You know that moment when you’re lying in bed, alone and silent in the dark, but you don’t feel particularly tired? When you can’t do anything about it except maybe roll over and think more mundane, stupid thoughts? I realized that because of smartphones, I may never experience that moment again. Isn’t that weird?
I know that smartphones in bed is bad sleep hygiene, and being quiet alone in bed doesn’t sound all that difficult, yet I take more measures to avoid these once-routine moments of nightly introspection than I do to avoid car accidents or cancer.
For the past two years every single night I’ve taken my melatonin then watched the NBC sitcom 30 Rock on my iPhone. First through netflix, then a sketchy pop-up infested website, then hulu with commercials (torture), back to the pop-ups, and now thank god Amazon Prime (but I’m sure that Peacock is in my near future). Even though my eyes are usually shut, I chuckle at visual jokes—I still see their faces. Liz and Jack and Kenneth and Tracy are still with me. Some nights eventually call for a podcast. Some nights call for Reddit. Some nights I never even sleep.
I have this cycle where I get addicted to a podcast or YouTube series. It starts as pleasure, then I have it on while doing chores, then while I eat and drive, then I blast it through a bluetooth speaker while I shower, and finally I sleep with it. By that point, I cannot stand the silence. The prospect of stillness makes me want to split my skin open. By that point I’m fucked. Once I reach capacity, I start to break down sobbing for no apparent reason—sometimes mid-conversation, usually in the middle of an insomniac night. Then I delete Spotify, or the Youtube app, or Prime video or whatever. This happens every three months or so.
My therapist tells me that boredom, oddly enough, is correlated with creativity.
Weird.
Right now I’m visiting my sister in Florida and I share a thin wall with my adorable/incredible two-year-old niece. When my baby niece has those moments—awake, alone, and silent, she typically wails and gasps and screeches in a way that’ll make your blood go cold. Sometimes, though, she just talks to herself. Over the barely audible sound of Tina Fey’s voice and saxophone scoring, I can hear my baby niece’s voice muffled through the thin wall, calm, in conversation. I have no idea who she’s talking to.