I stare at the screen
I observe its technicolor dance
I listen to its siren song
And my life is gray static
A dingy white noise
When I was around 10 years old, my parents finally yielded to my persistent requests for a television of my own. It was a small unit by today’s standards – perhaps 19 inches – and it was granted with a stern warning: if my grades slipped, the TV would go.
Never shying from a challenge, I not only maintained my grades but made sure my academic accomplishments were stratospheric. I spent countless hours in my bedroom, immersed in my homework with the singular goal of staying on top. The background drone of reruns of The Simpsons, Star Trek: The Next Generation and (since I was a strange child) Quincy, M.E. never hushed. Even in distraction, my love of the glowing screen propelled me forward, a reminder that I could have my cake and eat it, too.
My grades never slipped, but it’s impossible for me to deny the horror my little television brought into my life. I grew from a chubby kid into a teenager who was exceptionally obese, tormented by my ever-distorting shape but unwilling to abandon my comfortable isolation. At the same time, my love affair with books ended unceremoniously, leading to a 20-year hiatus from recreational reading.
In a letter to Alcoholics Anonymous founder Bill Wilson, Carl Jung remarked at the strangeness of referring to alcohol, “the most depraving poison”, as spirits. This is one of the more intriguing aspects of the addiction experience – we tend to get precisely the opposite of what we desperately seek. The alcoholic seeks lively spirits but finds spiritual death. The sex addict seeks love and belonging, whether through partners or pornography, and finds depths of shame previously unimaginable. The gambler seeks money and quickly loses it. The television addict wants to make life more interesting and fills it with a constant stream of stories – leaving her with no stories of her own.
Last March, I began thinking about my own sense of disconnection and boredom with life. I had tried to jump-start a social life after moving to Rochester a few months previously, but nothing seemed to be working. It was only after taking a very close look at my life that I realized I had no less than six devices I could use to access the Internet while at home. And I live alone. This was normal for me, but the realization left me aghast. It seemed that I had gone from one screen in my childhood bedroom to an apartment made of screens.
So, I packed my desktop machine into the garage. I started leaving my work laptop at work, and then I donated my personal laptop to Rochester Greenovation. The desktop followed. That left me with an iPad, a Netflix box/TV, and my phone. This seemed a radical change, but soon after my iPad began following me around the house like a sad puppy. I’d see it right before I went to bed and right after I awoke. I quickly brought my iPad into the office and it has remained there since.
My pleasant habit of binging on Netflix continued, however – my childhood dreams of being able to watch any show at any time realized – so after months of deliberation, I cancelled not only my Netflix account but my home internet service. I now have a smartphone (a device I soundly dislike) and a radio.
Along the way, I had a number of people praise my efforts, which I’ve called an experiment. I’ve not known how to take this praise, because I haven’t embraced these changes because I have a need to be seen or to be validated. I’ve turned my life into an experiment because I was so painfully broken. I sought community, love, self-worth and purpose through the screens that surrounded me rather than people who need me. And I found that profoundly boring.
Life is different now. In many ways, when I’m off the clock, I feel like I live in 1930. When I’m solitary, I read or cook or listen to the radio. I also spend time with friends I deeply value, and I frequent coffee shops and talk with strangers and listen to them sing. I go to the YMCA and get lost in my thoughts when I’m on the exercise bike. I pray and I do devotionals. I hike. I go to potlucks and participate in community gardening and Gandhi Institute events. My life is quiet, but it’s out in the world. And I find that so very exciting.
By Matthew Townsend. Matthew lives in Rochester, N.Y. He serves as the Communications Missioner for the Episcopal Diocese of Rochester.
