e_addiction & tox_relationshp: personal experience
For years, specially after my marriage, my life revolved around my mobile phone—a sleek, glowing portal that promised connection but delivered isolation. It started innocently enough: a quick check of notifications during breakfast, scrolling through social media during commutes, and before I knew it, I was glued to the screen for hours. This wasn't just a habit; it was an affinity, a compulsion. Unnecessary browsing became my default state—endless feeds of memes, videos, and cat reels that filled voids I didn't even recognize. Online shopping turned into impulse buys: gadgets I never used, clothes that gathered dust, all justified by "just looking." News mining was the worst—doom-scrolling through headlines, chasing the latest outrage, only to get trapped in fake news echo chambers. One viral post about politics or health would lead to rabbit holes of conspiracy theories, leaving me agitated, distrustful, and exhausted. My screen time reports were damning: 4-7 hours a day, robbing me of sleep, productivity, and presence.
This addiction didn't exist in a vacuum; it poisoned everything around me. I began expecting the same from my family—my wife and children. Why weren't they as plugged in? Why couldn't they understand the "urgency" of a notification? It created invisible walls in our home. Conversations died mid-sentence as I'd reach for my phone. Family dinners became solo scrolling sessions. My wife, bless her, struggled in her own way. I'd fairly label her "poor IQ" not out of malice, but frustration—her world seemed limited to her parental interverence, TV serials, those endless dramas peddling propaganda about perfect relationships: jealous saas-bahu rivalries, impossible romances, and materialistic happily-ever-afters. These shows didn't teach real love; they propagated toxicity—revenge plots disguised as family values, women as manipulative homemakers, men as impotent providers. She absorbed it all, mirroring the ignorance I saw in her parents, folks of "cheap thought" who prioritized dowry talks over emotional depth. Relationships, in their view, were survival pacts: endure, procreate, repeat. No wonder our marriage felt like "just survival." Arguments flared over petty things like whose turn it was to check the phone bill online. The kids watched this dysfunction, caught between a screen-addicted dad and a serial-obsessed mom. We were a family trapped not just by devices, but by distorted expectations of what connection means.
Fake news warped my worldview, making me cynical about everything from government policies to neighbors' motives. Online shopping too was disastrous. My addiction modeled poor habits for the kids, while expecting my wife to match my digital pace only widened the gap. Her serials were her escape, just as my phone was mine. We were both addicts, feeding off unreal narratives. Her parents' influence didn't help—their "cheap thought" dismissed therapy or self-help as elite nonsense, reinforcing a cycle of ignorance about how relationships actually work. Real bonds require presence, vulnerability, effort—not props from TV or TikTok. Ours had devolved into cohabitation: pay bills, raise kids, sleep separately. Survival mode. But I decided enough. Freedom beckoned through digital detoxification—a deliberate unplugging to reclaim my mind, family, and soul.
The first pillar of my detox was leaning on real humans, not algorithms. I reached out to old friends from college—guys I'd ghosted for months due to scrolling. We met for chai at a local dhaba, phones silenced in a pile at the table's center. No WhatsApp status; just laughter about old pranks and life updates. This reliance rebuilt trust—I shared my addiction struggles, and they didn't judge. One friend, a teacher, confessed his own battles, swapping tips. Family became my anchor too. I confided in my brother, who lives nearby, about the wife-kids strain. His advice: "Start small, lead by example."
Practically, I instituted a "phone curfew": off from 8 PM to 7 AM. No exceptions. By week two, sleep deepened; mornings sharpened. Mornings without blue light meant clearer focus—no groggy haze from late-night reels. This zone extended to meals: family phones in a basket during dinner. My wife resisted at first—"What if there's an emergency?"—but joined when she saw my commitment. Friends held me accountable via voice calls (not texts), checking in weekly. Result? Bonds strengthened. I felt seen, not just "liked" online. Reliance shifted energy from virtual validation to real support networks.
With phone time slashed, I redirected energy to my children—ages 8 and 10—choosing them over the fraught dynamic with mmself. I'd read bedtime stories from physical book. No digital distractions meant full presence: noting their giggles, answering "why" questions without half-hearted grunts.
This shift ignited genuine interest. Previously, I'd "bond" via shared YouTube cartoons; now, it was organic. We explored their worlds: my son's fascination with dinosaurs (we built clay models), my daughter's love for drawing (I joined, sketching goofy family portraits). Tensions with my wife remains—her serials still blared—but I insulated the kids. The kids thrived—better grades, less whining for gadgets. My interest wasn't forced; it bloomed from detox-freed time.
Interest with children evolved into action: physical games that sweated out digital toxins. We started with antakshari—Bollywood classics belted in the courtyard, no YouTube crutches. Laughter echoed as I mangled "Kabhi Kabhie Mere Dil Mein," and they roasted me mercilessly. Yoga joined mornings: simple sun salutations from a free community class in Purnia. Kids mimicked poses—downward dog turning into giggles—building flexibility and focus. Physical games like kho-kho or gilli-danda revived street-play nostalgia, ditching sedentary scrolling.
Benefits were profound. Endorphins replaced dopamine hits from likes. Family cohesion grew—wife occasionally peeked, tempted. One yoga session, she tried child's pose; a tentative bridge. Interests aligned naturally: kids shared school stories, I opened about my pre-addiction hobbies like cricket. No lectures on her "poor IQ" or serials—just shared joy. This play combated fake news cynicism, grounding us in tangible fun.
Serious time in pooja and meditation became my inner fortress. Pre-detox, spirituality was lip service—a rushed Ganesh aarti amid notifications. Now, 30 minutes daily: light a diya, chant Hanuman Chalisa mindfully, meditate on breath. No apps; just a corner altar with photos of deities and ancestors. This countered digital noise—fake news bred doubt; pooja restored faith.
Meditation tamed the monkey mind. Guided by local baba's advice, I visualized unplugging roots from the screen-tree. Insights flowed: addiction masked fears—job insecurity, marital doubts. Pooja grounded me in gratitude: for Bihar's simple life, despite flaws. Wife noticed the calm; her parents' "cheap thought" faded as I led family aartis. Spirituality healed ignorance about relationships—real love is seva (service), not serial drama. Survival upgraded to sanctity.
Keeping away from sasural (in-laws) was tough but essential. Visits were drama-fests: serial-like gossip, dowry jabs, digital envy ("Why no new phone?"). Their influence fueled wife's ignorance—relationships as transactions. I limited to festivals, politely redirecting calls. Instead, nurtured nuclear family. Freedom felt liberating—no judgment, more space for detox rituals. Wife adjusted, focusing inward.
Finally, I bought upanishad- a gem on spiritual wisdom. its content spoke directly: technology as maya (illusion), true bliss in self-realization. It dismantled my news addiction—truth beyond headlines. Shared excerpts with kids as stories; wife skimmed, intrigued. This book was my detox bible, blending Eastern wisdom with practical living.
Eight months in, miracles unfolded. Screen time: under 2 hours daily, purposeful only. Family laughs freely—antakshari nights, yoga dawns. Survival evolved to thriving. Digital detox isn't deprivation; it's reclamation. My advice: start tonight—power off at 8 PM. Lean on loved ones, play hard, pray deeper. Freedom awaits beyond the screen.
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