The Case of Ronald
Ronald
always managed to do all that was required of him. In High School he had
been diligent and put average effort yet had succeeded and gone to a good
university. His mother used to tell her friends how smart Ronald was: “He
doesn’t study and still gets good grades”
Perhaps Ronald was an intelligent and responsible young man, but in his free time, he changed. In high school he started smoking and soon was smoking up to two packs of cigarettes in less than four hours. One afternoon he and his friend smoked so much that Ronald, who was built strong but thin and wiry, thought he was going to die. He turned pale and yellow, could not eat, and suffered from diarrhea. His mother found out about it, and he quit. So he went back to the routine: done with his numerous school duties, he would look out of the window of his house, at the other houses very much like his own, and not being able to come up with anything to do, would end up walking the dog or watching TV, all with a small measure of indignation.
College and Law School were similar. Ronald studied as hard as his fellow students, which was very hard, and managed to remain above average. He spent his free time similarly as well: drinking with his roommates or going to bars where he did about every stupid thing that a drunk college student does. Sometimes his drinking affected his studies, but it was never enough for him to worry. As long as he reminded above average, he did not care. But then he found an online video game and spent his free time playing that instead.
It was only when he started working as a lawyer that he began to enjoy every aspect of his life. He was an excellent researcher, able to find loopholes and recondite laws to create good infallible arguments––it did not feel like working––so he did not have to escape from it. He was satisfied with all aspects of his life for the first time. He had abundant energy and started thinking in all sorts of things he could do. However, he still played the video game quite a bit.
He enjoyed the first hour of it, which was usually the length of a match, but after that, he played it only out of habit and because his perception got ruined so that he could not see himself doing anything else. He knew this, but thought he could step off after one game. He played for hours instead, his mind only in the game.
It was a first person shooting game; the kind where your eyes and ears become the eyes and ears of your computer character as it moves rapidly through empty warehouses, army bases, and other labyrinthine scenarios. The game was irresistible, terribly addictive, and was played by hundreds of people around the globe. It had guns of unforeseeable power and special uses. The Tesla gun, which came on a green military metal box and had to be assembled on site, could raze entire cities, killing friend and foe alike. This was unproductive in most scenarios, but shooting it provided such a feeling of power, such an adrenaline rush, and, sometimes, such chuckles, that it was used regardless of the complaints of those whose game it ended abruptly.
This and other moments of glory inspired Ronald to play that first match. But these moments were infinite; there was always another way to shoot a gun, ambush an enemy, or cooperate with a teammate. So he played on until these became joyless and a way for him to step off the game: “I’ll do this level one more time, and I’ll quit,” he would say again––and then again, as the hours passed. Finally, when he had already wasted his evening, he would unglue himself from the computer by standing up awkwardly––his hands shaking, his eyes dried and stressed––turn the computer off, look at the space he had been sitting on, and feel disgust at the stagnant warmth and locker room smell that his body left after being there for hours. He would then look at the almost empty room of his two bedroom apartment, which he had remodeled to learn woodworking and feel stupid for having been suckered into playing. Then when he would go to bed and close his eyes and see a blur of images of the game and of his life mixed together that did not let him relax. Sometimes he even dreamned of these images. His bad sleep affected his performance at work the next day. There, his mind would not work properly. Hwould not be able to communicate well in meetings, would be slow in his research, and would be disorganized on his desk; furthermore, his confidence would shake, and he would be unsure of his arguments. Compromising even a bit of his job bothered him immensely, making him feel very guilty. And thus, he would promise himself never to play the game again.
One day (after not having played the game for a long time), while driving home, and later while cooking dinner, he thought about the game in a new way. He did not understand why he got so worked up about it. It was just one more fun activity in his life. Why deny himself that pleasure? He looked at the computer on his desk and his palms started to sweat. He felt the excitement of the game and decided to play just one match. He played three instead, which took him about two hours. When he stopped, he still had some time left to do carpentry. He was building a bench. But by the time he got his materials together, he realized there wasn’t enough time left in the night to advance the construction of anything. He had to leave it for tomorrow. At least, he had a good night’s sleep.
