MY NAMES ELLIE AND I'M A NOMOPHOBIC

After several weeks of moaning to my friends about how sick I am of being so connected -- through social media platforms such as Facebook messenger or whatsapp, naturally – I finally put my money where my mouth was (all £19 of it) and swapped my iphone6 for a 'vintage' Nokia model.

Why? I've wasted hours of my life scrolling, trance-like, through status updates; cries for attention and pleas for validation. I won't deny that some of these posts were made by myself (usually after a (bottle) glass of wine -- noticed, of course, when I scroll through my own profile )in case I forget who I am, eh). And that buzz I get when an instagram post goes viral (I consider this to be a strong 12 likes) is artificial and for deffos NOT good for the soul, or my mental health for that matter.

Defined as “an abnormal, irrational fear of being without ones mobile device, or of being unable to communicate using one's mobile device” Nomophobia is a first world problem that's affecting 66% of us Brits. It's easy enough to dismiss the condition but studies have found that prolonged or excessive smartphone use encourages narcissistic personality traits. Ever looked forward to chilling on your phone after a hectic day at work? Or perhaps you're able to tell me what the lass you met in Zante '13 had for lunch today and with whom but no idea what your squad is doing never mind how they're feeling (#squadgoalsfail).

I'm sick of living an an illusive virtual reality. I'm sick of feeling grandiose when I see someone has opened my message and not replied (have some respect!) and I'm sick of having an anxiety attack when I can't find my phone only to discover I left it by the toilet (#realtalk).

So yesterday I strutted out of cash converters with my £19 Nokia like Beyonce at the super bowl. For 7 hours life without a smartphone was great! I finished a killer shift at 1am and didn't switch straight from a till screen to my iPhone screen to check Facebook (something serious could have happened, you know?) and then the first smartphone-solvable obstacle came and what could have been sorted in a matter of minutes ended up being the catalyst into me re-evaluating my whole life.

Keys. Where the fuck were my keys? Inside my room, meters away from me. The only thing keeping us apart was a locked door. Not a problem, I'll just give me house mate a call – I'll be in bed faster than Usain Bolt running the 100m. Wrong. I didn't have my housemate's number on the vintage Nokia.

I considered it to be pretty-romantic, just like the movies kind of shit, when I started showering my house mate's window with gravel – lest I wake the rest of the house! Forgetting momentarily that I have as good an aim as a fish and not for a moment considering that, in 2016, stones hitting window were less likely to be perceived as a romantic gesture and more likely to be perceived as being thrown by a real-life Hannibal Lector.

I had to ring the doorbell -- which I discovered doesn't just ring once it plays a funky little tune (not so funky at 1.20am when it's potentially being rang by Hannibal Lector, eh?) And again – would you answer your door in the early hours just in case Barbara two-doors-down wanted a cuppa? No. No you wouldn't.

So the first night without a smartphone was a fucking disaster. An unnecessary disaster that would never have occurred if I'd had my iPhone.

This morning I was jolted from sleep by viscous vibrations coming from the vintage Nokia (yes, ladies and gents, that is the best action I've had all year) pining for spotify (music is life cause I'm deep as a puddle, you know?) but willing to persevere. Like Edmund Hillary said after becoming the first man to reach the summit of Mount Everest “it's not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.”