Confessions Of A Screen Fiend

When I wake in the morning, the first light to hit my eyes isn’t the golden glow of a sunrise. Instead, my sleep-crusted peepers dilate to the radiant blue glare emanating from my cell phone. Hi, my name is Lori, and I’m addicted to my phone.

During the day, it’s never far away. Tucked into my back pocket, it hums, pings, and vibrates, tempting me to slide it into my front pocket. And every night, like the codependent duo we are, I smuggle it into bed for one last scroll under the covers. Just one more hit of that sweet, sweet illumination.

It began innocently enough, with a Wordle here, a Connections there. All my friends were doing it. Experimenting with gateway apps like Facebook and the Gram scratched an itch for a while. But before long, this casual user was chasing chaos like a full-blown news junkie, jonesing for my next dopamine hit. Now I’m sprawled on the couch, glassy-eyed, mainlining TikTok on sunny afternoons.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dropped it like it’s hot when I’m caught using. I shamelessly lie about my screen time, because I don’t need any judgment killing my buzz. And who can resist the feel-good high of sharing dancing dog videos with friends at 2:00 am? Let’s just say, I can feel an intervention brewing.

Between emails, messages, photos, books, banking, music, wallet, and maps; my entire existence is inside that phone. Rehab isn’t an option, not even with this looming tech neck hump, so I’m just learning to accessorize around it. Whenever I attempt a cell detox, I start scavenging for screens like a raccoon in Best Buy. Laptop, iPad, or TV, I just need the glow, man.

So, what’s a girl to do? Stop living vicariously by following others (except the Sangria Sisters, obvy). Stay focused in conversations, or at least pretend to. Scroll less and read more. Turn off the noise and notifications. Resist telling the screen time limit to fuck off.  Quitting is easy, I’ve done it at least 100 times. Right after I’ve hit “Low Battery!”