The 11pm Scroll Hole

It’s 11:47 PM on a Tuesday and I’m doing the thing again. Phone in my hand, lights off, partner asleep two feet away, scrolling Twitter for the third time tonight. I’ve been at this for two hours. My eyes burn. My thumb moves on its own. I told myself last week that this was the week I’d put my phone in the kitchen at 10 PM. That lasted until Tuesday. Now it’s Tuesday and I’m here, in the dark, watching strangers argue about things that have nothing to do with me.

It’s Not That I Can’t Sleep

I can sleep. That’s the thing people keep telling me — just put the phone down and sleep. Like it’s that simple. Like sleep is something you just do, like brushing your teeth. I can sleep. I’ve slept 9 hours before. I’ve slept 11 hours. I’ve slept so much on weekends that I woke up with a headache and felt worse than when I went to bed.

It’s not that I can’t sleep. It’s that the moment my head hits the pillow, my brain decides this is the perfect time to think about the thing I forgot to say in the 4 PM meeting. The moment I close my eyes, my brain pulls up the email I sent at 5:47 PM with a typo in the second paragraph. The moment I’m in that half-asleep state, my brain suddenly remembers a project I haven’t touched in three weeks and decides that 11:47 PM is the perfect time to panic about it.

So I pick up the phone.

That’s how it starts. I tell myself I’m just checking the time. I’m just going to see if that Slack message came in. I’m just going to look at the weather for tomorrow. I’m just going to check if that one notification is from someone important.

It’s never just that.

The Part Where I Open Instagram To Check The Time

This is the thing I don’t tell anyone. I open Instagram to check the time. That’s a real thing I do. I’ll be scrolling Twitter and I’ll suddenly remember that I need to know what time it is, and instead of turning my head to look at the clock on the nightstand, I’ll close Twitter, open Instagram, look at the top of the screen, see that it’s 11:52, and then somehow I’m three reels deep into someone’s vacation in Lisbon.

My partner has started saying “you’re on Instagram again, aren’t you” without looking up from their book. They don’t even say it like a question. It’s just a statement of fact. Like “it’s raining” or “the cat is on the counter.”

I’ve started lying about it. “No, I’m just checking the time.” Which is technically true. I was just checking the time. The 47 minutes of reels were just a side effect.

My Doctor Said Something About Blue Light Last Month

I went to the doctor last month because I haven’t slept properly in maybe eight months. She asked me about my screen habits and I told her I’m on screens all day for work and then I’m on screens all night because I’m a “knowledge worker” and that’s what we do. She gave me this look. The one where doctors look at you over their glasses like you’ve just told them something deeply concerning but they’re trying not to be judgy.

She told me to stop using screens after 9 PM. She told me to read a book instead. She told me to try meditation. She told me all the things you’re supposed to tell a 34-year-old who can feel their nervous system slowly disintegrating.

I told her I would. I told her I’d try. I told her meditation has never worked for me but I could try again.

I bought a book. It’s on the nightstand. I’ve opened it twice. Both times I opened Instagram on my phone within three minutes.

I’m not blaming the book. The book is fine. The book is “The Myth of Normal” by Gabor Maté. It’s a perfectly good book. I’m just not a book person, apparently. Or I’m not a person who can put down a phone once they pick it up. One of those.

I Asked My Therapist Why I Do This And She Said…

I have a therapist. I pay her $180 a session to ask me questions I should be asking myself. Last week I told her about the 11 PM scroll hole. I told her I can’t stop. I told her I lose two hours every night. I told her I feel like I’m wasting my life and I can’t stop doing it.

She asked me what I’m avoiding.

I told her I’m not avoiding anything. I’m just tired. I’m just decompressing. I’m just unwinding. I’m just doing what normal people do at night.

She gave me that look. The therapist look. Where they tilt their head slightly and say “and how does that feel” in a way that makes you want to scream.

I sat there for maybe 30 seconds before I said it out loud.

”I’m avoiding the silence.”

And she said “yeah” in this very small voice. And then she said “what’s in the silence that’s so scary?”

And I told her I don’t know. And I don’t. I don’t know what’s in the silence. I just know that when it’s quiet, and it’s dark, and nobody’s around, my brain starts running this list of everything I’ve ever done wrong. Every email I sent that I shouldn’t have. Every conversation I had that I wish I’d had differently. Every opportunity I missed. Every opportunity I’m missing right now, this very second, because I’m 36 and I’m lying in bed watching someone else’s vacation in Lisbon instead of doing anything that matters.

The 3 AM Convenience Store Run

Last Wednesday at 2 AM I was standing outside a convenience store on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. I had finished a bottle of wine at home alone — not because I was sad, just because it was a Wednesday and that’s what Wednesdays are for now — and I had somehow decided that the responsible adult thing to do was to add caffeine. So I was holding a Red Bull. My phone was in my other hand. I was looking at my ex’s new girlfriend’s Instagram stories.

She was in Lisbon. They were in Lisbon. Of course they were in Lisbon.

I stood there for maybe 4 minutes watching her stories. The first one was a sunset over the Tagus River. The second one was a pastéis de nata. The third one was her and my ex at some rooftop bar, smiling in a way that made my chest do this thing.

I closed Instagram. I drank half the Red Bull. I walked home.

Mom asked me on Sunday why I can’t just go to bed like a normal person. I told her “mom, I’m a timing artist.” She didn’t laugh. Honestly I didn’t even laugh. I just wanted her to stop asking. I don’t have an answer for her. I don’t have an answer for my doctor. I don’t have an answer for my therapist. I don’t have an answer for myself.

The Part Where I Admit I’m Writing This At 11:48 PM

I’m writing this at 11:48 PM. The cursor is blinking. I’m in bed. My partner is asleep. I’m writing this instead of sleeping, instead of meditating, instead of doing literally anything else that would be better for me.

My stomach is tightening. My chest is doing the thing. My palms are sweating. Not because I’m having a panic attack. Just because I’m aware that I’m doing the thing again. I’m aware that I know better. I’m aware that I keep doing it anyway.

I know this isn’t right. I’m conflicted too. But I just… I don’t know. I just wanted to put it somewhere. Anywhere. I just wanted to write it down so it wasn’t just sitting in my head at 2 AM while I’m standing outside a convenience store looking at my ex’s girlfriend’s vacation stories.

I’m such a mess. And I’m not even asking for help. I don’t want help. I don’t want advice. I just want to put this somewhere that isn’t Twitter at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday.

Verdict

I don’t have a point. I’m just tired. And I think a lot of us are tired in this specific way, in this specific hour, in this specific position — phone in hand, lights off, ceiling fan spinning, brain doing its worst. I’m not going to tell you to put your phone down. I’m not going to tell you to read a book. I’m just going to say — yeah. Me too. It’s 11:47 PM. I’m here too.