On Facebook suicide:

I’ll admit it—I’m a complete and utter Facebook deactivator. And not even once; not even twice. I am a regular deleter and I can’t kick the habit. But facebook suicide doesn’t quite capture it. I’m routinely in purgatory, floating between the living and dead, but always fully aware of what each side would mean.

Much like the author, the deactivation occurs at the end of particularly active facebooking. Did I go to bed crying because of an ex-boyfriend’s wall-to-wall? Can I not go to class before changing my profile picture? These are the signs. The signs of an addict. But so what?

Facebook isn’t about me, or I, or Rebecca Peterson. Facebook is about everybody else who uses the site. I am only anal and self conscious in response to the scrutiny I routinely give other people’s profiles. I am only a facebook user because I care.

Some of my “friends” provide a connection to the past. I can’t bear to let go.
Some of my “friends” are a connection to the future—the people I can potentially get to know. The inside joke status update I can potentially be in on. The music that could be shared with me, the quotes that can be quoted to me, and the people that can mean something to me.

I’ve made friends in real life because of facebook. I’ve discovered my interest in past lovers through facebook stalking, and caught up with old friends through chat.
These moments are gratifying, to say the least.

But it’s when I’m pressing refresh, waiting for that profound development, that I have to stop and think about the healthiness of this all.

And when the day comes that I once again deactivate my profile, I know it can be reactivated. I can go back. I can always go back.