Entrepreneur, Senior Leader & Ecosystem Builder with a degrees in Music, Psychology, Digital Mgmt & Transformation. Co-founder of the Music Factory and Earkick. Life-long learner with a deep passion for people, mental health and outdoor sports.
Once, many moons ago, I fell in love with a phone. It was quick, stylish, and flashy. I upgraded, then upgraded again, and somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like an object in my pocket and started behaving like a small, needy creature that lives with me. “This is handy” morphed into “this is my most intense toxic relationship.” And if relationship status counted devices, it would read:
It’s complicated.
Here is the strange story of how a piece of plastic and glass turned into something that feels very alive.
Once you see it less as a gadget and more as a clingy little pet with Wi-Fi, the whole picture becomes entertaining. This “relationship” comes with hunger, moods, drama, and a modern bug people now call nomophobia.
Most of all, it comes with a unique talent for training you as much as you train it.
It Needs To Be Fed Constantly
I eat a lot. Daily workouts, a hectic city, a 20-minute bike commute each way. My body burns calories just to keep up.
Toxic Relationship Signs
- My phone does none of that and still behaves like an ultra-marathon runner. One moment it shows 100 percent, a few hours later it screams for a charger at 20 percent with a dramatic pop-up.
- The second that red battery icon appears, my heart rate jumps. I start scanning the room for an outlet, mentally ranking which tasks I can no longer do if the battery dies. The phone just lies there, playing helpless.
- This is where it stops being funny and starts affecting my well-being. That tiny battery icon secretly decides whether I relax on the way home or spend the ride stress-refreshing emails. It shapes when I sleep, how often I interrupt conversations, and how urgently I treat everything that lights up the screen.
It Has A Style And An Outfit Rotation
People dress their pets in sweaters and tiny shoes. I used to roll my eyes at that. Then I bought my phone case number fourteen.
Different colours for different moods and different occasions. Matching outfits became a must:
- Clear case for work
- Funky one for weekends
- Matte black for focus days and
- Glitter for nights out
I tell myself it protects the device. But deep down, it feels like styling a very demanding, very rectangular roommate.
The more identity I project onto this little object, the more often I reach for it. It becomes a mirror and a prop instead of staying what it actually is: just a tool.
My hand goes to it during awkward moments, boring moments, and tired moments. I catch myself holding it, tapping the screen with my thumb like I am soothing a tiny, nervous partner.
Instead of checking in with myself, I check in with the screen.
It Gets Moody After Every Update
Pets freak out at fireworks. My phone freaks out after software updates.
One day, everything runs smoothly. Next, I swipe and nothing happens. I tap, and the wrong app opens. If I try to fix it, the whole system shuts down for a second, like it needs to reboot its feelings.
This would be a joke if it did not affect my nervous system. Each glitch means another small spike of frustration, another tiny burst of “Why now?” in the middle of an already busy day. Dozens of these micro-irritations stack up and leave me wired and tired at the same time.
Finding It Has Become A Daily Quest
There is no logical reason for an object that lights up, buzzes, and plays sounds to disappear as often as it does. It’s strange, even in the setting of a toxic relationship
Yet there I am, several times a day, wandering through my apartment asking, “Where did I put my phone?”
On the couch, in a shoe, in any possible pocket I didn’t know I had. I even got into the habit of checking the fridge. Do not ask.
Each time I misplace it, there is a jolt of panic. Not because of the device itself, but because my keys, payments, contacts, messages, calendar, and photos live inside it. Losing the phone feels like losing the control panel of my life. Heck, it’s like losing life itself!
That level of dependence eventually starts to train the brain. Phone in sight means relief and a shower of feel-good hormones. But phone out of sight means mild to serious withdrawal. I’ve even caught myself googling how to deal with serious trust issues in a relationship.
It Has A Busier Social Life Than I Do
Pets have playdates, dog parks, and cat cafés. My phone has notifications. Ping, buzz, cling, ding, pop, tap, and any unnerving melody you can think of. The screen lights up as if the next message might change everything. Apps I forgot I installed demand attention.
- “Update me!”
- “Claim your gift!
- “Try this new feature!”
- “Biggest sale of the season!”
- “Storage almost full! Again…”
The phone behaves like a hyperactive, needy friend who always has something urgent to tell me. My attention follows its lead like an overexcited puppy. Even when I try to rest, a small part of my brain keeps listening for the next vibration.
Over time, this “always on call” mode lowers my threshold for stress and allostatic load. Relaxation turns into something I have to schedule and protect, instead of a default state my body can slip into.
