Like many of you reading this, I’m a millennial—arriving late to the party that was the 1990s, but nonetheless strongly aligned with and acceptive of the culture of the time. As a toddler, I could recite more Backstreet Boys songs than Barney, had navigated the world of online gaming before kindergarten, and knew the ins and outs of my parents’ flip phones better than they ever could. In the third grade, strong belt loops were necessary for holding my cluster of Tamagotchis together, and my ten-year-old wardrobe was incomplete without a pair of the liability that was Heelys. I was, likewise, the first of my friends to carry a cellphone, a fact that later prompted my waiting up on Cyber Monday to ensure a similar fate with the original iPod Touch. Middle school found me at my peak: wrists hidden under a tangle of Silly Bandz and a “text game” punctuated beautifully with emojis and (purposely) misspelled words. For better or worse, I was far too ahead of my time, and there was no slowing for anyone without the iconically crooked bangs I so proudly sported.

Then along came social media.

Initially, I didn’t take to the Facebook trend; the concept of networking, and permanence at that, was beyond me. Why broadcast the intimate details of your prepubescent life to your 800+ “friends” when the few who mattered were almost always at true poking distance? And what was FarmVille? Needless to say, my deep indignation toward the social media craze failed the test of middle school modernity, and I fell victim to a less public “IT’S COMPLICATED” relationship status with it. We’ve been on and off for six years now. It’s in this time, however, that I’ve had the opportunity to examine my motives, challenge what it is I’m looking for. And while the easy answer blatantly calls for a boycott, my takedown methods are never that straightforward. I guess you could say the future of social media lies in limbo (and the only thing left to do is continue reading).

Seventh grade. With Facebook erupting on the scene, trips to the mall were suddenly less about Abercrombie & Fitch than they were Apple, and I doubt the company ever saw so many sets of braces than they did in that time. The mission was straightforward enough and always the same: find an unoccupied iMac. Once a computer was secured, my frenzied peers would huddle together under its pixelated glow, wasting hours on PhotoBooth group selfies. The process of taking, weeding through, and uploading pictures was exhausting to watch, and I wondered what had first made it seem so desirable. I’d heard the advent of the duck face was promised to skyrocket one’s “likes” on a profile picture—but why? Since when have we ever strayed to show interest in those outside our immediate groups? Was this Facebook thing an honest attempt to force relationships we wouldn’t ordinarily pursue, or had we just grown bored of those few we saw regularly? It was there, in the Apple store, that I grew most concerned for my solidified (and perfected) role as a spectator. At the end of the day, it seemed, inclusion was nothing without the ability to tag and be tagged. C'est la vie.

My preparation for high school was coupled with the widespread use of Twitter. With the world of microblogging ultimately resting on the back of a small blue bird, I grew wary of its success comparable to that of Facebook’s, but was nonetheless proved out of touch. Unlike the case of its predecessor, Twitter made it socially acceptable to post an unnecessary number of times throughout the day. It was the breeding ground for those who wanted to be heard but had nothing to say. Whether these tweets consisted of small talk, some cryptic quote, or a play-by-play (“LIVE-TWEETING”) was up to the user. I couldn’t care either way, and I doubted anyone else did too. My personal favorite was “SUBTWEETING,” or indirectly calling out someone without mention of their name. It was an art form, really, being able to secretly talk about someone behind their back while making sure that said person knew they were being targeted.

Sensible? Not in the slightest.

Savage? Just a tad.

Safe? Oh absolutely, you and Twitter’s 307 million other users are basically sworn to secrecy.

Twitter’s true catch, however, lied within its 140-character limit. Around the time of the network's inception, it was scientifically proven that people stopped caring about your life after two lines of text, so this was just the easiest way to break it to everyone. But if people cared so little about what others were thinking, why was I being ostracized for not taking to the Internet with every mood swing and cat picture? My social graces became nothing without a clever handle or knowledge of trending topics and popular hashtags. The digitization of my friends’ lives outside of school had left me in cyberspace, orbiting without a cause. And showing my affirmation for something with the verbal “retweet” was apparently on par to sticking my nose in the air and tripping. Still, these networks were changing me—I condemned the use of social media on all fronts, yet desperately made passes that warranted recognition. People noticed and thumbs went to work. As the girl who once “followed” no one but herself, my dethroning ceremony was well underway. (Plus, it was hard to tell someone to “@ ME NEXT TIME” when I couldn’t provide them any way to do so).

