My husband and I don’t do Twitter. I have a Pinterest account, but no one in our family does the other social media. But for nine or ten years, maybe longer, I was on Facebook. I had over 1600 “friends.” They are actual friends, family, former students, former classmates, artists and writers.

I began phasing out use of my Facebook account early last summer. I nearly deleted my account this winter, but changed my mind at the last moment. I figure most people do that—change their minds. It’s hard to let go. I deactivated my account months ago and I did not exist on FB just now, at least as far as I knew. I had been afraid to check. FB will turn your account back on if you access it, even accidentally. That happened several times a few months ago.

So this is it, folks, I am back to thinking about deleting my account permanently. Or not.

I was fully aware of what I was getting into when I joined. The ads at the side made clear to me that Facebook was selling information. I found promoted stories in my feed every day. During the 2016 election campaign, I found horrible stuff in my feed and told it to go away. It did go away. I am not a good customer for conspiracy theories and wackjob political stories. I verify facts.

So now that everyone is a little hysterical, I can’t help feeling terribly disappointed in those 50 million accounts that were hacked. But my disappointment is not with Facebook—which is only trying to make a buck (or a few billions)—but with users who read the ridiculous trash on Facebook and apparently shared it. Facebook isn’t a site created in order to allow us to communicate with people we like. It was created to make a profit. Those ads on the sides were not a clue? The crazy “promoted” stories didn’t tip people off?

Yes, my schizophrenic relative believes Michelle Obama is a transvestite. Another believes in Obama’s death camps. The “Lock her up!” line was the favorite of many people who seem not to have noticed that their darling Trump has now, genuinely, done all the things we were supposed to lock her up for.

(Remember those crimes that were supposed to make us angry at Hillary?—Wall Street connections, private email servers, questionable charity?—those are Trump stories, my friends. The White House cabinet is stacked with Wall Street people; Trump’s family—I had to define “nepotism” for my seniors last month—members use private email servers in the White House; and only a lout like Trump would use his charity to purchase an enormous portrait for his golf course club house, a portrait of himself.)

I read the news every morning. I know more about what is going on than the latest shooting. I read science stories, political stories, art stories. I double check stories.

I trust (and so can you) any story that is covered by The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian, and NPR. If I want a more conservative slant, I check The Wall Street Journal, The Hill, and The Christian Science Monitor. If I want a more liberal slant, I check Mother Jones or even The Nation. If I don’t want to read opinions, I don’t have to. I can stick to straight news. I can even check the news wire services who supply facts to everyone: the AP and Reuters.

Many of the stories I found on Facebook over the years, including on the pages of people I like, were nonsense—total trash and nonsense, some outright propaganda and a lot of irrational scare tactics. I mostly ignored those stories. Sometimes they made me angry. Sometimes the juxtaposition of someone I liked spouting nonsense disturbed me so much I could barely stand to be on Facebook.

It’s why I left.

However, even if I don’t miss Facebook, I do miss my people.

So there is my problem, or problems: I miss my peeps, I miss the family posts and news of former students, the art and writing news of friends. I miss sharing what I am doing each day. I miss posting news of my posts here on my Facebook page. I’d like to think I might have a book to promote on Facebook some day, and I would like to be able to do it.

Like everyone, I would like to boast about what makes me proud—recent publications, beach finds, grandchildren . . . on Facebook.

It would be ironic, wouldn’t it, if I returned to Facebook just as everyone else leaves?