The next day at work he was not sluggish. He was his usual efficient self, and felt glad about it. It was possible to play the game––lightly––and work. “Tonight I’ll play one match,” he said to himself and thought about it the rest of the day. That night, he ate a quick dinner then jumped to his desk, turned the computer on, loaded the game, and immersed himself in the world of camouflaged clothing and grenade launchers. He won the first match by jumping off a building and shooting the enemy on the level below on the head. Despite this spectacular finish, Ronald was not satiated. He had still not done all the strategies and tactics he had envisioned while at work. So he played two more. After that one, he realized that much of his night had already been spent and decided to play again. The last few games he was tired and could not react quickly to the enemy’s footsteps. He cringed when the screen shook violently from the shots of an unknown assailant. As his character fell down and died, revenge sometimes would entice him for one more game. He played on pass midnight.
This happened for days. Soon he felt increasingly defeated and regretful for his lack of control. Every day he would get home and do one of two things: resign himself to play again––and maybe be lucky enough or skillful enough to have one of those moments of joy like been the top killer, etc.; or he would think of the game as just a game, a piece of plastic that had no power over him, think himself above it, and play again.
Then, as the game became a regular fixture in his life, his feeling of guilt and defeat would subside to numbness, making his life homogenous and empty. Up to eight hours a day, he continued to play the game until he would reach a new extreme of sickness that would, ironically, save him: an apartment that was disaster, unbearable back pain from sitting in front of the computer too long, a dim awareness of the richness of other people’s lives, a message on his phone from a person he wanted to talk to. At those moments he would wake up as if shaken up violently from sleep, stop playing, and more feel ably about himself than ever before.
He decided to talk to people about his problem. Most of them shrugged it off, telling him it was just a game––he should not take it seriously. This made Ronald want to play again, but he was now afraid. Then he got angry at himself for being afraid. After all, it was only a game. So he got excited about it and played the game, and the cycle began again. Everything but sitting in front of the computer, life and work, became a blur. After this last bout, he threw the game away.
He decided to talk to people who actually played the game. He knew two and talked to one of them over a cup of coffee: a middle aged man of a soft, round body and thinning hair. The game was addicting––for it was a lot of fun––but it was good after work to deal with stress, the man said. Ronald understood how once in the game, one could not think beyond it. But its ability to give you a momentary lapse from your life was not making him go back. He had used this kind of reasoning before and was not having any of it this time.
Ronald did not play the game for one month. A change in his life was noticeable. He felt lighter, less ponderous, and did his job quickly, with less effort. He started his wood working again, woke up early and biked to work, noticed his surroundings, enjoyed nature, kept his apartment clean and organized. Two months passed and his life seemed to be going in the right direction. He started wanting to go out and meet people, maybe meet that special someone.
One Friday, Ronald and his co-workers went out to a bar to celebrate a great legal victory: drinks up in the air, great atmosphere, food, and exaggerated work related stories, “Remember when you... Remember when the boss…” It was a night of fun and camaraderie among the lawyers. Across the table sat an attractive female co-worker of playful eyes that Ronald had always wanted to meet. He talked to her, and to his joyful surprise, she returned his advances. He got her phone number. That night in the bar he saw the other person who played the game. He was an outgoing fellow with an aura of success, also a lawyer. He was dressed in a suit and looked sharp.
“I don’t see you in the game anymore.” He said to Ronald
“I am not playing. I can’t handle it. I trashed it.” Ronald said, surprising himself with his candidness.
“Really!” Said his friend incredulously
“I can’t do it.” Ronald said––irritated––wanting to end the conversation.
When they parted, Ronald thought about how remarkable his friend was. He could play the game and have a life. Ronald accepted the fact that he could not. Other people may be able to handle it, not him.
