When I ventured off to college, I didn’t just begin a new chapter in my education, I plunged into what would become a 15-year cycle of insanity.

But my addictive tendencies surfaced long before I took my first drink.

Cookies, Atari & Pacman

Food had a hold on me first: Chips, cookies, cake. The first morsel setting off a chain reaction in my brain, like a hamster on a wheel chasing and consuming everything in sight. A young, bright-eyed girl trying to fill an unseen hole in her heart.

In seventh grade, I discovered video games. I got an Atari for Christmas and was quickly hooked on PacMan. It was rudimentary and clumsy by today’s standards, but I loved it. 

Apparently, too much.

My parents grew increasingly concerned about my newfound obsession. I spent more time playing PacMan than I did anything else.

Just one more game, I’d plead as they peeled my fingers off the joystick.

Even then, one more of anything was never enough.

One day I came home from school, and my coveted Atari was gone. My parents had pulled the plug. 

Panic gripped me. I needed a fix. Fast.

Don’t ask me how, but I found it a block away.

Adrian’s, a bar on 48th and Chicago in South Minneapolis, had the real deal: A full-sized PacMan with bright lights and high-tech sounds. 

My friend Wendy and I went there everyday after school, our pockets jammed with quarters. 

We were in junior high, walking into a bar as if we belonged there. The bartender barely lifted his eyes; after all, we were harmless and times were different. We just had to be home by 5 so our parents wouldn’t find out. 

I can’t speak for Wendy, but I relished the rush. Gobbling up dots one moment; popping a power pellet the next, pouring my brain into this bizarre reward-seeking cycle. I was on autopilot. Playing game after game, until time–or money–expired. 

One afternoon my mom confronted me about my “after-school activities.”

There I was, banished from the neighborhood bar at fourteen.

So I went back to food, and compulsive eating led to binging and purging.

My addictive personality had taken hold, as I swapped one substance or obsession for another. To distract. To control. To feel better–or not at all. 

Battling the Bottle

At 18, I discovered alcohol, the most effective and numbing distraction of all. Some people start out slowly; not me. I drank alcoholically from the start. Blackouts. Hangovers. Shame.

A growing hole and something new: A tiny black stain etched in my core.

After years of swearing I could stop on my own, I surrendered. Despite my greatest efforts and countless (empty!) promises, it was clear: I was powerless over alcohol.

Thanks to a 12-step program, a higher power, a supportive network (and later, essential mental health services), I got sober on June 21, 2002. 

I was content. Over time, serenity and joy filled the emptiness I’d experienced in adolescence and early adulthood. And the stubborn black stain faded away.

I felt safe.

Digital Dependence

Then, twenty-three years into my recovery from alcoholism, another addiction hit me between the eyes.

It’s ironic. I promote well-being and recovery—personally and professionally. I go to meetings, volunteer with my church, meditate, and pray. I do my best to live “one day at a time” and do the “next right thing.” 

But I was still vulnerable.

In 2023, U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy issued a public health advisory warning that social media poses significant risks to youth mental health.

But what about Gen X?

Digital dependence doesn’t discriminate. Here I am in my 50s, addicted to my iPhone, racking up more screen time than some teens. 

I get onto my daughters about their phone use.

“You’re a hypocrite,” my oldest has said.

She’s right.

We all know social media is riddled with ads and reels, each one disappearing into the next. I’m a grown woman chasing childish affirmations and shrinking from soul-sucking comparisons.

I relate to the 14-year-old transfixed on Atari, but today’s device is smaller and more cunning. I’ve downloaded dozens of apps programmed with millions of tiny trap doors, each just a swipe, like, or click away. 

Just one more reel. One more story. One more game.

Suddenly, another hour of my life is disappears into a digital blackout.

No clunky console or joystick. Just a sleek, six-ounce device and a monthly Verizon payment. 

I’ve caught myself reaching for my phone while driving. As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I toss it in the backseat. Terrified.

Apparently, I’m still powerless. 

Some people have no problem laying down their screens. Others rarely get on social media, if they  have accounts at all. 

Some barely even check their texts.

But me? I’m wired for more, falling for algorithms. 

Taking the bait.

Hook. Line. 

And sinking. 

Redefining Recovery

Before I go under, I gasp for air, and paddle furiously back to shore.

Once again, I surrender.

This time I’m the one pulling the plug.

I’m giving up social media for Lent. I tried last year and made progress. But this year, I’m going to be more intentional, more spiritual. Reducing screen time well past Easter.

Addiction is addiction, whether you’re slamming wine, popping pills, or doom scrolling on Instagram. My phone might not have the life-threatening properties of alcohol and drugs, but it can still sap your creativity, crush your self-esteem, and compromise every aspect of your health and well-being.

I didn’t beat the bottle just to fall into an electronic, distraction-driven abyss. PacMan couldn’t fill the hole inside my younger self and I’m not about to let the Metaverse dig in any deeper.

So I reach for the same tools that saved me in 2002, embarking on a new recovery journey. Tomorrow, on Ash Wednesday, I’ll do my best to disconnect from technology and reconnect to the world around me.

One day at a time.