addict.

I'll admit: I was a Facebook addict.

It consumed me. I came home from school, flipped on the Internet, opened it up, responded to friend requests, wall posts, inbox messages and the like, surfed the most recent pictures, and stalked old friends.

I found myself thinking, "If I just outline ten more pages in my government book, I'll let myself go on Facebook for fifteen minutes."

An hour did not go by when I wasn't checking my account for new updates.

And then, when nine o'clock came 'round, it was like prime time! (If you don't already know, nine to ten is roughly the time that everyone worth knowing is on Facebook.)

I think I found a certain pride in the fact that I usually had over 100 friends of my 1,000 online at the same time each night.

I know there are others like me. Don't try and hide. I have some of you as my friends. You subconsciously gravitate toward computers, type in "facebook.com", and begin living your second life. Updating your status, writing back to people you never talk to in-person, etc. The story's the same for everyone.

(Perhaps I should start a program: "Facebook Addicts Anonymous: A place for you and your friends. Your real friends. The ones who care enough about you to interact with you in person. In real life. In real time.")

I was right there with you.

And then one day, I just stopped.

Ash Wednesday came around, and this addict began realizing that she really did spend too much time on there. And it wasn't even time well-spent. I was stalking people. Snooping around. Figuring out who knows whom, and who's the biggest party-er.

It was pointless. All this time and effort for nothing. I never got anything back. It was just this empty black hole, this bottomless pit.

So I gave it up for Lent. I came to the hopeful conclusion that the proceeding forty days would be productive. The roughly two hours per night I spent on Facebook would be put towards something else more meaningful: sleep, blogging, talking to people on the phone, learning to play the guitar, etc.

And I have to say that these past forty days have been incredibly productive. But more surprisingly, I've learned several lessons:

1. Conversing audibly with individuals via the telephone is quite exciting and effective. Real laughing is more fulfilling than the "haha" or "lol" typically offered for witty interjections.

2. Going to bed before 11:30 PM every night makes you feel so much better in the morning. Staying up till 1:00 AM talking to people through a screen isn't worth the sleep you miss.

3. There is life beyond social networking. In fact, there are real people out there for you to get to know on a deeper level than what they post about themselves in their "Info" section. On top of that, you already have friends in real life, there's no need to aimlessly search for more (as the cartoon below satirizes).

Most importantly, however, I feel like I've learned something about my generation:

The development of the Internet, cyberspace, and online social network sites in general has created in my generation the acute desire to inform others of how we are feeling.

We have a need to be known.

For the first few weeks of Facebook-less-ness, after singing a song or making some snarky comment, I found myself thinking, "Oh! I can't wait to get home and make that my 'status!'" Moments later, I'd remember that I didn't exactly have a Facebook anymore. Such a status update was virtually impossible, and, as I began to learn, slightly ridiculous.

In times like these, I found myself questioning the motives behind updating my status. And all I found was this need to let others know how I was feeling.

But why? For what? Why don't I just tell someone how I'm feeling? Why post it on the Internet? So that I can get the most comments on my status? So I can make people feel bad for me?

It's stupid, right? What ever happened to actually caring enough for people to notice when they're down, and then talking to them about it? It's like we're too busy to care, but because we all still have needs, we resort to broadcasting them online for all our "friends" to see.

So now, with Easter and Lent behind me, I find myself incredibly hesitant to "reactivate" my account. I know I'll go straight back to stalking people, catching up on what I missed, staying up late "messaging." And I don't want to waste my life that way.

Perhaps I'll resume activity as the infamous event known as The Exchange rolls around. Or perhaps I'll reactivate it when I move off to college. I'm not sure.

All I know is that I've had the most productive, exciting, enjoyable past forty days of my life. And conversing with people, sans screen, is priceless.

And I wouldn't trade that for anything.