Liberation

My acute anxiety disorder began in the Army, specifically during my deployment to the Middle East. At least that’s what the doctors and shrinks at the VA hospital say. Coupled with the massive depressive disorder that attached itself to me at the same time, it’s quite a potent cocktail of mental illness that I (and also my family) are forced to deal with day after day.

This anxiety manifests itself in different strange ways, chief of which seems to be the dreaded smartphone. The VA recently assigned me a therapist, as a matter of fact, that was going to do sessions with me over video chat. But when he began calling to set up times for our sessions, I wouldn’t or couldn’t answer the phone. I was too afraid of the very thing he was going to use to help me overcome my anxieties. His repeated voicemails were deleted without listening to them because voicemails also strangely give me anxiety, and eventually he stopped reaching out.

I’ve long been an old soul. I’ve heard it from anyone that has spent more than a minute having a conversation with me or has learned what I like in this world. I’ve always longed sentimentally for eras that came and went long before I was born. I crave a secluded cabin deep in some mountains shrouded in pinewoods (much to my wife’s chagrin). I’ve always longed for the times when it wasn’t an anachronism to write handwritten letters to friends and loved ones, use a typewriter to do my writing, to smoke pipe tobacco, times before social media and the rapid interconnectivity of all things. I think this 24/7 connectivity with everyone all the time is a major contributor to the rise in mental illness and disorders ranging from depression and anxiety. There’s not really a break from judgement, comparisons, and engagement. We’re not ever really unplugged.

And yes, I’m well aware of the hypocrisy as I write this blog on the internet with my laptop. Such is the era we live in, especially for authors in the competition against other authors that are much more well-versed in social media than I. In this day and age, book sales are dependent on networking and outreach.

But onto the dreaded smartphone. Ever since the Army, I’ve struggled to communicate on the phone (text or call). I’m unsure why the anxiety is the prevalent with the phone, but it’s nearly unbearable. My oldest friends, family members, and new friends and contacts call or text me, and I instantly sweat and am filled with confusing and mysterious fear. I don’t know why. Calls and texts to me go unanswered and unreturned. I’ve wondered how many friendships, relationships, or opportunities have passed me by or slipped through my fingers because of this phone-related anxiety.

So, it’s with a breath of fresh air or divine providence that my smartphone recently began to not work properly and I powered it off and have set it aside. Instantly, it felt like a burden was removed from my shoulders and my psyche. I feel like I’m paying attention to the things around me more. My mind feels quieter and more at peace. Moment after moment isn’t filled with dread. I don’t feel the need to share things with everyone; occurrences belong to me and me alone. If I want to immortalize something (and I mean truly immortalize it), I’ll write about it, not take a photo to post on social media where it’s eventual lost beneath a slab of digital crush.

For those of us desperate to return to an era of simplicity and quietude, something like a malfunctioning smartphone serves as a blessing instead of a curse. I won’t say it’s necessarily healthy to suddenly have limited contact with the rest of the world, but I think it does a 21st century mind a little bit of good to unplug for awhile.

For those of you that have been trying to reach out to me, I’m sorry that I have such a hard time maintaining contact. I’m as frustrated about it as you are. I hope to do better in the future and to manage my anxiety better, but until then, I look forward to talking with you face-to-face (as my anxiety is primarily manifested just with the phone).

Give me a barstool next to a friend, or a microphone and a stage to read my poems to an audience, or a table to meet readers at one of my book-signings.

But if you want to call … bear with me.