Three things have occurred in the three weeks since I quit Facebook.
1) I've found the time to read books. This week I'm working on David Foster Wallace's Consider the Lobster, and Reginald E. Allen's translation and commentary of Plato's dialogue Parmenides.
2) I write more. Lines and line of as-yet disembodied poetry that I send to myself in text, or that I jot down in the journal from Metropolitan Museum of Art that my sister-in-law gave me for Christmas in 2014. Snips of prose in various documents on my desktop. Transcriptions of my husband's journal notes for blogging and academic papers. This blog.
3) I'm no longer so emotionally lonely or wishing for the emotional support that Facebook somehow seemed to promise but never delivered. One of the most interesting studies on the Facebook loneliness phenomenon came straight out of the Pie Tin. You can find it here. Yes, I still feel under-supported. This is an unforgiving job and an isolating life, and very few people help who aren't somehow compensated by the state for their effort. But I'm no longer sharing carefully selected tidbits from the intimate details of our lives hoping that we'll get more than a "like" or comments that are actually compassionate and affirmative from people who really have no idea what our day-to-day is about.
This morning, when I cracked open my poetry journal to write down the line that's been rattling in my brain since 5:30 a.m.—"I am your three-cornered hat"—the first page fell open. I think this brief entry perfectly explains what life has been like since Mr. PNU's stroke, and apparently I'd figured out some two months before that life in general is exactly this way for all of us.