Now I get it

I recently discovered why it is that I'm so disinclined to disconnect.

It's my grandma's fault.

A few days ago, she got a new cell phone. Was her old one broken? Was there some problem with her service provider? Did she wager it at a bingo match and later regret her impulsiveness?

No, no and no. (By the way, never, ever challenger her to a game of bingo -- she owns that game.)

Instead, she wanted instant internet access, and using the computer room on the ground floor of her apartment building wasn't cutting it anymore.

My grandmother, it turns out, is hooked on email, online chess, blogs and news.

I went over and inputted her email's username and password, and as her unread messages started rolling out onto the tiny screen her face erupted into a marveled smile.

I know, Grandma. The internet makes me happy, too!

(Knowing I can blame it on my genes makes me even happier.)

Somerville

My second year of grad school, I moved to a crazy house with two crazier roommates: a guitar strumming, occasionally stubbly, frequently horny Belgian postdoc named David, and an alco-nympho-klepto-psycho cat lady by night, nanny by day named Megan. Needless to say, I fit right in. David was charming and we're friends to this day. Megan was cool. At first.

But this is not the story about how Megan, descendant of a famous American writer as she liked to remind those around her, stole my clothes, my Portuguese ceramics, a gold bracelet or an Anthropologie gift card I'd received as presents. Nor is this the tale of her five feral cats, who ran around the house in loops and took turns peeing on my favorite coat and scratching David. This is not even the tale of a bitter former housemate who wishes she could find Megan and get her fucking things back.

No.

This is the simple story of a girl, a computer, and their illicit connection.

You see, David (pronounced, a la francaise, Dah-veeeed), paid for cable internet, and I let him know when I moved in that I wouldn't be pitching in to split the bill or buy a wifi router, since I intended to cut back on my internet usage. It was a risk on my part, since I knew my tendencies by that point. But I figured that not having my own connection would be a surefire way to curtail the habit.

At first it was easy. I did everything I had to on campus, and when I got home, I was free, relaxed, untethered. I read for my classes, saw people in the flesh, and made full use of my telephone.

The problem started when I noticed David reading his email, and I realized how close the internet was. So I started with a meek request, once in a while, just to check in with the outside world.

"David, do you mind if I use your computer, really quick?"

"Sure, go ahead!"

In a few weeks, I had taken over the terminal. I either used his laptop or unplugged his cable and attached it to my laptop. When he wasn't home, but also when he was.


Eventually I think maybe it started bothing him a little.

"Hey, Roxana, do you think I could log on, too?! I'm waiting for an important message from my supervisor!"

"Hold on, I'm still reading missed connections and then looking for shelves at Target. I should be done around 9."

Other times, I think he was just concerned for my well being.

"How about a little break?" he'd ask, gently. "Your friends have been waiting for 20 minutes. Do you need help getting up from the chair? Let me give you a hand. There's some corn in the fridge, since I think you skipped lunch."

"Who's there? Ask them to give me 10 minutes. Actually, I'll just email them."

And so on.

Now here's the funny part: I could have bought a router and split the monthly cost with him.

But to do that would be admitting defeat. So instead, I made it up to David, with rides. I had a car, and he had places to be. He was my pathway into cyberspace, and I was his into the city.

And when his supervisor reeeeally needed an email response, of course I got off for 30 seconds so he could explain the situation. I'm not that selfish.

[image one via Photographers Direct, image two via via LA Lovuer, image three via Country Living]

The Quiz

This is the internet addiction quiz I discovered, from an article I discussed in the previous post.

I picked "Surfing the Net" because it's generic enough to include all the subcategories that apply: Cell Phone Use, Television, Social Networking and Blogging. But, this seeing this list is a relief. With no addictions to shopping, gaming, porn, forums, gambling or even auctioning, I think I will be in the clear. Next:

I'm not upping the dosage and I don't see any deeply negative repercussions to my internet usage. There's an opportunity cost, of course, but I'm still showering regularly and fitting into my jeans.

 

Not sure what they mean by "content." As in, finding yourself reading about John and Kate plus 8 when you actually think watching Tom Delay's final performance on DWTS is a better way of wasting your time? Maybe it's just code for porn.

 

I wonder if other people disagree, however.

That's it.

7 yesses, 7 nos. Nice and balanced. Sane.

Now for the results. I just clicked on "next" and...

Intervention may be merited, huh? Here's an idea, ReSTART quiz. How about you go intervene yourself. I have some internet quitting to do.

sh*t

I was feeling pretty good after my last post, and then I read this:

A World Wide Woe: Internet addiction sounds like a punch line. But it ruined my brother's life.

It's a Newsweek story written by a man whose brother ended up homeless, at least in part because of his internet addiction. I say in part because there may be other issues at play we don't know about (mental health, lack of support system, who knows?).

Here are three choice snippets:

    Though my brother has never been officially diagnosed as an Internet addict, he readily admits that he demonstrates all of the signs and symptoms of the compulsion. His was a world of constant refreshing, immediate access to new information and stimuli.

 OMG, that is totally me! Next:

[T]here hasn't been much comprehensive research on the topic, says Kimberly Young, founder and director of the outpatient Center for Internet Addiction Recovery because there aren't enough treatment centers from which to acquire comprehensive data. That's partly because there remains some skepticism about whether Internet addiction qualifies as a real condition. Greenfield says he's spent plenty of time trying to convince colleagues that Internet addiction is genuine, and Cash says she often hears from therapists who suggest that the issue isn't the Internet but whatever anxiety or depression compulsive users are suffering that may lead them to overindulgence.

