Addicted by nataliej from Flickr

It’s been four months since I moved back to Toronto for work after a four-month stint living at my dad’s after graduating university and breaking up with a boyfriend.

Until four months ago, I’d had Internet access wherever I was living nearly continuously for over 10 years, maybe more. I feel like I’ve had the Internet for my entire life (or at least the half that I actually remember) and it’s been an important tool throughout my life.

If I hadn’t been so involved online over the last 10 years, I highly doubt I would be capable enough to do my current job.

But over the last year, I noticed the Internet becoming an addiction and a crutch.

I love consuming information and I could probably spend every waking hour of my life reading blogs, watching videos, listening to podcasts, checking out photos, etc. I know this is a good thing, but it’s also a dangerous thing if anyone actually does it because then you stop participating in all the other really great things about life.

And as my last year of university came to a close, and simultaneously so did my last relationship, I found comfort in focusing my attention on the computer because it meant I didn’t have to think about all the crappy stuff going on in my life at the time. It was a distraction and it became an instant wall between my ex-boyfriend and I when we lived together.

I didn’t want to talk, fight, clean up after him, open the mail, cook or do anything else that was an extension of our relationship. I wanted to ignore it all, so I did.

When I arrived at my dad’s last April, I didn’t really like anything about my life there either – I had grown distant from my family after four years away from school, my dad’s girlfriend had moved in, there was nothing to do in that town and none of my friends were there anymore – so, once again, I ignored all that in favour of the Internet. I sometimes worked all day and night. I read dozens of blog articles every day. I watched hours of TV online. Sure, I got out now and then, but not enough.

So, I finally realized that I had left one unhealthy situation for another and I needed to get out. Financially, I probably wasn’t ready, but I knew I could get by, so I moved to Toronto Sept. 1.

Four months later, I still don’t have Internet access at my apartment. I’ve found many reasons to justify it – Canadian telecom providers suck, I’m on the Internet at work anyway, I don’t want to be stuck on a computer all night after I’ve been sitting at one all day, etc. – but it’s starting to creep up on me. Sure, I have email and Internet access on my BlackBerry, but it’s not the same.

Sometimes I don’t leave work until 7 or 8 p.m. because there are things I still want to do. I’ve marked as read countless undoubtedly interesting blog articles in my Google Reader because I can’t spend my workdays catching up. I mostly forget about Twitter and Facebook in the evenings and on weekends. Until recently when I finally got a TV again, I’d mostly replaced TV shows and movies with podcasts I download at work and listen to at home.

The truth is, this extreme hasn’t felt right either, so now I’m itching to connect again, but I’m kind of scared at the same time. What if there is only one extreme or the other for me? Only being connected all the time or not being connected?

How do you balance staying involved online with staying involved in the rest of life?

P.S. Any testimonials for an excellent Internet service provider in Toronto that isn’t Bell or Rogers?

Also, I don’t like blogging about how much I hate parts of my life. I did that for years as a teenager, and while I still have plenty of teenage angst inside of me at age 23, I stopped writing in my livejournal for a reason. I used to feel better when I spilled out all my negativity into a space like that, but now it just makes me feel worse. If I don’t write it down, then I can just forget about it.

But now, things are starting to move again. I’m moving again, literally. I got a cute one bedroom in The Beaches and although it requires a lot of TLC, it’s worth it. It’s cheap and it’s small, but it’s just me so it’s a good size. The lake, the beach and the boardwalk are one block away. The neighbourhood is full of families and dogs and ridiculously in shape people who all seem very relaxed because they live by the water. I like it.

I took it even though I promised myself I wouldn’t paint another apartment for a long time, and even though it needed to be cleaned from top to bottom. I’m tired of painting and the walls in particular were unbelievably dirty.

But as I scrubbed the walls of their grime and wiped away the cobwebs, I realized it’s a good experience to go through. It’s like a ritual that allows me to see every centimeter of my new home up close and personal. I’m a nester by nature, so painting everything the colours I love and putting my things just so are very important to me.

And I’ve moved so many times that it takes such a ritual for a space to feel like home. This will be my 13th move and more than half of those were just in the last five years. It took me along time to allow any place feel like home because home always meant my mom was there, and she wasn’t. She wasn’t anywhere. But I’ve come to terms with that now.

So, I move in next weekend. And I will have a life again, with friends and actually going into work every day and living in a city that is a living entity all on its own.

I think this means I can write again. Thank goodness.

I assumed I would avoid it altogether because I nabbed an awesome job straight out of school, but the truth is now that I’m all settled in I’m starting to think, “Now what?”

Not so much in terms of my job – I have more than enough to do and the company has a The Sky’s the Limit mentality – but in terms of my life. Until about three months ago, I was working toward some very important milestones in my life. I had full control. I knew if I did A and B I would eventually get to C.

OK. So I got to C. But now I’m panicking a little bit because there are no prescribed steps to take to get to another place in life. I could potentially do anything, so I’m left feeling a bit paralyzed and I do nothing instead.

Except when I’ve had a few drinks and the paralysis melts away and I feel like I can actually do anything, so I do, but I don’t think about the consequences first. And when that feeling finally returns I find myself even more “stuck” because I’m embarassed for losing control, for being irresponsible, for appearing unprofessional. Sometimes I don’t even need a few drinks; I just feel a bit sassy and try to get away with things I never even would have thought about doing, say, a year ago.

Where there used to be clear paths to follow and distinct lines drawn in the sand never to cross, there seems to now be only greyness and uncertainty. Not to be over-dramatic, but in certain situations I find myself having a hard time telling the difference between right and wrong. I often ask friends and family for advice, but none of them seem to know the answers either.

So, here I am, a little confused, mucking things up … putting some things away which have been bothering me for a while and digging up new ones.

I known I need to set goals for myself and work toward them, but I have no idea what those goals should be. I know I want to move back to Toronto, but I have no idea when the right time should be or how much of my debt I should pay off before devoting nearly half of my income to rent. I know I want to meet new people and maybe even date some of them casually, but I have no idea where these people are or how to meet them.

This all sounds very vague, I know. But it’s kind of how I feel right now. Vague. Bleh.

You will cry on at least one occasion.

I haven’t cried in the newsroom yet, but I had tears in my eyes in the cab on the way back to from covering this story.

I’ve always known I’m not cut out for that type of reporting, but a number of people treated me like I was a monster today for trying to find out what happened. I get it. Reporters are intrusive, but it’s our job. We can’t just not do it.

I called the soon-to-be ex-boyfriend a few times to vent in my downtime and inadvertently made myself even more upset by thinking about relationship things at the same time.

When I got back to the newsroom, there was a message waiting from the financial consultant who worked with my mom before she died. He said her remembered her well and I could hear something in his voice, maybe caution or sympathy, I’m not sure. But I heard it.

To get my mind off all of these things so I could calm down a little, I logged into my TalentEgg email and started answering emails.

For some reason, my responsibilities at TalentEgg had the power to take me away from that painful moment where everything that hurts my heart and mind — work, love, life — had intersected at once. I knew I made the right choice.

I just hope it wasn’t the Tylenol I washed down with a bottle of Pepsi talking.