I’VE NEVER CONSIDERED myself addicted to television, though it’s nice to have one around when The Sopranos is in season. So when my roommate moved out, taking along her television, and I moved into my own place, I decided to try life without a TV.

There were many reasons I decided to live a TV-free life, and they all seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. I would save the cost of a monthly cable bill. I would finally do some serious work on an ongoing book project instead of curling up on my couch watching The Drew Carey Show. I would make headway on the pile of books perched precariously next to my bed. My conversations would be sprinkled with references to Shakespeare, Melville, Sartre, and Ignatius Reilly. My powers of concentration would expand as my brain was freed of 20-second sound bites and rapid-fire images. I would no longer mindlessly consume entire bags of Cool Ranch Doritos and pints of Ben & Jerry’s while watching Star Wars.

In short, I would finally become the person I always wanted to be and had always vowed to become — just as soon as The Simpsons ended. I moved into my new place sans tube, with my hopes, as usual, way too high.

It is said that cigarettes are even more addictive than heroin. Television, I am now convinced, is even more addictive than cigarettes. The evil thing about TV is that it is only when you try to break away from it that the true reach and tenacity of its grasp becomes clear. I realized very quickly that I had vastly underestimated my problem. At first, living without a television was a novelty. At work in the early afternoon, I’d think, "I’m going to be an enlightened grown-up and read something deep and intellectual tonight." But at the end of the day, I usually opted instead to go have a beer with friends. On the nights when I did make it home, I’d walk in the door, drop my bags, kick off my shoes, plunk down on the couch, and instinctively reach for the remote. Damn. I didn’t realize how mindlessly, how regularly, I sought out the brain balm of TV until it was no longer there. And man, did I miss it.

Soon, instead of cooking up and downing a pizza while watching a movie, I started my evenings eating something healthy, usually at the kitchen table — with a cloth napkin, of all things. Then I’d go into the living room to stare dejectedly at the place where the TV would have been if I hadn’t been such an idiot. Finally, I’d reach for some stupid book or another, which I’d make a half-hearted attempt to read until I started feeling guilty about not working on my project. At this point, I’d skulk into my office and stare at the blank computer screen, wondering why I did more work on my project when I had a TV than when I didn’t. (The idea that the TV was the true source of my creativity flashed briefly, horrifyingly, through my mind.)

This went on for three interminable weeks.

Then, on September 11, the unthinkable happened, and in a flash my barely tolerable media void became a truly hellish information black hole. The absence of real-time news about the terrorist attacks drove me out of my mind. At work, I surfed the Internet like a junkie. I paid attention to those stupid news-feed video monitors in elevators. I eavesdropped on conversations between people who looked as though they knew what they were talking about. Then, one day, I remembered the existence of National Public Radio. Owing to my previously undiagnosed addiction to TV, public radio had fallen off my media radar. I resolved instantly to become a regular morning listener. Here, finally, was an acceptable alternative to television that gave me what I craved. I flipped on my radio. Linda Wertheimer’s soothing voice caressed me through the speakers ... only to be interrupted seconds later by a pledge-drive plea for cash that intruded on my bliss every two minutes. Although I would never begrudge NPR its badly needed donations, the begging made public-radio news almost as frustrating as downloading an online newspaper with my pathetically slow home Internet connection. I’d get the news faster if I just waited for the paperboy to chuck it onto my stoop each morning.

Feeling defeated, I finally admitted that I was trying to re-create a TV lifestyle minus the TV. But despite the agony, I refused to cave in. Instead, I sat in my silent, barren apartment and took a hard look at what living with a TV actually means. It lets you get the news as it happens. Is it important that I get the news as it happens? Truthfully, no. Television lets you watch thousands of channels of entertaining programming. Is anything on TV better than the writings of Mark Twain, Jerome K. Jerome, or Bill Bryson? Nope. So why, I asked myself, did I continue to crave the stimulation of television, long after it was gone?

It’s the noise. I craved the sound of another human voice telling me a story. TV is a non-demanding, entertaining companion in my empty house. It’s always there when I want it, and it goes away the second I hit the power button. But this revelation raised another question: what’s so scary about silence?

I still don’t know the answer. Slowly, though, I’ve gotten used to TV-free peace and quiet, and you know what? It’s nice. Now I kind of look forward to nights when I can come home and read. I finished writing a section of my project. My pants got roomier as my Doritos consumption plummeted. And last week, I got home from a very hectic day at work and just sat in my kitchen, thinking about my day, in complete and total silence. For the first time, I did not feel compelled to fill my apartment — or my life — with noise.

So I think I’m going to be okay with my new TV-free life. At least until The Sopranos starts up again.

Without television, Kris Frieswick has plenty of time for e-mail. She can be reached at krisf1@gte.net

Issue Date: November 1 - 8, 2001