A few days later, Ronald went on a date with the girl he had met. He had a wonderful time. The next day he felt that all the pieces of his life were coming together, and that the world at large was going in the right direction. He looked back at his recent past and it seemed to work so that this moment would come to fruition. Then, in a little corner of his mind, neurons that were still big and strong but had not fired in a while, glowed. He vaguely remembered the video game, as if it was something he had done years ago––in a different life time. He remembered running with his teammates to ambush and enemy, the joy of the surprise attack, and the celebration. Perhaps now he was strong enough to play the game. He thought about the player who managed to play and live well, and decided to buy the game.
He drove to the computer store after and saw it on the shelf. There was something deviant in the act––like disobeying his father, doing something mischievous or prohibited. Ronald’s palms and brow sweated as he picked it up and walked to the cash register and bought it. Once in his car, he put it on the passenger’s sit and drove home thinking what character he wanted to use with the shotgun.
Halfway on his drive, his excitement dwindled. He turned his head and saw the game’s box with its little screen shots and felt stupid––forty dollars to crouch in front of a flat screen that hurt the eyes while pressing little plastic buttons with his fingers, he thought. In that time, he could do woodwork, go play basketball, come up with something to do with his new date. Furthermore, he remembered himself in that position, and the smell––his own smell, which after hours of playing, concentrated on that spot. He had wasted his money. At home he threw the game on the sofa and fixed dinner.
He was to write the list of materials needed for a carpentry project, a birdhouse for a neighbor. He glanced at the game on the sofa. It seemed insignificant. It did not compare to his life now. He did not understand how he had taken it so seriously. It was so pathetic. So he decided to play one game to reminisce about the good old days. He proceeded about it with unusual detachment, getting it out of the box, installing it, and as soon as he noticed that old excitement, he pushed it out his mind. The situation seemed ridiculous; sitting there on his butt, pressing the arrow key and the screen moving in one direction, pressing the space key and a digital gun firing and hitting a digital monster, digital blood gorging out of it. He thought it all stupid, unreal, and dull. When the first match ended, he felt like playing one more harmless game. He suddenly feared this and stopped.
The next day he came home after work to prepare for his second date with the girl. After readying himself, he still had an hour. Since he had nothing to do, he thought how, time wise, playing one match would fit perfectly. He quickly went to the computer––he had little time to lose––and clicked on the game. As it opened, he did not notice how exited he was and lost himself in a battle that lasted an hour and a half. While playing, the phone rang twice. He knew it was her, but he figured he would make it to the restaurant on time since one match usually ended in about an hour. The battle ended, he looked at his watch, and realized he was forty minutes late to pick her up. Regaining his sanity, he ran for the phone and called her cell phone. He did not tell her about the game––that would have been too embarrassing––but he implored her to forgive him. She finally did, and she did it only because his desperation seemed truthful.
Ronald then cursed himself to hell for letting the video game screw him one more time. He then realized this was not going to do any good. It would make him more susceptible to resigning himself back to the life of the game––a life he now utterly disliked. Even if he had really screwed up with this girl, his own self punishment was of no use. It was all up to him. Whether the game was good or bad, it was up to him to decide. Before, he had thought of playing the game as bad and had felt sorry for himself and had become overwhelmed by his sense of guilt. But what if he played the game as if it would be a great basketball game, an exhilarating legal battle, something positive in his life?
Ronald decided to play the game again with this new realization in mind. After playing for another hour, he did not allow himself to think or feel bad about it and decided, since it was mildly fun, to go for another match, then another, then another. It was 2:30 am and he had played since six pm, and the game was not that much fun anymore. He played on, accomplishing more and more missions. Something always kept him entertained and oblivious to much else. He kept playing for as long as his obsession desired and his physical body allowed. Time went by fast running through the corridors, loading and changing guns, racking up points, shooting down other players. Gradually, his body started to feel as if at the end of a road trip. The last battle he played, he wished it to end soon to get out of his chair. When he did, morning light had arrived and his eyes hurt and were unfocused. He went to bed and woke up three hours later at 10 a.m. to call sick at work, then played the game until one in the afternoon instead of going back to sleep. He remembered not to feel sorry about his behavior, but this decision seemed distant and blurry, for his mind was zapped from playing for so long. He was tired the rest of the day and went to bed early. It was Friday. He played the game all day Saturday and Sunday.
