Escaping Escapism: From Drinking to Scrolling to Being Present

“Sit with it. Instead of drinking it away, smoking it away, sleeping it away, eating it away, or running from it. Just sit with it. Healing happens by feeling.” ~Unknown

I had no idea I had so many feelings until four years ago. I became sober and immediately started overflowing with emotions—emotions I never knew I had.

I stopped drinking just over a month after my twenty-fifth birthday, in January of 2021. I drank a lot in college, often going out Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights every week. Once I graduated, though, my drinking mellowed. I was still going out, but paying for my own drinks (as opposed to the free flow of alcohol at a college party) forced me to drink less to save more.

Early in 2020, my drinking increased again due to being stuck inside while in an unpleasant living situation. By the end of 2020, though, I again wasn’t drinking much—maybe a glass of wine or two during the weekend. I was, however, smoking weed daily.

Cannabis, a substance used by many to calm their anxiety, did the opposite for me. Every day after work, I would sit on the front porch and smoke a joint—through rain, snow, anything. I loved the heady feeling of being high.

When I was high, I felt motivated to become a better person (that motivation, however, lacked follow-up action). I felt like a child again, seeing everything with wonder in my (droopy red) eyes.

While I enjoyed the effects of weed, I also felt my anxiety, an ever-present being in my psyche, slowly become more intense. One harrowing night, after being up for hours having panic attacks caused by both alcohol and weed, I made the decision to try sobriety.

I went into sobriety with no expectations. It was an experiment for me, although I had a hunch I was on the right path. Would not smoking help my mental health? Would quitting drinking lower my anxiety? I was about to find out.

I realized that something changes when you stop engaging with harmful substances, almost like a switch slowly flips the less mind-altering drugs are in your body. Things become clear, like taking off glasses you didn’t know you were wearing. You realize things and remember things, especially things you didn’t expect. Thoughts you had forgotten, memories you thought you blocked, trauma you thought you had released.

There’s something about the absence of anything mind-altering in the body that makes things abundantly transparent. In early sobriety, I discovered that the anxiety I thought I was healed from was only lying dormant.

I’ve had anxiety my entire life; some of my earliest memories are of being anxious. I remember starting kindergarten nervous that my peers would make fun of me for the way I chewed.

By January 2021, I thought I had my anxiety under control. I was on the same medication I had started nine years prior. I was going to therapy regularly. I was familiar with the feeling of butterflies taking over my stomach, the wash of heat or cold that would overtake me during a really anxious moment.

I did not, however, know how to manage my anxiety without any substances. The second I stopped smoking daily, it felt like all the suppressed anxiety came to haunt me. My legs were constantly bouncing. My stomach was constantly upset. My heart was constantly pounding. I couldn’t go a day without at least an hour of panic attacks.

I was terrified and confused, thinking to myself, Shouldn’t I be feeling better? I thought I moved past these intense feelings ages ago.

With time, my panic attacks became fewer and farther between. I learned to allow the feelings to flow through my body—my legs would eventually stop bouncing, my stomach would eventually feel normal, my heart would eventually return to its natural rhythm.

But I still unconsciously tried to find distractions. I drank caffeine, and I scrolled on social media. I read a pile of self-help books without taking any action. Just reading the book is enough to feel successful in self-improvement, right? But really, I was in the same place as I was pre-sobriety. The only difference was I was suppressing my feelings with social media instead of the bottle or a joint.

Then I woke up one day and recognized that social media was serving the same purpose as substances did. I would get up on the weekends feeling hungover, even though I hadn’t drank the night before. I had, however, scrolled TikTok for an hour.

Getting out of bed after bingeing social media feels like getting out of bed after bingeing alcohol. I had stopped using substances, but I hadn’t stopped doing everything I could to get away from experiencing everything happening inside me.

Once I had this realization, I tried, desperately, to process my emotions, to feel my feelings, but the lure of TikTok was so strong. I’d tell myself only five minutes but would be in the same position an hour later with a stiff neck, berating myself for bingeing TikTok yet again.

Escapism was screaming in my ear, and it was so, so easy to give in. Reaching for a phone takes a second; processing an emotion takes minutes. Which one is easier? Which one is more beneficial? Which one will make me feel better?

I was stuck in this cycle of wanting to be in touch with my feelings, of wanting to embrace life, but continually falling into the trap of one addiction or another because it’s Just. So. Easy.

Our phones were designed to suck us in and rewire our brains to use them to escape our lives. And no matter how much I recognize that and how much I want to be fully present every day, I can’t seem to stop trying to ignore my feelings.

Every day when I get home from work, I ‘decompress,’ using my thirty minutes of allotted TikTok time curled up on the couch. I do feel refreshed after, but I can’t help but think, how close are we to living in the spaceship from Wall-E? How soon will we all be so glued to technology we’ll be physically allergic to human emotion?

When there were talks of TikTok getting banned in the US, people were freaking out. Influencers who make their income on the app were posting videos on where else they could be found. People were revealing secrets—some influencers even admitted to building their platforms on lies.

When did we become so dependent on an app? How have we gone from dial-up internet to tiny computers in our pockets that we can use anytime, anywhere in the course of my lifetime? And why are social media apps designed like casinos—to give us little dopamine hits here and there to keep us engaged and addicted?

When I phrase it like that, social media can be easily seen as evil. However, social media has also done a lot of good.

I’ve used TikTok to find tips on managing anxiety, on curing migraines, and workouts.

People have donated the money they’ve made to good causes—to rebuilding Asheville after Hurricane Helene, to Planned Parenthood, and to buy school lunches for children.

Unknown authors, singers, and comedians have gained fans and recognition.

How can something that’s done so much good be so bad at the same time? How do we, as humans with pleasure-seeking brains, reconcile this dichotomy? I regularly have this conversation with my therapist, as I recognize how far I’ve come.

It took two years of sobriety for me to WANT to acknowledge my feelings. Although I had been in therapy on and off since I was a child, my therapy became much more effective post-sobriety.

I felt like I was on the fast track to healing, like before I had been dragging my feet with my therapist, and now we were running together like athletes. It still took a while, however, to turn away from escapism and embrace my inner world.

It’s taken another two years to start becoming aware of every time I turn to one of my vices. Life is so busy that it’s easy for me to go a week drinking caffeine every day, or extending my TikTok screen time for fifteen more minutes four times in a row.

It’s taken years of building knowledge of what makes me feel good (for real) and what makes me feel like substances used to—good for a moment, bad for a while.

I love reading, and I always feel refreshed after taking some time out of my day to read. Listening to music can always put me in a good mood. How long is it going to take for me to fully let go of technology, of dampening my emotions to avoid unpleasantness? Will I ever find peace?

Had someone told me four years ago I would be writing about the similarities between substances and social media, I would’ve laughed and said, “They’re both so fun; they make my life better!” But that’s addiction, isn’t it? Even if you don’t have “a problem,” looking to external sources for your happiness will always end in suffering.

Although sobriety hasn’t solved my desire to escape, I do feel a lot better than before, and I continue improving every day. Over time, I’ve learned to accept and sit with my emotions. I know that everything will pass, even the most unpleasant feelings.

Four years in, I finally understand that vices are a way to run away from feelings. I may never totally escape escapism, but as long as I continue trying to choose presence and awareness, that will have to be enough.

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