Right before the end of 2018, my capacity for checking, scrolling, and tapping came to an abrupt halt. Frustrated with the flood of sponsored partner posts as well as posed selfies of only the most professionally manicured type, I needed to reboot. It was tying my mental health and creativity to their productivity, which of course ran the course of frustration and cynicism at length. But, the reality is people use Instagram and Twitter and Snapchat to make a living. It’s the only entertainment industry that doesn’t call itself that and, after more than 8 weeks away from perfected lives preserved under glass, and several important altered habits later, I feel less affected by it.

Here’s 5 ways to digitally fast without giving up on social media:

1. Limit materialistic accounts 

Don’t want to feel out of style or frustrated with your closet? Feeling pressured to get that new thing? Put simply, unfollow materialist accounts and step out of the retail ring for a bit. Seriously. Soon, you will feel lighter, and less concerned with online sales and the other creative ways companies find to separate you from your money. Without reminders to look at new things, and then want them, you’ll save money, time and energy in surprising ways. I unfollowed 40 accounts, one of which partnered with ethical brands for capsule wardrobes that advertised a white winter dress priced at over $300 USD as an “essential”.

2. Muting is your friend

If you don’t want to burn a bridge by unfollowing a friend, colleague, or family member, mute accounts that trigger your inadequacies or present unrealistic perfection. On Instagram, both posts and stories can be muted. That way you can break for while, without breaking up the potential for connection or common ground in the future.

3. Open when you are ready to post

Have you read your screen time reports lately and found yourself shocked at how many times you pick up your phone in a day? How many times have I intended to do something specific, like text a colleague, when I mindlessly opened IG out of habit? Too many times. Point blank, it annihilates focus and has addictive qualities. If you feel unproductive or constantly out of time, turn off notifications and use Instagram or Twitter just when you are ready to post something. I needed to expressly pause my impulse to constantly “check” and I found myself finishing projects like cleaning up the basement storage with my husband where we fawned over favourite baby items and thumbed through real photo albums!

4. Remember, it’s not necessarily a break

I used to find myself scanning Instagram as a “coffee break” in between tasks throughout the day but not only was it always longer than expected, it was far less refreshing than anticipated. With spare minutes on hand, filling the mind with more clutter (as each post is associated with unpredictable news or, depending on the relationship, more comparisons), is not a mental break. It can actually trigger stress hormones and prevent you from reflecting and thinking, which are essential for a true break from any kind of work, at home or on the road or in the office. My work flow improved for day to day tasks and big vision projects took on shape more easily too.

5. Start and end the day in a new habit

Truth be told, my social media feeds were the first and last thing I saw each day. Ugh. Not my spouse, kids, or even my loyal dog. It felt out of balance and it began to demand more and more of my time. For some people, it can affect sleep too, not only because of FOMO and blue light issues, but also as a result of stimulus control – using your bed to watch movies, scroll social media or reply to emails associates it with cognitive activity, and, regrettably, not sleep. I decided to spend time with the “thickness of creation” as Eugene Peterson puts it – that is, doing tangible things, like cleaning, read a paper book, or playing a board game. This part you know already: store and use your devices in another room and if you must keep your phone as an alarm, put it into airplane mode.

In the morning, plant your feet on the floor and plan to open the digital world after you’ve set the tone for the day. For instance, read your emails when you get to work. You don’t need to be mulling them through the shower, breakfast, or sending the kids off to school with a preoccupied mind. Take back some control of your day. It’s the only one you’ll have for the next 24 hours and you’ll need the mental energy to not only make it, but learn from it in a healthy way.

Shortly after reading Robin, a factual and detailed recount of the ghostly existence of Robin Williams, my recently purchased copy of The Way We Stay landed in my lap right before the August long weekend. Like the cover’s single-line drawing of a mother and son connected by hand and heart, both titles are tied up in addiction. But Cere Demuth’s memoir is a lived and breathed accounting of all that’s typically unsaid behind the hours and dates that give some years and take others.