Monday at work his body and mind were sluggish, insipid, and his muscles and his back hurt. This made his day long, and somber; he daydreamed about the game, it was the only thing he could think about. When he got home he wanted to play for an hour and go exercise. He played for three hours instead. Now the gym was close. But he was not going to beat himself up or feel guilty anymore, this was his decision and he was in control, so he decided to go for a run around the neighborhood and to play afterwards. As he tied his shoelaces, he felt a powerful rush of anger. He walked outside and paced back and forth and punched and kicked the air while cursing. But he was not going to feel sorry. Then why was he so mad? He concluded that he was mad at the foolishness of the situation. He would always enjoy the game. No matter what would happen in his life, he could always play hours and hours of it. He was angry at the simplicity of what he had not realized: that playing the game was a waste of his mother fucking time, his time lost to a cheap trick. If he played the game for years and years, that’s precisely what would happen. But he did not want that to happen, it was worthless masturbation. Ronald went to his bedroom and, with surprising difficulty, with the fear of standing at the edge of a cliff, as if doing something that would leave him utterly alone in uncharted territory, he merged all his strength with his intent, uninstalled the game, and put it in its box. Then he thought about destroying it, burning it, but this would project to it a power it only possessed in his head. So with logic and reasoning that he found difficult to sustain, he walked to his car, drove to a used video game store, and left the game in front of its close doors. Others could enjoy it; he had to walk away from it.
Back home, lying in bed, he found it difficult to maintain his commitment. His mind played tricks on him, wanting him to go back to the comfort of the game. The size of his habit was that of an enormous beast that had been horribly overfed for years and years. Ronald was not only leaving the game behind, he was leaving a part of his personality behind, a personality that had been with him a long time. He said “I am done” softly, slowly, measurably, repeatedly––and gradually succumbed to this words, falling sleep hours later.
And so Ronald got rid of his vice and went on to live a fuller much more coherent life than the polarized one he lived before. It took time to develop new habits to fill in the gaps of his free time and to avoid going back to the game when things went sour. But as long as he repeated that he was done, again and again, as if this was a type of mantra, he was fine.
Perhaps Ronald was an intelligent and responsible young man, but in his free time, he changed. In high school he started smoking and soon was smoking up to two packs of cigarettes in less than four hours. One afternoon he and his friend smoked so much that Ronald, who was built strong but thin and wiry, thought he was going to die. He turned pale and yellow, could not eat, and suffered from diarrhea. His mother found out about it, and he quit. So he went back to the routine: done with his numerous school duties, he would look out of the window of his house, at the other houses very much like his own, and not being able to come up with anything to do, would end up walking the dog or watching TV, all with a small measure of indignation.
College and Law School were similar. Ronald studied as hard as his fellow students, which was very hard, and managed to remain above average. He spent his free time similarly as well: drinking with his roommates or going to bars where he did about every stupid thing that a drunk college student does. Sometimes his drinking affected his studies, but it was never enough for him to worry. As long as he reminded above average, he did not care. But then he found an online video game and spent his free time playing that instead.
It was only when he started working as a lawyer that he began to enjoy every aspect of his life. He was an excellent researcher, able to find loopholes and recondite laws to create good infallible arguments––it did not feel like working––so he did not have to escape from it. He was satisfied with all aspects of his life for the first time. He had abundant energy and started thinking in all sorts of things he could do. However, he still played the video game quite a bit.
He enjoyed the first hour of it, which was usually the length of a match, but after that, he played it only out of habit and because his perception got ruined so that he could not see himself doing anything else. He knew this, but thought he could step off after one game. He played for hours instead, his mind only in the game.
It was a first person shooting game; the kind where your eyes and ears become the eyes and ears of your computer character as it moves rapidly through empty warehouses, army bases, and other labyrinthine scenarios. The game was irresistible, terribly addictive, and was played by hundreds of people around the globe. It had guns of unforeseeable power and special uses. The Tesla gun, which came on a green military metal box and had to be assembled on site, could raze entire cities, killing friend and foe alike. This was unproductive in most scenarios, but shooting it provided such a feeling of power, such an adrenaline rush, and, sometimes, such chuckles, that it was used regardless of the complaints of those whose game it ended abruptly.
