The week before Easter, my writing buddy and possible catfish, Dave Connis, suggested we disconnect from the two most time-consuming social media platforms: Twitter and Facebook. We did it for different reasons, had different experiences, and decided on different strategies moving forward. Here’s my side.

I probably check Twitter two hundred times a day with one overriding purpose: validation. Could be a new follower, a “heart” on something (supposedly) hilarious I said, or a mention—anything to let me know what I so desperately hoped to be true: that I am awesome. That I am funny, desired, sought after. That what I am doing with this whole writing thing matters and makes me important. Validation.

But I wondered: if Twitter could do that, why wasn’t it actually doing that for longer than 10 seconds? Meaning: Why did the small bits of validation which resulted from my perpetual Twitter checking not result in any long term validation—a peace, or sorts? More worrisome was this question: Why did I actually feel more anxious the more I was on Twitter? I realized these are all good questions for my therapist, but they were more important questions to directly ask myself. Maybe they’re important questions to ask yourself too. I’m sure the answers will differ, as you and I probably struggle with different strains of whatever this is, but it might help to expose some underlying issue. For me that issue was a deep and abiding insecurity I hoped Twitter would abate, but which it in fact exacerbated. So I decided to take a break.

It was almost as if my soul was craving to be starved from Twitter, which might not actually make any sense. But it’s true: the relief was undeniable. It rushed in immediately when I deleted the app from my phone and grew over the next ten days. Yeah, I felt unconnected, but within a day I realized that the connection didn’t really matter for the overarching narrative of my life. I’m not saying Twitter is inconsequential—though it’s fo shizzle less consequential than we’re all making it. I’m saying that the place it had in my life was suddenly exposed to be unimportant. More specifically, the fast exposed Twitter as an obstacle to real peace. My anxiety over how funny/awesome/likable people think I am dropped significantly. I no longer wasted valuable mental space crafting (supposedly) clever tweets whose reception I later agonized over. My phone competed far less with the attention of things that actually mattered, things I was taking for granted. I Snapchatted a lot more.

Avoiding Facebook gave me another type of relief: a break from my cringingly shameful condescension. While fasting, I couldn’t fall into my default mode of “judge the crap out of pretty much everybody” for posting things that I’d never post out of fear people would judge the crap out of me. That is to say: I was unable to project my natural insecurities onto others because I wasn’t giving the worst version of myself repeated opportunities to do so. And yes, I missed out on some cool stuff that probably happened (like a bagillion people wishing me happy birthday), but to be completely honest, I didn’t feel like I missed a thing. I felt free. 

I can’t avoid Twitter or Facebook forever, and I don’t think I should; actually, I’m not legally allowed to according to a strict reading of my publishing contract. I also can’t dismiss the great things the platforms bring: without Twitter, I’d never have met Dave. Yes, he's probably a forty-eight-year-old Norwegian expat having a hilarious time catfishing me from his basement apartment in Denver, but the friendship has given us a space to share the ups and downs of an industry that is, at times, the very definition of soul crushing. I rely on that, and I have it because of Twitter. 

My plan is modest: to check in on social media once a day, for no longer than it would take a moderately in shape person to run a mile. Eight minutes, say. Maybe nine. I’m sure this will ebb and flow as life happens, but it’s a good start for me. I just can’t continue on like I was because the fast proved something deeply convicting: that which I seek to make me whole often leaves me a little more hollow. 

And with that, I’m off to binge DareDevil Season 2 on Netlfix.