People can send you messages all the time, people you don’t even wanna hear from
How I fell out of love with texting
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How I fell out of love with texting
I turned off my notifications years ago. It was both a productivity hack and a sensory thing. When you work in a newsroom, pings and beeps and ringing and talking and typing are all part of the tapestry of noise. Working from a cafe, too, they’re not a problem. Here, they blend in with the scraping chairs, whirring coffee machines, bleeping of contactless payments, and social chatter. But working from home, every little sound becomes acute. The letterbox, a car door, the cat suddenly having some inscrutable argument with me about the deep unsuitability of his living conditions, despite the fact that he’s been happily asleep on the bed for the last hour. The clank of glass lets me know the neighbours are putting out their recycling. Beeping says the washing machine is done. Is that the side gate banging again? Who the fuck is drilling? I hear everything. In some ways you could argue it’s a form of mindfulness.
So my phone doesn’t beep. It doesn’t light up. Unless somebody literally calls me (in 2024?!) it just sits quietly, letting me know the time in a rotating selection of fonts and styles. Or, it would. I usually put it face down. But even as it sits, dark-screened and silent on the table next to my desk (not on my desk, that’s far too tempting), I can never uncouple myself from it entirely. I am never not aware of its presence, of my ability to pick it up and look at it. I both want this and do not want it. I want it because my phone is where my friends live, both the real ones and the social media ones. But I also do not want it. Because if I don’t look at my phone, I can stay here in this peaceful bubble, pretending that all I need to focus on is the task in front of me; this page, this essay, this newsletter.
As soon as I pick up my phone I see the green square with its perky little speech bubble. It promises fun and connection but I know that what it really brings is admin and overwhelm. Behind its innocent green facade are a whole host of Things I Have To Deal With.
I’ve muted conversations, archived group chats, applied all the little tricks, but I can’t turn off the knowledge that behind that icon, the messages are still ticking in, the numbers of people expecting a reply from me are mounting. As I type this, I suddenly remember that I never texted my mother in law back after she messaged to ask about my husband’s birthday present. I feel an instant prick of anxiety. So much so that I pause at the end of my sentence and add it to my to-do list.
This is not how it’s supposed to be, surely?
I used to love texting; the thrill of establishing a repartee, of seeing the other person “typing” and giggling in anticipation, even as you bash out your own razor-sharp rejoinder. In a romantic context, the giddy joy of seeing your crush’s name with a fresh green circle by it announcing you have one (Or two! Or three! Or more!) new message; fresh material to add to the burgeoning collection of messages, conversations, even passing remarks you are playing on repeat in your head these days. Even not hearing from them felt good, sometimes. Checking my phone after a few hours and seeing nothing (yet), would set off a tantalising ache, a delicious longing, adding piquancy to what was often a fairly mundane correspondence. Even the inevitable let down of the messages, (“Haha, yeah”, “Can’t wait x”) couldn’t detract from the overall excitement of the exchange. The pleasure was not in the interaction itself, but what I projected onto the interaction, what the interaction symbolised, what it became to me, in my head.
And sexting. God, I loved sexting. Sitting, squirming at my desk, I’d wait, almost literally panting, for my phone to ping, berating myself for not being able to get any work done but loving every minute of it. Glancing furtively at the message I’d have to do everything in my power not to groan out loud. I’d fire off a few emojis to let them know I’d received it with thanks, and return to my work, only to stare at my computer blankly for ten minutes before escaping to the loo to compose a proper response. I had a tendency to go hard for limerence and I regret, though am not particularly ashamed, to say that I have lost days, weeks, (months?) to my phone in this way. There’s a particular period in my past when I can actually look at my invoicing records and see how little work I was getting done.
Texting was always supposed to be an immediate form of communication, that’s its appeal. It’s instant messaging; punchy, casual, on-the-spot. It was perfect for “running late, be with you in 15”, it wasn’t really for big catch ups or for making complicated plans. It was little notes, chunks of speedy back-and-forth. I used to live for that volley. “Ouch! Retract those claws,” I distinctly remember my now-husband texting me after a particularly searing comeback. I can’t remember what I’d said. What I do remember from those early days of texting each other is noticing how well he parried.
Over time, though, texting replaced calling. And then it replaced emailing. My inbox now is strictly work, invoices from my therapist, and promotional emails from companies whose services I’ve used or whose products I’ve bought. Absolutely everyone else, from my mum, to the plumber, to my daughter’s childminder, to the people I’m dating, to the Amazon delivery driver, to the Year 1 parents’ group chat, to my best friends, to the NHS texts me.
For a long time I thought texting was my best medium. I am a writer, I would tell myself (and other people), so expressing myself in text comes naturally to me. It’s where I am able to be the most authentic, the most accurate. It’s where I can truly harness what it is I want to say and communicate it clearly. And that might be true in some situations. Suggesting a time and a place to meet up, for example. Tossing off a witty line about a news story someone’s sent me. Talking about my feelings, though? Not so much. Feeling genuinely connected? Fuck, no.
Texting is asynchronous so communicating my needs feels like it ought to be easier. If I feel vulnerable it’s okay because I do not have to witness their response in real time. I’ve said as much to other people: “It’s much easier to have conversations about sex and boundaries by text because you have the time and space to think about what you want to say, you can experience your automatic reaction in privacy, and reply at your own pace.”