This and other moments of glory inspired Ronald to play that first match. But these moments were infinite; there was always another way to shoot a gun, ambush an enemy, or cooperate with a teammate. So he played on until these became joyless and a way for him to step off the game: “I’ll do this level one more time, and I’ll quit,” he would say again––and then again, as the hours passed. Finally, when he had already wasted his evening, he would unglue himself from the computer by standing up awkwardly––his hands shaking, his eyes dried and stressed––turn the computer off, look at the space he had been sitting on, and feel disgust at the stagnant warmth and locker room smell that his body left after being there for hours. He would then look at the almost empty room of his two bedroom apartment, which he had remodeled to learn woodworking and feel stupid for having been suckered into playing. Then when he would go to bed and close his eyes and see a blur of images of the game and of his life mixed together that did not let him relax. Sometimes he even dreamned of these images. His bad sleep affected his performance at work the next day. There, his mind would not work properly. Hwould not be able to communicate well in meetings, would be slow in his research, and would be disorganized on his desk; furthermore, his confidence would shake, and he would be unsure of his arguments. Compromising even a bit of his job bothered him immensely, making him feel very guilty. And thus, he would promise himself never to play the game again.
One day (after not having played the game for a long time), while driving home, and later while cooking dinner, he thought about the game in a new way. He did not understand why he got so worked up about it. It was just one more fun activity in his life. Why deny himself that pleasure? He looked at the computer on his desk and his palms started to sweat. He felt the excitement of the game and decided to play just one match. He played three instead, which took him about two hours. When he stopped, he still had some time left to do carpentry. He was building a bench. But by the time he got his materials together, he realized there wasn’t enough time left in the night to advance the construction of anything. He had to leave it for tomorrow. At least, he had a good night’s sleep.
The next day at work he was not sluggish. He was his usual efficient self, and felt glad about it. It was possible to play the game––lightly––and work. “Tonight I’ll play one match,” he said to himself and thought about it the rest of the day. That night, he ate a quick dinner then jumped to his desk, turned the computer on, loaded the game, and immersed himself in the world of camouflaged clothing and grenade launchers. He won the first match by jumping off a building and shooting the enemy on the level below on the head. Despite this spectacular finish, Ronald was not satiated. He had still not done all the strategies and tactics he had envisioned while at work. So he played two more. After that one, he realized that much of his night had already been spent and decided to play again. The last few games he was tired and could not react quickly to the enemy’s footsteps. He cringed when the screen shook violently from the shots of an unknown assailant. As his character fell down and died, revenge sometimes would entice him for one more game. He played on pass midnight.
This happened for days. Soon he felt increasingly defeated and regretful for his lack of control. Every day he would get home and do one of two things: resign himself to play again––and maybe be lucky enough or skillful enough to have one of those moments of joy like been the top killer, etc.; or he would think of the game as just a game, a piece of plastic that had no power over him, think himself above it, and play again.
Then, as the game became a regular fixture in his life, his feeling of guilt and defeat would subside to numbness, making his life homogenous and empty. Up to eight hours a day, he continued to play the game until he would reach a new extreme of sickness that would, ironically, save him: an apartment that was disaster, unbearable back pain from sitting in front of the computer too long, a dim awareness of the richness of other people’s lives, a message on his phone from a person he wanted to talk to. At those moments he would wake up as if shaken up violently from sleep, stop playing, and more feel ably about himself than ever before.
He decided to talk to people about his problem. Most of them shrugged it off, telling him it was just a game––he should not take it seriously. This made Ronald want to play again, but he was now afraid. Then he got angry at himself for being afraid. After all, it was only a game. So he got excited about it and played the game, and the cycle began again. Everything but sitting in front of the computer, life and work, became a blur. After this last bout, he threw the game away.