Drug addiction might be a parent’s worst fear, and then the other monstrous dread that likely follows in close succession is the question of recovery. Is it possible? Will it last? Can the cagey and oppositional experience with an only son’s fickle and disappointing chemical affair be wrestled into cautious optimism?

Aside from an outlier Wikipedia source for facts about the Vietnam War and the Women’s Rights Movement during the time of her parent’s participation in extreme underground political groups, Cere’s credibility doesn’t need any references. Her experiences with single- and teenaged motherhood, trauma, and working as a small-town psychotherapist among her son’s widely known addictions is, well, more qualification than anyone wants.

The author of Robin, while creating a rigorous and lengthy biography of Robin Williams, simultaneously deconstructed Robin into a million different disappointments, probably as many voices as Robin played at. He seems to think that no one quite got all of Robin, that as outgoing and forward and even sexually aggressive as Robin apparently was, he hid his one and truest persona – his own. Sadly, after all his efforts, the author perseverates suicide as a criminal act, describing it as something that Robin “committed.” If you change two things about how you talk about suicide, make it this – first, talk about suicide. Then, remember that people die by suicide, they don’t commit it like a criminal or heretic.

For Cere Demuth, The Way We Stay is an anthem of pain and very clearly no magic pill for families dealing with addiction, because even though the book ends, the story doesn’t.

None of our stories do. Not even the reserved ones of Robin.

You and I might not be fluent in the patterns of meth and pot and OxyContin and heroin in the veins and volatility of loved ones, but if your heart has ever pounded with confusion about your parenting, marriage, or friendships, The Way We Stay will remind you to breathe.

Breathing is the way we labour children and lift weights.

Breathing is the way we swim, step on stage, and have sex.

It’s the way we live.

I finished the last chapters of Cere’s book outside, pacing among the dogs. They held their place on the grass and as I turned the last page, I sat down beside them and sighed.

We all hold old pain inside us, but as long as we live, we still have hope.

Sexual assault.

Harassment.

Oil changes.

That’s right. Oil changes. Just another reason being a woman is demeaning, in addition to being potentially dangerous and deadly.

The signs were all there, but I shrugged them off as ‘feminine sensitivity’ – the FORD dealership salesmen addressed their thank you card to just my husband even though both of our names are on the bill of sale. Then the grooming began – I was offered free oil changes with every second service appointment.

The first time, it was over in 30 minutes. I had left my day planner behind once and they called me right away – I was so grateful I gave them the cinnamon buns 6-pack that I just picked up. Then I started to bring the service guys donuts and fruit trays on every visit. Erik and Matthew were so friendly and always helpful, letting me know what was coming up for maintenance but never pressuring me.

Then one visit, I arrived early and another service guy checked me in. Only this time, he stood about 20 feet away, didn’t greet me, then punched in my mileage and gave a cursory glance to my tray of treats on the counter as I walked to the waiting room. For the first time, Chris, whom I’ve never met before, approached me in front of other customers and loudly declared my ownership of an apparently very dirty engine filter. “This beauty belongs to you,” showing it off as though I should be humiliated about it’s condition. He asked if I wanted to replace it.

Nice trick, Chris. Feeling pressured worked and I agreed. Notice how he didn’t tell me it needed replacing.

The thing is, we have a mechanic friend who helps us with the big maintenance things and he’d just recently examined the vehicle. Turns out, the engine filter didn’t replacing.

So I called Chris up and told him my concern. He claimed that because he ASKED me if I wanted to replace and I said yes, that it was my decision. Here’s how blame the victim works when gender and power create an imbalance – man takes advantage then blames woman for her complicit actions.

It reminded me of the time in my teens when another garage charged me for “replacing the timing belt” on my 1985 Chevrolet Celebrity. A male friend of the family informed me my vehicle make didn’t have a timing belt. I was rescued by one man but had to face the perpetrators on my own. They gave me a refund without an apology.

