About once a day, I wonder about the ways I've probably broken my brain. Something happens after you pass age 25 that makes every hangover feel like a threat, like your head feels physically lighter from the brain cells you've just willfully and joyfully thrown away. And lately, I have this recurring nightmare where the only phrases I can speak are things I've read on Instagram. "TFW IT'S MONDAY!!! YOU ABSOLUTELY HATE TO SEE IT!!!" my brain will screech at me when I see someone bump into a subway turnstile without swiping first.
But at the end of May, a friend let me in on the secret cure she'd discovered to help fix her own, similarly broken brain: She deleted Instagram. She said it hadn't been easy—six months in, she still tapped the phantom spot on her phone where the app's icon once sat—but she was much happier. Without the constant stimulation of Instagram's overblown colors and snappy captions, her mind felt clearer, less crowded. I was jealous of her elevated state of being—I wanted to feel less fried, too. So I decided to do the same thing.
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