Doomscrolling Is a Form of Self-Harm

Some nights I know exactly what I’m doing when I reach for my phone. Other nights, I lie to myself about it.

I say I’m just checking the weather. Or that I’ll only scroll for five minutes. But I know how this ends. I know what I’m really searching for. Not comfort. Not peace. Not even answers. Just confirmation—that yes, everything is still terrible.

And somehow, I need to see it.

My mental health hasn’t been great for a while. It’s a quiet, familiar ache. The kind that lingers in the background even on the good days. But lately, the world feels like it’s crashing louder than usual, and my brain treats every headline like a personal attack.

Mass shootings. Anti-trans legislation. Climate collapse. A viral thread about another disabled person being denied care. A new war. A new video. A new tragedy. A new trending topic screaming into the void like it’s a sermon. And in between it all, people are arguing—endlessly—over the meaning of a movie, or a casting choice, or whether someone “deserved to be canceled.”

It’s not just the bad news. It’s the everything.

The constant discourse. The pressure to have the “right” opinion about a film I haven’t even seen yet. The way even the most harmless spaces are steeped in outrage. Every click feels like stepping into a boxing ring I never signed up for.

I used to think I was just staying informed. But now I wonder if I’m just hurting myself on purpose.

Because doomscrolling feels like a kind of self-punishment. Like I don’t believe I deserve rest. Like I need to feel worse to validate the pain I’m already carrying. Maybe because peace feels unfamiliar. Maybe because numbness scares me more than panic. Maybe because I grew up in chaos, and some part of me only knows how to exist inside it.

Some nights I stare at my phone until my chest is tight and my eyes are glazed. Not even reacting. Not even thinking. Just absorbing. Clicking. Consuming the pain of strangers until it blends with mine.

It feels like control, but it’s the opposite.

And the worst part? No one even notices when you're spiraling through a screen. You can look completely fine. Liked a post, sent a meme, posted a reaction. But inside, you're unraveling—slowly, quietly—under the weight of a thousand tiny wounds.

It’s not just me, I know that. I see it in others too—people clinging to anger because it’s easier than grief. People addicted to despair because at least it feels like something. People sharing headlines like lifelines, hoping if we all hurt together it might hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

It just makes me feel like I’m drowning in a storm that never stops, holding onto a device that pretends to be a life raft but feels more like an anchor.

I don’t know how to break the cycle entirely. I’m not here to say I’ve figured it out. Some days I still scroll until I can’t breathe. But I’m starting to notice the pattern. Starting to see how I reach for bad news like it’s a cigarette I don’t even enjoy anymore. Just a hit of something sharp to remind me I still feel.

And I want to stop doing that to myself.

I want to believe that I deserve softness. That I’m allowed to disengage without guilt. That I don’t have to consume every disaster to prove I care. That I can step back and still show up, in real ways, when I’m able.

That peace isn’t the enemy.

So I’m learning—slowly—that doomscrolling isn’t keeping me safe. It’s keeping me sick. And maybe, just maybe, the most radical thing I can do for myself right now… is put the phone down and go outside. Not to ignore the world—but to remember I still exist in it.

And maybe I deserve to exist in it fully.

Even when the timeline is on fire.

Especially then.