Last week, Rhik started his long journey to fix his dependence on his phone. This week, he gets real with his problem by painstakingly keeping himself honest.
Is phone addiction a real thing? “It’s not a classical addiction, which typically involves a substance. It’s more of a compulsion.” I’m speaking to Mike Bishop, founder of Summerland Camps, a program of digital detox adventure trips for adolescents.
Bishop believes we will look back on our unregulated screen use the way we regard the indulgent treatment of smoking in the 1930s. He has seen the developmental implications of excessive phone use in young people, but some costs apply to adults too. As examples, he lists negative effects on self-regulation, time management and frustration tolerance (ever been enraged by a video that buffered for longer than five seconds?).
Most clinicians working in this field use cognitive behavioral therapy in their interventions; I think I can borrow some of these principles. The first step is keeping a diary of how I use my phone.
“Any major behavioral change program involves tracking,” explains Bishop. “You have to start writing it down, and develop awareness.”
Monday
Initial observation: my phone is my most intimate object, next to my body all day. It buzzes to get my attention and if a few minutes pass without interruption, I’ll check it anyway. I sleep beside it, reach for it before I’m fully awake. It’s also the last thing I see at night, an ersatz lover.
Here is how I use it: unlock it for a specific task, get distracted by a notification, rabbit hole for a few minutes, then put it down. Remember what I needed to do, pick it up. Get distracted. I presumably repeat this process until I am an old man under a thin blanket, dying of regret.
Tuesday
My favorite thing on my phone: the little dot that indicates I have new messages. It’s like Gatsby’s green light at the end of the dock, the dream of connection. I made a new group of friends last year, and we WhatsApp constantly. We share dating tales, idle thoughts, swap pictures of our hands to judge who’s more dehydrated. We wish each other goodnight like the Waltons. Of all the reasons I pick up my phone 800 times a day, this one gives me a lot of joy. If I do transform my phone behavior, texting will be the bellwether.
Shopping is a problem: while watching TV, I’m also shopping like a crazy person. My online cart is filled with birdseed and calf rollers and cheese plants, and by the time the credits roll I’ve forgotten what I’ve bought. It’s often a nice surprise to open my door and find these items. Every day is Christmas. It’s a surprise to open my bank statements too.
Wednesday
I’m awestruck by the speed my fingers fly between apps. Opening, flicking up, switching, tapping through, circling back. It feels like my mind is made of mercury. It can be frantic too, as if I’m searching for something I lost.
A notification dot feels like being loved. Sometimes I think that more than the new content – a joke, a link, appreciative words from someone who cares – the dot is really what I want.
No notification dot is like no love. More than simple loneliness, I start to doubt whether I exist.
Thursday
When I think about what fascinates me about any kind of social media, I bear some personal responsibility too.
Say I’m watching a video. Not necessarily anything controversial or political; it might be a small otter indicating to a vet that it wants to be stroked. I’ll head straight to the comments, looking to see exactly how a fight breaks out. Not if, how. It’s always brutal. “This behavior is unnatural, the animal is traumatized. Pls take this down” is typical. To which others will respond, “cry about it” or, “shut the F up babies are dying” or, “your wig is on backwards Karen.”
This culture war battleground makes me despair. But deep down, I’m thrilled by it. There’s something compelling about the inevitable bin fire of comments: how awful people are, how we can’t get along, and ruin nice things. I’m deeply troubled by this part of myself, which is in all of us.
Friday
I consult a group of friends about their phone use. Most admit to doomscrolling, checking their phone in the night, waking up tired. “I can’t read a book that doesn’t grab me in 45 seconds. But I find time to watch 45 chihuahua TikToks,” despairs Susan.
Not everyone is wringing their hands. “Phones can be a way of carving out time for yourself, if your day is otherwise scheduled by a boss, or kids,” remarks Kate. One introverted friend finds scrolling a mental reprieve from draining group interactions. It starts a debate around “phubbing” – ignoring people you’re with to spend time on a phone. “Why is it any more rude than reading a book?” asks Kate. “That’s snobbery. Get over yourself.”
Saturday
The urge to check my phone kicks in when I’m between activities, when I wait for the bus, when I’m going to sit on the toilet. I will put off going to the toilet until my stomach cramps, if I can’t find my phone. The idea of being bored for even a few moments is intolerable.
Sunday
This has been a sobering week. I have the very clear sense I’m not really a proper adult. I definitely look younger than my years, and don’t dress for them. But there’s something about the childishness of social media I find mortifying to observe. I spend so much of every day looking at silly videos, or running toward a colorful light.
People have written a lot about the gamification element of many apps, but I’m not sure that analysis goes far enough. This week has made me cripplingly aware that all day I reach for, and tap at, virtual rainbow baubles, like a baby in thrall to a mobile.
Next week: I meet the queen of digital detox, and the coach behind Reclaim your brain
