Shortly before my 24th birthday, I decided to replace my iPhone with a flip phone. I have abstractly considered making the change on numerous occasions, tired of the Internet following me around everywhere I go, always on the verge of being mindlessly lured to it.
During the short portion of my life when the Internet was stationary, I spent a lot of time sitting at the family computer. I was jealous of my older sister when she got a cellphone. I begged my parents for an iPod Touch, making do for a while with a hand-me-down Samsung that wasn’t connected to a phone number and only worked on WiFi. When I finally got a smartphone in eighth grade, I was congratulated.
After a decade of smartphone ownership, I’m unsatisfied. It hasn’t improved my life, it’s made it worse. How much time has been lost to a bottomless feed?
Yet after a decade of smartphone ownership, I’m unsatisfied. It hasn’t improved my life, it’s made it worse. How much time has been lost to a bottomless feed? How often have I gone to check the weather, but instead open Twitter, browse for ten minutes before ripping myself away and locking the screen, only to return to my physical surroundings and realize that I still don’t know the forecast?
It took one misunderstanding — I thought I’d left my iPhone at work — that, in the resulting wave of relief over the freedom to spend an evening without that predator lurking in my home, without its claws resting on my skin, ready to dig in and trap me in the endless scroll that brings me so much misery and shame, dissatisfaction and regret, combined all the instances I’d sworn to myself I’d spend less time on my phone, all the half-steps, self-imposed limits and usage guidelines that never fully disarmed the beast, to produce one declarative statement: I’m ready to quit.
I was disappointed and even disturbed when, later that evening, I found the phone in my room. I felt that just touching it would ruin the bliss of my decision.
A week of giddiness followed that subtly gave way to an itching anxiety over the reality of living without a smartphone for the first time since early adolescence.
I anticipated an explosion of relief, freedom and joy in reclaiming my life, pride over my willingness to take this bold step. I imagined leading a flash mob down the street in celebration! But when the hour of conversion came, I felt doubtful. What was I doing? I felt overly dramatic, that I was doing something extreme. And for what? All the reasoning I’d piled up against smartphone ownership seemingly vanished.
I sit now with conflicting feelings. I’m happy with my decision and the benefits that I know are forthcoming. Besides, I’ve told my friends, so I can’t backtrack without embarrassment or a sense of failure.
The dopamine rush produced by smartphones and social media has made instant gratification the norm. I know this experience will be gratifying, and I don’t want to have a smartphone again if I can help it. This time, I think the confirmation that I did something right won’t reveal itself for a while. And sometimes, isn’t that the truth of real life?