He decided to talk to people who actually played the game. He knew two and talked to one of them over a cup of coffee: a middle aged man of a soft, round body and thinning hair. The game was addicting––for it was a lot of fun––but it was good after work to deal with stress, the man said. Ronald understood how once in the game, one could not think beyond it. But its ability to give you a momentary lapse from your life was not making him go back. He had used this kind of reasoning before and was not having any of it this time.
Ronald did not play the game for one month. A change in his life was noticeable. He felt lighter, less ponderous, and did his job quickly, with less effort. He started his wood working again, woke up early and biked to work, noticed his surroundings, enjoyed nature, kept his apartment clean and organized. Two months passed and his life seemed to be going in the right direction. He started wanting to go out and meet people, maybe meet that special someone.
One Friday, Ronald and his co-workers went out to a bar to celebrate a great legal victory: drinks up in the air, great atmosphere, food, and exaggerated work related stories, “Remember when you... Remember when the boss…” It was a night of fun and camaraderie among the lawyers. Across the table sat an attractive female co-worker of playful eyes that Ronald had always wanted to meet. He talked to her, and to his joyful surprise, she returned his advances. He got her phone number. That night in the bar he saw the other person who played the game. He was an outgoing fellow with an aura of success, also a lawyer. He was dressed in a suit and looked sharp.
“I don’t see you in the game anymore.” He said to Ronald
“I am not playing. I can’t handle it. I trashed it.” Ronald said, surprising himself with his candidness.
“Really!” Said his friend incredulously
“I can’t do it.” Ronald said––irritated––wanting to end the conversation.
When they parted, Ronald thought about how remarkable his friend was. He could play the game and have a life. Ronald accepted the fact that he could not. Other people may be able to handle it, not him.
A few days later, Ronald went on a date with the girl he had met. He had a wonderful time. The next day he felt that all the pieces of his life were coming together, and that the world at large was going in the right direction. He looked back at his recent past and it seemed to work so that this moment would come to fruition. Then, in a little corner of his mind, neurons that were still big and strong but had not fired in a while, glowed. He vaguely remembered the video game, as if it was something he had done years ago––in a different life time. He remembered running with his teammates to ambush and enemy, the joy of the surprise attack, and the celebration. Perhaps now he was strong enough to play the game. He thought about the player who managed to play and live well, and decided to buy the game.
He drove to the computer store after and saw it on the shelf. There was something deviant in the act––like disobeying his father, doing something mischievous or prohibited. Ronald’s palms and brow sweated as he picked it up and walked to the cash register and bought it. Once in his car, he put it on the passenger’s sit and drove home thinking what character he wanted to use with the shotgun.
Halfway on his drive, his excitement dwindled. He turned his head and saw the game’s box with its little screen shots and felt stupid––forty dollars to crouch in front of a flat screen that hurt the eyes while pressing little plastic buttons with his fingers, he thought. In that time, he could do woodwork, go play basketball, come up with something to do with his new date. Furthermore, he remembered himself in that position, and the smell––his own smell, which after hours of playing, concentrated on that spot. He had wasted his money. At home he threw the game on the sofa and fixed dinner.
He was to write the list of materials needed for a carpentry project, a birdhouse for a neighbor. He glanced at the game on the sofa. It seemed insignificant. It did not compare to his life now. He did not understand how he had taken it so seriously. It was so pathetic. So he decided to play one game to reminisce about the good old days. He proceeded about it with unusual detachment, getting it out of the box, installing it, and as soon as he noticed that old excitement, he pushed it out his mind. The situation seemed ridiculous; sitting there on his butt, pressing the arrow key and the screen moving in one direction, pressing the space key and a digital gun firing and hitting a digital monster, digital blood gorging out of it. He thought it all stupid, unreal, and dull. When the first match ended, he felt like playing one more harmless game. He suddenly feared this and stopped.