It Has A Character
On paper, phones have two modes: silent and ring. Mine behaves like it runs three personalities.
- Supportive: charges fast, opens apps instantly, and syncs everything.
- Diva: works, yet throws in random lag and attitude.
- Saboteur: opens the wrong thing, freezes at the worst time, saves the important notification for later when it can guilt-trip me for missing it.
Sometimes it autocorrects in ways that make my messages sound unhinged. Other times, it “forgets” to ring and only shows missed calls, especially from family, as if it enjoys stirring the pot. That kind of mixed signal is exactly what you expect in a toxic relationship.
The more I treat it like a creature with moods, the easier it becomes to forget that it is a designed system that responds to one thing above all:
My attention.
Every tap and swipe teaches its algorithms what to serve me next. My “pet” learns from me as intensely as I respond to it.
It Ages Like A Drama Queen
Pets age slowly and gracefully. Phones age like drama students.
Each year, the battery drains faster. Apps get heavier if you can install them at all. Storage fills with screenshots, drafts, half-baked ideas, and old voice notes. Photos go slightly hazy, and the device starts to feel like a digital attic I carry everywhere.
I try to fix it by diligently deleting, uninstalling, and cleaning as best as I can. Sometimes it helps, but often the system still drags.
On ruthless declutter days, I even run my heaviest videos through tools like Clideo AI  to shrink them before I decide what actually deserves a spot in my pocket.
At some point, the only realistic option is to say goodbye and upgrade. The brain treats this like a loss. New layout, new buttons, and new settings. More micro-stress, more small bursts of “Where is that feature now?” and a sense of grief start to loom.
The constant cycle of attachment and replacement trains a short attention span. I change phones faster than I change some habits.
You Get Attached, Even When You Know The Risks
Phones fall, crack, hit concrete, land in sinks and toilets, or disappear into a rideshare seat. Every time something like that happens, my stomach drops.
I feel guilty for failing to protect the little device that has guided me home at night, saved me from drunk-texts and stored the best photos from the past few years.
My logical brain keeps reminding me that it is a tool. But my emotional brain screams:
“It holds huge chunks of my life story!”
That mix of logic and emotion is exactly where all kinds of attachment styles live. The more emotionally loaded the device becomes, the harder it feels to put it away, even for a short break. Rather than feeling like rest and detox, screen-free moments start to feel like anxiety-inducing deprivation.
Who Trains Whom?
If this all stayed at the level of jokes, it would be harmless. The bigger question sits a bit deeper: Who trains whom?
I feed it, protect it, dress it, charge it, and carry it everywhere.
In response, it rewards me with connection, entertainment, navigation, work, comfort, and constant stimulation.
None of this is evil. It simply means my nervous system now co-regulates with a glowing rectangle. Boredom, discomfort, and sadness used to be cues for reflection or reaching out to another human. Today, the first instinct is often to unlock the screen.
If that sounds like a toxic relationship, that is because it behaves like one. Here’s how this story made it to a happy end safely.
How I Soft-Broke Up With My Glowing Ex
At some point, I got tired of acting like a full-time emotional support human for a battery icon, so I tried a soft breakup. If you picture a dramatic throw-it-in-the-river moment, forget that. I managed to create a trial separation with clear ground rules.
Toxic Relationship Rule #1
My glowing ex stopped joining every single step of my day. I picked a short walk where it stayed at home. The first time felt weird, like leaving a toddler alone with scissors. By day three, my shoulders sat a little lower, and my eyes wandered further than arm’s length.
Toxic Relationship Rule #2
My rectangular friend slept in a different room once a week. I parked it on the kitchen counter, set an old-school alarm, and went to bed without the faint glow. My brain complained for a bit, then remembered what actual darkness feels like.
Toxic Relationship Rule #3
I checked in with myself before I checked in with the screen. Asking the same simple question every time before unlocking it really helped understand the underlying urge:
“Am I bored, stressed, lonely, or tired?”
Some days, the answer still led to scrolling, and I even enjoyed it. Other days, it led to a glass of water, a good stretch, a funny message to a real person, or a quick check-in with my AI coach instead.
None of these moves turned me into a minimalist monk. My phone still wears lovely outfits, still pings and acts like a tiny diva with Wi-Fi. The difference now is that it lives closer to the “tool” category again and further away from “the most intense toxic relationship I ever had.”
Now stop scrolling and give your thumbs a two-minute break!
