My Twitter Addiction Got So Bad, I Had to Block Myself



Part of my job requires knowing what's happening on Twitter and other social platforms, but lately I've spent far more hours on these sites than necessary. The addiction itself is like any addiction, which is to say it’s not particularly interesting. I want to keep scrolling, but I wish I didn't want this. The only workable solution I've come up with is to download an app that prevents me from accessing these sites during certain hours of the day. This has allowed me to be productive, but I'm embarrassed that my willpower is so weak, and worried that outsourcing it to a computer program only makes the problem worse. Should I be focusing instead on exercising my resolve?


For assistance with your personal problems, moral dilemmas, or philosophical concerns about encounters with technology, open a support ticket via email; or and post a comment below.

Dear [ 424 ] ,

I find this an odd question in that your most immediate problem has already been solved. You wanted to waste less time on these platforms, and now you do. You wanted to be more productive, and now you are. The fact that this solution has only spurred a new fear about your will being weakened—which is, as far as I can tell, precisely the problem the app was supposed to solve—might strike some as a neurotic attachment to anxiety itself.

I can understand, though, the pragmatic dimension of this concern. If your capacity to overcome temptation relies on this barrier, it may be more difficult to resist in situations where you have no such assistance—though it’s hard to imagine what those scenarios might be. We live at a moment when behavioral economics has joined forces with the surveillance and tracking capacities of digital technologies. You can download apps that prevent you from drunk texting, from impulse-buying online, from opening your refrigerator between meals. Fitness fanatics can send their exercise routines directly to their personal trainer; recovering alcoholics can rig their phones to alert their sponsor when they’re nearing a bar; porn addicts can buy screen-monitoring software that notifies their accountability partner when they slip. It’s possible, in other words, to create a life so thoroughly corralled by nudges, blockers, triggers, and alerts, one need never resort to old-fashioned willpower at all.

But it seems to me that your distress is about something entirely different—something that has little to do with productivity or efficiency. The fear that you’re “outsourcing” your will to a program suggests that you suspect you’re becoming part-machine yourself, that you’re automating your volition and perhaps compromising your humanity in some irreparable way. This is a legitimate concern, one that raises a larger and more complicated question: Is there any intrinsic value in disciplining the will? Is there something worthwhile or even noble in struggling against oneself?

We should probably acknowledge at the outset that some people are more prone to such struggles than others. In his lecture on “the Divided Self,” the psychologist and philosopher William James argued that there are two kinds of people in the world: Healthy-minded souls, who see their lives as a simple balance sheet of happiness and suffering and are content so long as they stay on the positive side of that equation; and “divided” souls, who are unable to reconcile their warring desires. For the latter type, “peace cannot be reached by the simple addition of pluses and elimination of minuses from life,” James writes. The solutions that satisfy others strike them as false and inauthentic, and “their lives are one long drama of repentance and of effort to repair misdemeanors and mistakes.” Most people find it easy to diagnose themselves as one of these two types, and I hope I won’t offend you in saying that you strike me, unmistakably, as a divided soul. Your description of your internet compulsion—wanting to scroll, wanting to stop—calls to mind the words of the Apostle Paul, who was similarly bewildered by his inability to act on his higher impulses. “I do not understand what I do,” he writes in his epistles, “For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.”
James draws many of his case studies on the divided self from the writings of religious figures. In fact, if your waning internet use has created more time in your life for reading, you might glean some valuable insights from these monks and early church fathers. There is perhaps no more eloquent writer on this dilemma than Augustine, whose will was so at odds with itself, he once prayed “Lord, make me chaste—but not yet.” His Confessions documents, in painstaking detail, his battles against the temptations of lust, food, music, even—notably—distraction. One might think that a fourth century theologian had little to divert his attention from pure contemplation, but the mind is endlessly inventive in its efforts to wander. “Even when I am sitting at home,” Augustine complains, “why does a lizard catching flies, or a spider binding them when they blunder into its web, often have me gazing intently?”