The next day he came home after work to prepare for his second date with the girl. After readying himself, he still had an hour. Since he had nothing to do, he thought how, time wise, playing one match would fit perfectly. He quickly went to the computer––he had little time to lose––and clicked on the game. As it opened, he did not notice how exited he was and lost himself in a battle that lasted an hour and a half. While playing, the phone rang twice. He knew it was her, but he figured he would make it to the restaurant on time since one match usually ended in about an hour. The battle ended, he looked at his watch, and realized he was forty minutes late to pick her up. Regaining his sanity, he ran for the phone and called her cell phone. He did not tell her about the game––that would have been too embarrassing––but he implored her to forgive him. She finally did, and she did it only because his desperation seemed truthful.
Ronald then cursed himself to hell for letting the video game screw him one more time. He then realized this was not going to do any good. It would make him more susceptible to resigning himself back to the life of the game––a life he now utterly disliked. Even if he had really screwed up with this girl, his own self punishment was of no use. It was all up to him. Whether the game was good or bad, it was up to him to decide. Before, he had thought of playing the game as bad and had felt sorry for himself and had become overwhelmed by his sense of guilt. But what if he played the game as if it would be a great basketball game, an exhilarating legal battle, something positive in his life?
Ronald decided to play the game again with this new realization in mind. After playing for another hour, he did not allow himself to think or feel bad about it and decided, since it was mildly fun, to go for another match, then another, then another. It was 2:30 am and he had played since six pm, and the game was not that much fun anymore. He played on, accomplishing more and more missions. Something always kept him entertained and oblivious to much else. He kept playing for as long as his obsession desired and his physical body allowed. Time went by fast running through the corridors, loading and changing guns, racking up points, shooting down other players. Gradually, his body started to feel as if at the end of a road trip. The last battle he played, he wished it to end soon to get out of his chair. When he did, morning light had arrived and his eyes hurt and were unfocused. He went to bed and woke up three hours later at 10 a.m. to call sick at work, then played the game until one in the afternoon instead of going back to sleep. He remembered not to feel sorry about his behavior, but this decision seemed distant and blurry, for his mind was zapped from playing for so long. He was tired the rest of the day and went to bed early. It was Friday. He played the game all day Saturday and Sunday.
Monday at work his body and mind were sluggish, insipid, and his muscles and his back hurt. This made his day long, and somber; he daydreamed about the game, it was the only thing he could think about. When he got home he wanted to play for an hour and go exercise. He played for three hours instead. Now the gym was close. But he was not going to beat himself up or feel guilty anymore, this was his decision and he was in control, so he decided to go for a run around the neighborhood and to play afterwards. As he tied his shoelaces, he felt a powerful rush of anger. He walked outside and paced back and forth and punched and kicked the air while cursing. But he was not going to feel sorry. Then why was he so mad? He concluded that he was mad at the foolishness of the situation. He would always enjoy the game. No matter what would happen in his life, he could always play hours and hours of it. He was angry at the simplicity of what he had not realized: that playing the game was a waste of his mother fucking time, his time lost to a cheap trick. If he played the game for years and years, that’s precisely what would happen. But he did not want that to happen, it was worthless masturbation. Ronald went to his bedroom and, with surprising difficulty, with the fear of standing at the edge of a cliff, as if doing something that would leave him utterly alone in uncharted territory, he merged all his strength with his intent, uninstalled the game, and put it in its box. Then he thought about destroying it, burning it, but this would project to it a power it only possessed in his head. So with logic and reasoning that he found difficult to sustain, he walked to his car, drove to a used video game store, and left the game in front of its close doors. Others could enjoy it; he had to walk away from it.
Back home, lying in bed, he found it difficult to maintain his commitment. His mind played tricks on him, wanting him to go back to the comfort of the game. The size of his habit was that of an enormous beast that had been horribly overfed for years and years. Ronald was not only leaving the game behind, he was leaving a part of his personality behind, a personality that had been with him a long time. He said “I am done” softly, slowly, measurably, repeatedly––and gradually succumbed to this words, falling sleep hours later.
And so Ronald got rid of his vice and went on to live a fuller much more coherent life than the polarized one he lived before. It took time to develop new habits to fill in the gaps of his free time and to avoid going back to the game when things went sour. But as long as he repeated that he was done, again and again, as if this was a type of mantra, he was fine.