You know your crazy is on full blast when your father has to text you to make sure your social media activity isn’t the result of recent head trauma. Not that I could blame my dad for voicing his concern: moments earlier and in the most dramatic of fashions, I announced to my Twitter followers that I was “done with this shit,” or something mature like that. Then I deleted my Twitter account and waited for attention to wash over me like so many waves of validation.

My then-boyfriend Max, also known as the catalyst for my social media meltdown, followed my dad’s lead and soon texted me, “What’s going on?” Instead of telling him the truth — “You may or may not have been Twitter-flirting (again) with some random girl neither of us know (again), and I’m sick of it (again)” — I cranked the crazy up to eleventy-thousand and wrote back, “Nothing. Twitter’s just a waste of my time.”

Where was this freak out coming from? I didn’t know. I’d always had a jealous streak, but I knew those feelings were mostly unfounded and definitely unattractive — I tried hard to keep my green nature in check, or at least on the down low. That is, until I decided on a whim that I’d rather own the fuck out of it and go full-out Amanda Bynes on my unsuspecting Twitter followers. I hadn’t given a second thought to deleting my account — even though I’d spent two years using it to build an audience for my work. And with one click, it was gone. All because I’d very suddenly lost control. All because of NuvaRing.