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Diary of a Twitter Junkie - Day 1
🕑 Added 2019-03-09 03:05:10 +0000 UTCIt’s Lent and the good Catholic schoolgirl in me loves this season of fasting and rending the heart and not my garments and all that jazz, so I dug deep and asked myself the hard question—what would be the most challenging thing in my life to give up? Since I’ve already given up heroin, cocaine, alcohol, weed, cigarettes and toxic men, two primary substance addictions remain: coffee and Twitter.
If I’m really honest with myself, Twitter is the most hardcore addiction I have and it’s also the one that robs me of the most productivity. I loathe Instagram and find Facebook terribly boring so the only social media that is destroying my life and relationships at the moment—is Twitter.
I ripped the Band-Aid off around 1700 PST on Tuesday night, March 5th.
So. Into the media desert I go…
Day 1 – Holy Shit. I have a problem.
600 PST. Ash Wednesday.
My first morning without Twitter. I reach for my phone and I’m met with nothingness. No notifications. No snark. No toxic east coast tweets because they’ve already been at it for three hours and they’re very mean people. I realize this morning routine is horrible for me. I know I’m better off without Twitter. Twitter doesn’t miss me at all.
Why does it feel like a break up?
The black mirror stares back at me, almost daring me to go on and just check out the news. I resist but for how long can I keep this up? It's already been 10 minutes.
Jesus never would have been able to go 40 days in the desert if his followers were on Twitter.
I realize that’s a hilarious tweet. I reach for my phone and remember. Right. I can’t tweet that. I do my Daily Calm meditation. It’s not relaxing because I’m crawling out of my skin. I’m supposed to focus on my breath, but I’m focused on why I picked such a stupid thing to give up for Lent. I’m not even a devout Catholic for crying out loud. Meditation ends and I reach for my phone, searching for signs of life.
My friend Carol has texted. “I don’t know how long Lent is because Jews don’t know these things, so please text me your tweet thoughts so I don’t go through withdrawal. Thx.”
I explain it’s “FORTY. DAYS.” And that, “I’m already going crazy.”
Carol suggests converting to Judaism and although I’ve considered this before, perhaps it’s time to take the plunge. It’s been 58 minutes since I opened my eyes and every single one of them has been torture.
Holy shit. I have a real fucking problem.
Luckily I have to bring my car into the shop at 9:30, so I can’t sit around pining away after my true love for too long. I figure if I’m going to give something up, I might as well partake the ritual of getting ashes at Mass. I convince my aunt to meet me for breakfast and go to church with me. That outta kill at least 3 hours.
1215 PST: St. Monica’s Ash Wednesday Mass.
Mass was a good idea. It’s absolutely packed and when I walk in and see the believers ready to begin their Lenten fast, I feel ashamed that mine is something as dumb as Twitter dot com.
I’m even more embarrassed to admit, I wish I could live-tweet mass.
During the monsignor’s sermon, he talks about how the ashes represent that we are all sinners, that we are all humans, struggling with the human condition. The ashes are a reminder to extend compassion to one another instead of hate and intolerance.
Then he goes on to talk about the meaning of Lent and focuses on the idea of rending the heart. He says something along the lines of, “Yes, we are all sinners and human, but Lent is a time to look into our hearts and see where we can do better; it’s a time to notice where we are gossiping or bullying or negative. In French, lent means slow and it’s a time to slow down and…”
And the Monsignor reaches under his smock or his frock or cassock? I think that’s what it’s called, anyway, he repeats himself, “It’s a time to slow down and put these down.”
And he pulls out—I shit you not—his CELL PHONE and holds it up in front of the parish. The black mirror stares back at me from the pulpit.
Holy shit. We ALL have a real fucking problem.
Jesus Christ, when the Monsignor is holding up his cell phone in front of the parish and telling everyone, basically, "Hey this is destroying our lives and relationships," maybe we should do a little reflecting on the fact that our technology is destroying the very fabric of society. Suddenly, I don’t feel so alone. Maybe my Twitter fast isn’t so silly after all.
I look to my right. My aunt pulls out her phone, as if the monsignor was reminding her to check it. She spends the rest of mass on her phone, working.
The afternoon passes slowly. I call some Patrons, I walk the dog, I try to read but can’t focus. I can feel the dopamine receptors in my brain reaching for their fix. I’m cranky.
A woman from my AA meeting reaches out and asks if anyone can get some snacks for the meeting because she’s stuck at work. I jump at the opportunity. Would I be so “helpful” if I were doing what I normally do before my Wednesday meeting, which is tweet until the last minute before I have to go?
No, no I don’t think I would.
I get some cheese and crackers and fruit. Fifty dollars worth of cheese to be exact. I’m craving cheese. This detail will be important later.
“You’re a saint,” the woman says upon seeing me at the meeting.
“Of course,” I say, ashamed. “Happy to help.”
I'm sitting in the meeting with five years of sobriety from alcohol and drugs, but I feel like a fucking newcomer. Restless, irritable and discontent. I share about this.
I go home. Life feels empty.
2100 PST:
I play with my dog. The Goonies are on FreeForm. I crack up at the scene when they're at the bottom of the well and Troy thinks all his dreams of making it with Andy are about to come true.
I text my roommate: "My favorite part of The Goonies is when Troy's friends think a wet sweater weighs as much as a grown woman."
She comments about her favorite part, but it's not the same. I'm texting what should be tweets. This is pathetic. I'm never gonna make it, but it occurs to me, it's been over 24-hours.
All I want to do is tweet:
I made it 24 hours, guys!
I can’t.
Comments
Laughed Out Load on this one.
It's actually 46 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday (the Sundays don't count don't ask me why. I’m a cradle Catholic too and just learned that a few years ago...). I'm not saying this to torture you, but to let you know how strong you really are because you’re gong to make it and you’ll be fine. Twitter really is a cesspool and you’re not missing out on anything important. Each day will get easier than the last.
