Right now I am clear-headed and sober.
I have not used any of the media that usually traps me for nearly a day. A five-minute check of my messages left me even clearer about how fruitless and unnecessary most of the online world is for me.
That is not to say I don't value the people in my life or my connection with them. I do. But talking with them in person, or even on the phone, is where the actual connection lives for me—not in the random back-and-forth.
Despite seeing that clearly, I don't trust myself.
I know there is another part of me lying in wait for the conditions to be right: internet on, browser open. Then the fog settles in. The clicking starts. The clever justifications arrive. Hours can pass until I am tired or irritated enough to pull the plug and stumble to bed.
As I write these words, that seems absurd. I know what I want. I don't need to waste my time. I can see it clearly.
Experience tells me that if the phone and internet remain available, at some point I will fade back into the trance.
It feels as though old triggers were buried like mines while I was asleep. I reinforced them for years without knowing what I was doing. I don't know how many there are or where they are. Even when I find some of them, there always seem to be others.
I'm not saying I'm a victim.
I'm saying it is more honest for me to admit that when I enter the casino, the house usually wins.