I am in Facebook Jail. I don’t actually know what Facebook Prison is, but I’m in it.

I feel a little like Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke,” stuck in his little cell, except I don’t look like Paul Newman. I look like the love child between Danny Partridge and Eleanor Roosevelt.

It’s hard being in jail. Namely, because I don’t truly know WHY I’m in Facebook’s correctional facility. Rehabilitation? Penalization?

It all started when I began receiving emails from people saying, “We can’t find you on Facebook anymore!” “Your posts are blocked!” “Are you dead, Sean?!”

So I had to ask my wife.

“Honey?” I said. “Am I dead?”

My wife touched my hand warmly. “Don’t be embarrassed, it happens to a lot of guys.”

So I’m in jail. I have pissed off the Facebook authorities for the last time.

I was put in Facebook Prison after writing openly about imposters on Facebook. These scammers claim to be me. The scammers have gone unmonitored for a long time and stolen money from innocent people.

The bot-imposters leave comments on each of my posts. The titles of their accounts look official, such as, “Sean Dietrich Direct Chat Page,” or “Sean of the South Official Fan Page” or “Sean Dietrich Only with a Much Tighter Body Page.”

The impostors reach out to anyone who comments on Facebook posts. Some innocent users fall for the bait. Users think they’re talking to Authentic Me—except this new version of me lives in Nigeria and speaks broken English.

Still, these imposters are sneaky. They offer to sell tickets to my performances at the Grand Ole Opry, at an exorbitant fee. They offer unlimited backstage access, a free limousine ride, complimentary back rubs, etc. The imposters then take the victim’s money.

Oftentimes, bots will strike up online relationships with Facebook users. Last week, I was contacted by four victims who ALL HAD LONG TERM EMAIL RELATIONSHIPS WITH PEOPLE CLAIMING TO BE SEAN OF THE SOUTH.

One woman says—I am not making this up—she was ready to elope with Sean of the South. Which is how you know things are out of control. Namely, because no member of the opposite sex has ever threatened elope with me inasmuch as I do not empty the dishwasher when told.

So I wrote a column about Facebook imposters, warning friends, family, and most importantly, my mother. The last thing I wanted was a Nigerian man showing up at my mother’s family Christmas claiming to be me. That would have been awkward. (Who gets to carve the turkey?)

Facebook did not like my post. They labeled my writing as hate speech. They penalized me for criticizing them. They threw me in jail. Maybe they cancelled my account. I don’t know.

Either way, for now the fun is over.

The thing about Facebook is, they don’t tell you how long your sentence lasts. Or whether you’ll get the top bunk, or complimentary cigarettes to swap with other inmates for prison tender.

But here I am. Locked in a social media penitentiary. It’s unfair. The food is awful. The cell bunk smells like kitty litter. And the new uniform bunches up in your crack.

It’s sad, really. I spent fifteen years on Facebook. I got my start on Facebook. I was a dropout, an adult college student, a bar musician, a construction worker, with no prospects.

After over a decade I’ve written nearly 4,500 columns on Facebook. I’ve written from Europe, Canada, Mexico, and even Jasper, Alabama.

My whole world has been altered by people I’ve met on the platform. I have met and written about throngs of children with terminal cancer. I have been fortunate enough to meet thousands who experienced the suicide of a loved one, just like me. I gained a Goddaughter. I have hugged Helen Taylor Andrews’ neck.

But I cannot continue to allow people I love to get swindled by fakes. Not good people. Not readers who have been with me for 11 years.

So believe me, I don’t want to leave Facebook. But since they won’t let me out of this cell… I guess this is goodbye.

I don’t blame Facebook. Really. I think what we’ve got here is failure to communicate.