I told Chris that I was at his mercy because I wouldn’t know what needs replacing and what doesn’t. I told him he’d lost my trust and that I wasn’t happy about it. He denied any wrongdoing. It only lasted a few minutes.

What he forgot about was that FORD and the dealership send out surveys the day after. They ask you to rate the service out of 10 and if you can’t answer 10 they want to know what they can do to improve.

I was honest and within a few minutes, I got a phone call. It was Chris. Sounded like there was another person with him and his tone was different. He apologized for how I felt and stated he had no intention of misleading me. He was trying to make it better. I can’t judge if it was truly for my sake or his boss’s. Either way, the day after was a reckoning, of sorts.

Thankfully, on my next visit, Erik was back. But you know what, things had changed. Something was up. Erik too, came to me in the waiting room and suggested the pollen filter get changed. But he was sheepish about it, as though he’d been told to upsell even though he didn’t want to. I was ready this time.

There was one other older lady in the room and I told Erik about what happened to me last time and that no, I wasn’t prepared to change the pollen filter. I explained that I recall changing it in the not so distant past and that I would have to look back at the paperwork to find out when that was. I wasn’t rude but I wasn’t backing down either.

After he left, my waiting room feminist companion giggled that maybe they weren’t even showing us our own filters – they probably just have one in the back that’s always dirty. She told me she usually has her husband bring the vehicle in because she can’t stand the tactics anymore.

It reminds me of the time my front load washing machine was permanently locked and when I asked my husband to handle it, he pointed out how strong I was. I looked up the piece required on Google and found a parts place that carried it. When I arrived, the man at the desk quoted me $34.99 for it. “That’s funny,” I say, “because when I looked up your website not more than an hour ago, the part was $7.99.” The men in the small, crowded shop, including the one looking at me from across the till, say nothing. My small boys play with the items hanging below the counter. They don’t know that I just rescued myself, but they also don’t know that I had to. With a how-to video on YouTube, I fixed my washing machine later that afternoon.

This week, I was mentally preparing myself for another visit at the dealership. Because that’s what it’s come to. Then my husband suggested one of those no-appointment oil change services. You know, get in, get out.

My hopes for just a tad less misogyny were met first with a recommendation to change my transmission fluid, to which I sighed, and said no. When he came back with my engine filter, I paused deliberately to breathe – then I said no again. Now, at some point these will need replacing, but this one in particular, I find out when I get home and look at my service records, was replaced in June. Then the time came to pay, and the tip option popped up. I couldn’t believe it. I balled up my frustration and laughed out loud. I shook my head.

Here’s a tip: I said no.

“Drive safe and have a good one,” he says, as the garage door opens and he ushers me out. As though he actually cares about me. It reminds me of the time a male teacher colleague came into a small office in one of my assigned schools where I was working, closes the door and stands in front of it. I barely know him but, he tells me, as I’m shifting uncomfortably in my chair, and not just because I’m near the end of my second pregnancy, that he thinks pregnant women are beautiful. He goes on. It only lasts a few minutes but as he opens the door, I stand, and he gestures for me to pass by him first. As though he actually cares about my wellbeing. Or about being a gentleman.

I made a formal complaint, which was difficult because the school district had two conflicting policies on the books about how to handle it. I heard he was later accused by another female colleague but she was given a gag order and no one was talking.

I feel like I need to shower and I realize just deep this male privilege goes.

I think about what I will need to do next: I will have to bring all my paperwork with me. I will have to know my engine oil type and when the last time was that my filter was changed. I might even have to try learning to do it myself.

Because taking advantage of us isn’t going to work anymore. We have no choice but to defend ourselves, tell our friends about you, and warn other women about your tactics.

You’ll blame us and you won’t believe us.

No matter. You will have fewer and fewer victims to blame, and better, to take advantage of for sexual assault, harassment, and yes, even oil changes.