I released myself from my Instagram. And it felt like I threw all my disappointments and hurt into a flowing river and watched them get carried away never to return.

Of course, this isn’t exactly the case. Disappointments and hurt are always a thing. But it feels good to no longer be running a community service for people who really don’t care if you’re happy, sad, or dying in real life.

As most of you might know, I was never really on IG for myself. I was never drawn to it to post about my personal life for absolute strangers all over the world to see and know all about me. Or to be envied, or attract attention, or lusted after, or to make my life seem better than it is. I ran my IG like a travel page, with a sprinkle of social activism and awareness, and a dash of encouragement and thought-provocation. And what did I expect to receive in return? Well, I guess I can’t say nothing since I already admitted to being disappointed. But my expectations were low and general. I simply expected everyone to be a human being–open-minded, compassionate, and if I was lucky, aware. And as each day passed, I realised more and more how detached I am from my peers in my evidently “outrageous” expectations for us as coexistent beings.

I actively toggled with the discrepancy for two years.

Then, I finally let it go. I decided I had had enough of trying to wedge myself into a society where I, with my aversion of vanity and materialism, my awareness that there are more important things than pop culture and earning money, and my propensity to be deeply affected by things outside of myself, obviously did not belong.

Follower counts and likes mean nothing when the road gets dark and you need someone else to bring you some light. Flattering comments and empty compliments don’t matter when your heart is broken into a million pieces and you can’t get out of bed for work every day because the broken pieces have carved an emptiness in you that sits on your chest like a boulder.

I hate to admit it, but my Instagram page made me feel like I was cared for a lot more than I really am, and that’s not because I had lots of followers. I felt valued because of the amount of people who have come to me to thank me for my posts and presence. I had been told in so many ways, at so many unexpected times, and in so many unexpected ways that my page had inspired people, taught people, helped people, and given people a chance to see things they would otherwise never get a chance to see.

Those sentiments, the nonpublic ones, are what kept me going. Even, no, especially when I never got the same in return.

I’ve written before about my Life of Purpose, how I feel I am here to give of myself selflessly, and my IG was a reflection of that. I didn’t mind being the community shelter, and found ways to work around the fact that 99% of the things on IG are things I really don’t care to see. (Log in. Post. Log out.) I struggled almost every day to guard my energy in a place where there are no boundaries and no ways to filter yourself from low vibrational things or those that go against your truth. I wasn’t always successful, and often found myself upset after stumbling upon something disappointing or heartbreaking, but I stuck to it because I felt I was needed. My page, I was often told, was a breath of fresh air.

But alas, your value decreases when you have nothing more to offer. Isn’t it so?

I quickly learned that when bad times come marching in, everyone goes marching out. I quickly learned that people only want to be a part of your good times, and have nothing to offer but their backs when things get hard. Family, friends, and strangers alike have made themselves invisible as I try to find back some sense of normalcy in my life. No words of comfort. No shoulder to cry on. No helping hand. Just a deafening silence.

Who knew silence could be so loud?

That silence took me through the deletion of my IG, the launching of this website, and has penetrated my subconscious thoughts for a month. I always try to figure out what it is about my expectations for my close relationships that always leaves me feeling so disappointed. Am I asking for too much? Surely it can’t be that every person thinks during times of pain the best thing to do is nothing. The best thing to say is nothing. How can that be when we are creatures of coexistence? How can that be when we live in a polygamous society? What, then, would be the point of building relationships with others?

Somewhere along the lines, detachment became the prevailing human state.

I hope one day soon I will find a place to put myself where I’ll no longer have to experience the loneliness I’ve felt during these past few weeks from the people to whom I’ve given so much of myself. And maybe that means choosing solitude. I’ve come to love myself enough to where that’s a viable option.

In the meanwhile, the shock and denial portion of the grieving process has dissipated and is now replaced by an inexplicably painful emptiness that’s gaping from the inside out. I can’t even begin to describe what I am feeling; but it’s crippling and pervasive. It’s in my face. It’s in my eyes. It’s in my smile. It’s in the way I walk, the way I look at the world, the things I say. It’s in my energy, my being.

I’ve lately cried the most painful, loud, and passionate cries in my lonesome. I’ve seen myself through all of my hard times in life, and this one will be no different.

Perhaps my solitude, my absence from society, is the best thing I can give both to myself and to you guys as I try to figure out how to move on from this tragedy. Because right now, the only thing I really want to do with my life is figure out how to pay my dues to the most highs so I can hurry up and get the hell off this planet.