I’ve been trying to make it a habit to read more lately, and this has been facilitated by removing Pokémon Go from my phone, again. I first quit PG around 2017 after a nearly two years long obsession with it. I had many conversations with my therapist about it; I will attest that it wasn’t the primary reason I was seeing her in the first place. But it just goes to show that I can’t let my guard down with any addiction. I reinstalled it against my better judgment and, wouldn’t you know it, in no time I was back to driving as slow as possible along busy streets to spin the PokéStops, and sorting my Pokédex in the middle of the night instead of sleeping. I learned how to use the Poke Genie app so that I could battle in raids remotely and analyze the individual values (IVs) of my precious Pokemons. In all, I was sucked back into the PokeHole.
However, I experienced something between a modest epiphany and a mild breakdown recently, and it was in that time I re-examined my relationship with the game. Basically I asked myself, “What the f*ck are you doing?” Some people can have a casual relationship with alcohol and be content with that once in a while beer or glass of wine. Some people can buy a pack of cigarettes for a party or BBQ and have no qualms about tossing it the next day. And some people can play Pokémon Go without having it become the end-all, be-all of their universe.
I am not any of those people.
It has been said that nothing is either bad or good, but thinking makes it so. (Kudos, Shakespeare.) I have three friends that are long-term aficionados, levels 48-50. One is a physical therapist, another works at Qualcomm, and the third an aerospace engineer. That’s right, an actual rocket scientist! Three accomplished people with meaningful and full lives, managing career, family, hobbies, and bills. There is no way they’re spending as much time on it as I am compelled to — and yet, I still can’t budge from level 37, no matter how many hours I toil away at it.
Merriam-Webster lists two definitions for addiction:
1 : a compulsive, chronic, physiological or psychological need for a habit-forming substance, behavior, or activity having harmful physical, psychological, or social effects and typically causing well-defined symptoms (such as anxiety, irritability, tremors, or nausea) upon withdrawal or abstinence : the state of being addicted
2 : a strong inclination to do, use, or indulge in something repeatedly
I find this interesting because it ties into something that I recently read — now that I’m reading more, thank you very much. There appears to be a delineation between “big-T trauma” and “little-t trauma”, with the “big-T’s” being most commonly associated with the development of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The “little-t’s” are the distressing occurrences or situations that fall shy of big-T severity. However, frequent exposure to little-t’s in one’s life can provoke a big-T response, a kind of death by a thousand paper cuts, so to speak.
It made me think that addictions can be divided similarly. There are “big-A addictions” and “little-a addictions”, if you will. It wouldn’t be contested to say that addictions to alcohol, smoking, drugs, and gambling fall under the big-A category. Big-A’s often have dedicated 12-step programs to help overcome them, because not addressing the addiction would inevitably lead to deleterious effects in one’s health, happiness and overall survival.
What about the “little-a’s” then? There could be “healthy” little-a addictions to exercise, clean eating, and gardening. Then there are the little-a’s that might not be as productive, like compulsive Amazon shopping (guilty!) and bingeing routinely on Netflix (yep, this too.) Of course, there’s the ubiquitous little-A addiction to social media and to digital devices in general that, based on what I’ve heard the experts say about it, can be so detrimental to one’s well-being that it begs to planted in big-A territory.
From my experience, I don’t think there is such a thing as a healthy addiction. Around the time that I decided to quit drinking (now five years sober), I exchanged my big-A for a handful of new little-a’s; namely, rock climbing, high-intensity interval training (HIIT), and intermittent fasting (IF). I became so obsessed with climbing at the gym, stringing multiple days together without a break, that on waking my hands were so numb I was unable to unclench the fists they had formed. I was certain that I was doing irreparable nerve damage, but it didn’t occur to me to slow down. Thankfully, the Covid pandemic eventually put a kibosh on my climbing schedule, making the choice for me.
And so it was, too, with the HIIT and IF. In addition to climbing, I was working out like a fiend to these ten and 20 minute workout videos, often back to back. I sang Chloe Ting’s praises and literally tried to convert every single friend I had to become members of the Church of HIIT. Initially, I had come to intermittent fasting as a method of a treatment for depression, which is essentially what I was struggling with that led me to quit drinking in the first place. Since I had no trouble whatsoever adjusting to the 16-hour fasting schedule, I often pushed myself to fast 18, 20 hours for the challenge. Maybe it felt so helpful and satisfying to control my eating because I felt like I had control over my state of mind.
I had become laser-focused, fiercely energetic, and for the first time in my entire life, I had chiseled abs and arms. I chugged on like a deranged Energizer Bunny until I lost so much weight and fat that my period decided to go on vacation. At first it went away for a long weekend, and the next month it decided to take an extended backpacking trip to Europe. At that point, I was forced to acknowledge that something was wrong. I had unknowingly but directly marched into eating disorder domain, my amateur guess being anorexia athletica.
Where does Pokémon Go fit into all of this? For those who are pleased to think about it, I believe there is a line between habit and addiction that is different for everyone. When it crosses into addiction territory, the division between little-A and big-A is more of a spectrum than a binary system. Where it lies on that spectrum depends on the relative cost it demands from the individual. We give to it all that we can, but it always wants more.
There is so much attention given to the physical, mental and psychological price of addiction, but it also costs us in time. Time to be present, to think deep thoughts, for undivided attention with loved ones, to create meaning in our lives. This is what Pokémon Go was asking of me until I began to cherish time for what it is — a precious, finite gift that could be snatched away at any given moment — and I decided that it was too big a price to pay.