Instagram couldn’t have come at a more perfect time, and it absolutely revolutionized the game. This was it, folks. For those who grew bored scrolling through status updates and refueling on celebrity gossip, Insta—as it’s become affectionately referred to—planted its roots in the purely visual. It hit me like one of those “NO ASSEMBLY REQUIRED!” gimmicks you hear all over infomercials: “NO READING REQUIRED, JUST OPEN YOUR EYES AND SEE HOW QUICKLY YOUR LIFE PALES NEXT TO MINE!” Yet despite having declared the War on Social Media three years prior, I was tempted in the slightest. What was it about Instagram that stood out against the backdrop of previous networking outlets?

1. A picture’s worth a thousand emojis.

Given our apparent lack of ability to communicate, the founders of Instagram hit it home with this photos-only business. They found, interestingly, that what took to the tongues of high school students was the language of aesthetics. How visually pleasing could one get? With the help of oddly-named filters, a few brightly colored walls, and a touch of minimalism, fluency rates soared. It was a graduation requirement in and of itself to be able to show others how truly #flawless you were at all times. (That and knowing the Pythagorean Theorem).

2. Crafting that “feed.”

Perhaps it was the idea of the personalized “feed,” which has come to read more or less like a timeline. On a single mobile page, your activities, accomplishments, and açaí bowls were compartmentalized into location-marked boxes for the public’s enjoyment. It was the New[est] Testament to how well you lived: low-qual pictures, low-qual life.

3. The “followers,” because Jesus wasn’t the only one with a fan base.

Rather than have a set number of “friends,” Instagram implemented separate “followers” and “following” columns to further the self-esteem deficiency. The properties of high school math held that one’s number of followers must always exceed that of the following. Desperation doesn’t have a flattering angle, even on the Internet.

4. Good ol’ fashioned popularity.

As if the bleakness of a high school hallway weren’t enough, Instagrammers had an online social agenda to attend to when they got home. The seat you took at the table of social hierarchy wasn’t necessarily the one you kept. Status had transcended the digital boundary, making for a reputation you fought to maintain. Popularity was a lifestyle, and it required you live it to the fullest. Your queen bee crown, for one, was nothing without a killer feed, and that alternative attitude had no backing if there wasn’t outside evidence. With everything up in the air, Insta was more or less the equivalent to musical chairs—and while not everyone fits into the party scene, we all love a good party game.

By junior year, Instagram had truly taken off. The following fall, it had rendered Facebook irrelevant with the exception of organizing extracurriculars, broadcasting college acceptances, and starting up the annually-dreaded prom page. Yet what I found to be the kicker was the fact that it engulfed all previous social media platforms. Since 2013, Instagrammers have been equipped with the ability to connect their accounts to Facebook and Twitter—the reason your friends now have the pleasure of seeing you on an inflatable pool float three different times. But in all seriousness, Instagram skyrocketed to prominence by way of capitalizing on its users and redefining social media. The basis on which we built these original global communities was eroding, rapidly undermined by a compulsive need for affirmation everyone could cling to. Narcissism fell in place of networking, and we all seemed to lean in favor of the self-prophetic route. Who didn't want the opportunity to redefine how others looked at us, to appeal to a group of socialites we otherwise wouldn't have access to? In building its empire on the insecurities we collectively harbor, social media has sought to it that we compensate by being self-absorbed. The result today is disheartening. Trends such as Selfie Sunday and Transformation Tuesday keep us on track to becoming the stars of our own reality shows—and should we waiver from said identity, the outpouring of instantaneous feedback sucks us back in. Vanity is but the latest filter of choice, and its claim to fame is distortion.

Graduation came and I caved; with the turn of a tassel came the turning over of a new leaf. The parasitic apps I’d once fought so stoically against had found a place of cultivation in my phone, eating at both my data and my pride. I initially brushed it off as a “curiosity killed the cat” phenomenon, yet only seven months later, that cat has my tongue.

So to all of you tangled up with that special digital demon of yours tonight, I’m calling not for a boycott, but a break. A cease fire. A timeout, because it takes time to realize what it is we’re doing to ourselves and our characters. Because there are advantages to staying connected that we can’t risk losing. Because I regret more than anything my decision to “log on,” but nevertheless appreciate the insight I’ve gained. And while the knowledge we’ll once again reunite with our star-crossed obsessions makes it tricker to tango with, it’s a risk I’m hoping you’re all willing to take. Seeing as we’ve relied on these networks for so long, let’s give them the chance to propel us to better places. Let’s return to them after some time with fresher faces than any effect could ever give us.