Someday, being Chronically Online is going to be in the DSM.
And my photo will be there.
When I die, they will slice open my brain and find holes where the Internet ate clean through my lobes and folds1 and left nothing but dark tunnels to nowhere. They might not even find a brain, actually, just a pile of dusty memes in my big ol’ cranium.
I grew up with and on the Internet, for better (hello, career!) and for worse (hello, stalkers!). I have littered the digital ether with LiveJournals and MySpaces and Tumblers and Tweets.
And I have — too many times — lost my absolutely mind on this place. And never was I worse — as a person and an online figure2 — than from 2016-2021.
It was a terrifying time (though what did we know of the horrors to come) and I was a terrified person and did what many terrified people do: freak out on other people.
I was quick to judge (and point a finger or two), I was loud and annoying and righteous and — to paraphrase the best scene in Billy Madison — at no point in…