But actually it’s a lot of work to communicate effectively over text. A lot more than just saying it out loud. Out loud, you have expressions, tone of voice, opportunities for clarification and all the rest. No matter how many times you draft it out in your Notes app, texting feels dry and empty by comparison. And you have no idea when or if they’re going to respond. Not only have you put all that time and energy into crafting the message, but you then have the agonising experience of waiting. In real life people don’t just ditch conversations mid-flow. When you ask someone a question to their face they don’t ignore you for five days and then say “argh sorry hectic week but sure”.
Sometimes, when the stakes felt particularly high, when the anticipation of the response felt so sharp as to be unbearable, I would archive a conversation. I didn’t want to see it loitering in my feed when I opened the app, spiking my adrenaline as I mentally played out all the things it might say. I wanted to be able to go to it when I felt ready. So I’d hide conversations from myself in order to regain some control over their pacing, over their impact on my day.
At other times, I’d do it simply to save a message for later, to give myself something to look forward to. I’d see a flurry of texts come in from a favourite friend, or watch the messages stack up in the groupchat and I’d bargain with myself: “Right, finish this piece of work, get the kids to bed and then you can sit down with a glass of wine and read those messages.”
I felt the same way about voice notes. During lockdown, I was in a relationship where we used to send each other voice notes instead of texting. Seeing a five (or seven, or ten) minute recording pop up on my phone never failed to make me smile. It was a shiny jewel of novelty and connection in a time when my life lacked both. I would take great pleasure in listening to them as I took my daily walk around Brockwell Park, before recording my replies, my glove attached to the end of my phone to act as a windshield in the bitter January air. Other times I would wait until my son was in bed, run myself a bath and pour a gin and tonic into one of the thermal cups I’d bought for outdoor socialising but which, I discovered, were also just a really great way to keep your drinks cool in a steamy bathroom. Then, lying back with my cocktail in hand, I’d listen as I soaked. I replied from the bath too, of course. There’s nothing quite like listening to someone talk and knowing they were naked at the time, hearing the occasional gentle splash of their body moving in the hot water, imagining their flushed skin, condensation beading on their chest.
I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was the pandemic. Maybe there’s an extent to which digital communication lost its lustre when it became virtually the only form of communication. Or perhaps I just did too much of it. Maybe I did so much fucking texting between 2020 and 2022 that I basically never want to text again. It could be that. I don’t know.
I don’t know if the time I spent intensely working on a book project, putting locks on all my social media by necessity, broke the habit. It might have done. I don’t know if being on maternity leave with a new baby, and the acute loneliness that accompanies it, brought into focus the ersatz connection of the digital exchange. I don’t know if it’s the excruciating, futile attempts to “find a date we can all do” when trying to meet up with a group of friends. I don’t know if it’s the endless fucking groupchats for every little aspect of life (my son’s class at school, my son’s afterschool club, every single birthday party my son ever gets invited to). I don’t know if it’s my mum’s habit of texting me three follow-up question marks if a message of hers goes unanswered for more than eight hours. Somewhere along the way I’ve fallen hard out of love with texting.
There are a few notable exceptions. A few friends who I have a fairly regular back and forth with, but whom I know well enough and have a genuine enough offline relationship with, that we somehow manage to seamlessly transition between silly lightheartedness and serious chats without anyone feeling slighted or ignored or put upon. I have a chats I enjoy, a few exchanges I look forward to. But most of the time, it feels like work.
There’s a clip from NBC News in 1994 where the presenters are discussing this new-fangled craze, “the internet,” what it will mean, and how to pronounce the @ symbol. “I have no desire to be part of the internet,” explains one commentator. “I feel so inundated with information all the time that I don’t want more.” Talking about the advent of email, another presenter points out, “At least when you’re at home, if the phone rings you have the option of not answering it. On the internet people can send you messages all the time, people you don’t even wanna hear from.”
Do you love or hate texting? Are you a good sexter or do you find it excruciating? Does your to-do list of digital admin feel overwhelming?
Holy shit can you please get out of my brain! Been feeling all of this the past year or so, but haven't been able to articulate it as beautifully as you have.
P.S. Thanks for the bath + cold gin and tonic inspo. Will be doing that tonight while I continue to ignore my unread WhatsApps
This article made me laugh a lot, esp this bit: "the excruciating, futile attempts to “find a date we can all do” when trying to meet up with a group of friends. I don’t know if it’s the endless fucking groupchats for every little aspect of life (my son’s class at school, my son’s afterschool club, every single birthday party my son ever gets invited to). I don’t know if it’s my mum’s habit of texting me three follow-up question marks if a message of hers goes unanswered for more than eight hours. Somewhere along the way I’ve fallen hard out of love with texting."
I def did a lot less messaging in 2023 and it did feel like harder work, and you've really captured why that is. My boyfriend and I are developing a minimalist form of communication involving veg emojis e.g. broccoli means "I know you're feeling anti-social and down right now so I'm only very gently suggesting we might meet for a drink because you've said in the past that you do actually feel better once you've had some social interaction". A cauliflower means "I'd like to do that thing in bed this weekend". It's a lot less work and so far actually less opportunities for misunderstanding.