It's the strangest thing...

For a long while, the internet has served as a lifeline of sorts for me. It's tethered me to the outside world (in a certain sense - from another viewpoint, it's done exactly the opposite) when I wasn't out there actively being a part of it. It's a sad, sad concept, I know. But I imagine that if you're reading this, you know the phenomenon which I'm trying to put into words firsthand. My affair with all things e started innocently enough, with a first timid step: a modem, a phone line, and some surreal dimension in which bits of information and indeed other people manifested, yet in my limited perception did not actually exist.

At first, I didn't even know how to navigate. The whole things was confusing. Then I finally learned what the "Go" button was for. (Laugh if you like. When I was growing up, we had ... Commodore's or Apple's. You know. You inserted your floppy - the real kind, waited for the neon green prompt, typed "Run Whatever" and played your Math Blaster game. Or you raced that 4-pixel bunny around the maze an got a carrot.) Slowly but surely, I started to get a feel for it. I discovered Napster. I discovered the joy of personal webspace. I discovered chat rooms.

There's where the problem really started. I started talking to people. I formed what can be loosely termed friendships. I took an interest in these witty names scrolling across my screen, and they in me. I downloaded instant messengers, and began talking to people outside of the chat rooms as well as in. I began easing up on my strict self-imposed guidelines, began to reveal minute personal details, such as my real name, my age, my home state...

At some point, my life online became more important to me than the life I lived away from the computer. I neglected my husband, my son, myself. I left chores undone, I avoided leaving the house for any reason. How could I go out? Someone might come online while I was gone, and I didn't want to miss them. I developed familiar cramps in my neck from hunching over my keyboard, my glassy eyes glued to the warm, steady glow of my monitor. And through it all, I maintained that nothing had changed. I was perfectly fine. I did not care about the computer more than I cared about what was true and tangible around me.

Well, maybe that wasn't entirely right. I was obsessed with the internet. I was addicted, dare I say it. I was driven to spend every waking moment I could online. I found myself sneaking around, telling lies, just so I could have a little more time on the net. I constantly denied that it was a problem, even though it was painfully clear to everyone else.

So what changed? Why do I see it now, when I didn't before? Why don't I care now, when before the thought of an hour offline was unbearable? I don't know. I don't know why it isn't important to me anymore, why I care less and less with each passing day. But I do. Now, I still adore my little corner of the web. I still care very much about a few people that I've met over the past few years, whom I have forged some fragile bond of friendship with, despite distances and impossible connections. To tell the truth though, that's all. My obsession has faded into quiet interest, and that's fading into indifference. And I'm happy. It's the way it should be. My focus is on me, my life, my family, and I like it this way.

Dear Internet,

I am breaking up with you. We have had some good times, but I feel that you and I have grown apart. Don't blame yourself - It's me. I hope that we can still be friends and see each other from time to time, really. But the magic is gone, and I just don't feel that same about you anymore. Besides, you're kind of demanding. I hope you can understand.

Your Truly,
Me