably come to an end.
I’m not sure exactly when my frustration started. Maybe it was when I started receiving ‘Which zombie are you?’ requests. Or maybe it was when people starting trying to give me a virtual fish to put into a virtual tank. It could have been the ‘What’s your stripper name?’ application, or perhaps it was the ‘Which Disney princess are you?’ questionnaire. Whichever it was, there was a definite transitional point when aspects of Facebook shifted from being useful and practical to marginally annoying. Not least when I realised that these so-called ‘applications’ are actually a handy way of Facebook selling your details onto other companies. All cunningly disguised as a ‘Let’s play poker’ request.
Many of my spare moments became filled with a barrage of Facebook-related tasks – replying to wall posts, reading private messages, browsing newsfeeds, looking up ex boyfriends (we’ve all done it) and trying to decipher from blurred photos whether I actually knew the person claiming to be my ‘friend’. I found that instead of doing something interesting like reading a book or learning to cook (I’m a really bad cook), or simply just chatting to my family, I was trailing from profile to profile looking at what everyone ELSE was doing.
So I left. And was deeply amused when Facebook even asked me why I’d chosen to deactivate my profile. I was offered various reasons, including ‘I spend too much time on Facebook’ and ‘Facebook is a social disaster for me’. I ticked the latter. As if to prove my point, within 24 hours I received four or five texts from alarmed friends saying either ‘I’ve noticed we’re no longer friends on Facebook – what have I done wrong?’ or ‘Hats your profile has disappeared – what’s happened – is everything ok?’ Perhaps the most unbelievable question was ‘How are we going to keep in touch now?’ It seemed that these friends felt quite calm when they didn’t see me in person for two years, but when my online persona vanished for 24 hours they were suddenly about to dial 999.
As I reached the end of this story during my digital training session, I walked to the top left hand corner of my ‘digital wellbeing landscape’. This area of the graph represented ‘I do not use Facebook’ and ‘I am very happy’. Please don’t get me wrong – I’d be the first to agree that Facebook certainly has many fantastic uses. But I suppose at the end of the day, instead of superpoking my friends or throwing a sheep at them, I’d rather just go for a pint and give them a hug. And I don’t mean a virtual hug, either. Marquis, anyone?
Hatty Day