Maybe it's not a real problem, after all. Internet usage is just a symptom, not a disease. Lastly:

    I also wonder how many other people are addicted to the Internet without even knowing it. Research from Greenfield and others suggests that as much as 6 percent of the Internet-using population may have an addiction issue. The quiz is one good way to get an idea whether you have a problem. It's based on the same methodology as other surveys to detect addiction. If you had to stop checking your e-mail for a week (let's assume that you didn't have to do so for work), would it bother you? "People are starting to self-examine," Rae says. "Do I play too much? What would that look like?"  

Shit. It is so real. And if no email for a week is the test, then I am definitely screwed.

But wait. Newsweek links to a quiz by ReSTART, an Internet Addiction Recovery Program. Its title: Are you addicted?

Let's find out! [See next post]

I'm not an addict

Last night I crawled into bed and read the news on my smartphone. AR, slumbering next to me, woke up for a second to the glow of the screen and mumbled, "Addict."

But here's the thing. I'm not an addict. In the vast majority of situations I'm using the internet to replace other types of reading, not augment them. Years ago, I read novels before going to sleep. That time was a buffer zone, connecting the hectic day I didn't want to end and the sleep I knew I needed. Years ago I read books on road trips. Now I read stories on my laptop, thanks to cellphone tethering, which lets me have internet access at 80 mph. True, now I check email at times I wouldn't have read before -- elevators, stoplights, the checkout line. But if I'm not inconveniencing anyone, if the only effect of that constant connection is that I'm prioritizing one type of activity (reading, communicating, viewing) over another (thinking, dreaming, imagining, whatever I used to do in my brain to fill activity voids), and if that new activity has its own benefits (I'm informed, I relate to my society, I get article ideas, so on), what's the big deal?

What's so wrong with that?

So this is what withdrawal tastes like

Whenever AR or I get this message

it's like the king of our tiny island-state issued a tsunami warning or the president of our large continental democracy moved the terror color-code to infrared. Because wherever that signal is, Disaster -- or his clingy little sister, Paranoia -- isn't far behind. Bringing at best, stress, fraught nerves, restlessness, and in the worst case, evenings of reading paper books and playing bored games.

In such situations, which strike rarely thank God (and thanks to a pretty decent router), AR, the resident computer expert, barks rapid fire commands. I obey.

"Unplug the router."

"Check."

"Wait 10 seconds."

"Check."

"Now put it back."

"Check."

Meanwhile, he's at mission command, typing frantic messages into his terminal.

Usually it takes 10 minutes to fix the problem and when it's over, we settle onto the futon, my head on his shoulder or our legs sandwiched on the coffee table, reading our preferred news outlets on neighboring laptops. Bliss.

Tonight, something went wildly wrong.

I got home after many productive hours at Peet's. I'd been tempted to blog, but I stopped myself. See, self control.

So there was nothing I wanted more when I walked in than to fire up my laptop and log into blogger. Instead, I got the dreaded message. I tried unplugging the router, tried doing the whole "ipconfig" routine AR showed me, and I swore a few times. Nothing seemed to help. Then AR walked in the door and a second after hello, I started. "The internet's not working."

"Oh my God! What will you do?"

"Come on, it's serious. I need it. For work."

"I'll take a look at it."

Instead, we had dinner. Rib eye and asparagus AR made. I skipped lunch today, so I tore into my steak. It was awesome. Momentarily, I forgot about the router.

We decided to go see a movie after dinner and headed to movies.yahoo.com, and that's when I got the message again.

While AR was on his hands and needs knees tinkering with the router's wires, I was checking my pulse. It wasn't faster than usual. Strange, because I could feel my heart racing. Meanwhile, I was managing to connect sporadically to an unsecured Motorola network, but after about 30 seconds on any site it would spit me out. After about an hour, he fixed the problem. Temporarily, he said. Looks like our router is turning to mush.

I've been writing for the past fifteen minutes, but I'm still stressed. This isn't normal. This isn't how things should be. Normally, the internet works without a hiccup and AR and I worry about more interesting things, like which movie to see. But then normally, I don't blog about not being able to blog, I don't produce tortured puns (bored games? ouch) and above all I don't take my pulse unless it's medically necessary. I'm no hypo.

Behold your first sample of Roxana Popescu on internet withdrawal.

But there's a happy ending. After he reset the router, I renamed our connection to something warm and cuddly, which is how hugging my laptop makes me feel:

If stinky people won't stop me, what will?

I confessed the idea to my FIC (Fabulous Italian Cousin) on google chat today.

Her reaction:

12:38 PM FIC: AHHHHHHHHHHHH

  R U CRAZY????????????????

 me: yes

  but probably not that crazy

  nu stiu... [That's "I dunno" in Romanian, our common language]

  i'm just flirting with the idea...

12:39 PM FIC: wow

  ok...

Then she made a few great points. Including: I wouldn't resist. Also, what would be the point? I have way more to gain by using the internet -- time, convenience, access -- than by not using it.

She concluded by inviting me to stay at my aunt's house, in rural Italy, for a few months. It's a 20 minute drive from the nearest internet point, a cramped, dank place inhabited by strange creatures who never shower. My reply:

me: i've done it before: stinky french people in a dark unventilated moist room, just to read cnn.com

If putting up with stinky french people in a dark unventilated moist room just to read crappy quality news in the middle of the City of Light is not a sign I should quit the internet, don't know what else is.