All that’s left is my cover photo and my profile picture (didn’t want to completely delete the account yet, since it’s such a big form of communication with those around me). I spent the entire weekend deleting everything else. After backing up all of this information (didn’t want to regret not saving something first), it was time to start deleting. I had to turn on my old Mac mini, download the Chrome browser, download Social Book Post Manager, a Chrome extension that let’s me meticulously go through every detail and decide what to do with it.
Everything from each post that I shared, to every post that I’ve ever liked, to every Spotify song that I listened to, and anything else that appeared in my activity log. I was actually shocked by how much information it actually had on me. It’s not like I didn’t already know, but seeing it in front of me was painful.
It doesn’t just disappear when you choose what to delete. It blinks past you, hundreds of items, as it’s deleting them—a less intense version of life flashing before your eyes. Kids growing up, grandmas pictures, ex girlfriend’s, it was all there, flickering through the deletion process.
It was all bittersweet: sad to see it go, but exciting to remove my information from the platform. I kept reminding myself that Facebook isn’t those memories. I still have the memories. Facebook was only holding them hostage.
Every month is a blank canvas