How to Temporarily Stop the Internet From Eating Your Brain

A new way to write a gratitude list. Jenny Odell is a genius. Jenny Liou is also one. A new Pema book.

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Let’s burrow. — AJD

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A few hours after Hulk Hogan's death, I was asked by a couple of publications to write a piece about it, which I had suspected might happen. One of the publications was a place I always dreamed of writing for, but I became skittish thinking about another audience that doesn't know my life now or who only knows me through my association with Gawker. I thought they would think it was insulting if I told a recovery story that didn't involve an uncomfortable amount of throat-clearing contrition before I got into the magic healing stuff. And I wondered if anyone reading my essay in another more august mainstream publication would become too distracted by my not itemizing his lowlights thoroughly enough, like his racism and the dozens of other bad things that made it easy for thousands of other essay writers to tell the world he was a terrible human—that the final verdict is in: Most of the essay writers in mainstream august publications agree that it is good he's no longer on earth. As you know, I didn't want to do that because I didn't feel qualified to do that, but mostly because I don't want to have an opinion about anyone anymore, especially not in print.

And I couldn't write a perfect essay about him, and I feel like that was required for those types of publications. I didn't want to be heavily edited or asked to provide more "context," and I wanted to write something quickly. Although I had promised myself I wouldn't stay up too late trying to write the perfect essay for The Small Bow about Hulk Hogan, I blew it and stayed up until well after 3 a.m. to complete it. I still managed to hit my 8 a.m. Al-Anon meeting the next day, but I was pretty cooked.

And the only reason I didn't fall asleep immediately afterwards was that I was obsessively monitoring my phone all day, both to collect all the positive affirmations about the essay (thank you, by the way, dap dap dap) and also slightly paranoid that something terrible would happen. I would be doxed or swatted or sued or ruined once again. I realize that was silly, but that is part of the legacy of my association with that man. It's difficult not to feel a sense of chilly paranoia that I'm violating some legal agreement I don't remember signing.

I managed to avoid typing my name into any social media platforms to assess the damage after it went up. Even though that was a huge step, yesterday morning I woke up still feeling that if I didn't check my phone, email, Substack notes, or Instagram every 12 seconds, I would continue to feel terrible all day until I received some reassurance or validation that everything was safe.

I was also still distracted by what I assumed were thousands of people saying unkind things about me on Twitter and Bluesky, even though it was in reality more like seven people. But those seven people, well, they always live rent-free in my head, and I believe what they say about me. They are loud and capable of shoving my face back into the toilet where I belong whenever they want to.

A little after 9 a.m., I made it my mission not to spend another day that way, so I went back to Jenny Odell's How to Do Nothing to reground myself, and then took a walk around Beachwood and Bronson Canyon. I even put the jerkoff weighted vest back on, too. It was a transformative walk—I discovered a new gratitude list approach that slowwwwwed my brain down.