Hi. My name is Eric, and I am a textaholic. Actually, I have been recovering for almost a year. My texting started three years ago, when I fell in love for the first time. Like my peers, I was seduced by this new dimension of communication. Texting was easy, efficient, and always accessible. When my youthful impulsiveness collided with a romantic relationship, the result was an overwhelming texting compulsion.

Early on, I learned that textaholic lovers do not have "me" time. They cannot stop themselves from relaying full play-by-plays of their lives to each other. Texting fills any brief communication void. Working on my research paper, xoxo. Trying to decide which shirt to wear, miss you. Brushing my teeth, love you. The text alert beeps after every page during pleasure reading. The vibration buzzes in between bites of  afternoon snacks. And when the phone sits idly in a pocket, it transmits waves of discomfort.

Like any addiction, limits disappear for textaholics. The texting becomes flat-out inappropriate. My family dinners included unseen guests at the table. My siblings and I had perfected the art of texting significant others with one hand underneath our napkins, while the other hand brought food to our mouths. My girlfriends were electronically included on family vacations. While my eyes connected with landmarks, my fingers stayed connected to cell-phone buttons. My textaholic stepsister and I have raced to see who can text faster without looking at the phone - old-school, one letter at a time. In a matter of seconds, we can tap out a full paragraph with flawless spelling and punctuation.

Lovesick textaholics, rendered senseless by illusions of true love and invincibility, do not simply hurt feelings with rudeness. They often enter into the realm of youthful recklessness, physically endangering themselves and others. Textaholics refuse to turn their phones to silent when they sleep, subjecting themselves and roommates to restless sleep through late-night buzzes and beeps. They drive with one hand, using the other to type out "I love you" before the stoplight changes back to green, sending hearts and smiley faces while switching lanes on the interstate.

Even as the world wises up to this growing problem among its youth, textaholics remain socially acceptable addicts. They speak openly about their addiction. They laugh about their problem. They acknowledge their ridiculousness. Then they insist that breaking their habit would be impossible. They think that they will go crazy without the constant communication.

As a recovering textaholic, I can attest that the feeling of liberation is anything but crazy. That is not to say the early stages of recovery were not strange. For weeks, I could not shake the constant anxiety. I felt my right thigh vibrate even as my phone sat idle. I reached into my right pants pocket out of habit, holding the phone briefly - opening it, closing it, putting it back. I had grown so attached to my phone that I almost missed using it, missed the nonstop doting and attention.

And then I remembered. I remembered all the petty fights stemming from texting - texting enough, texting more, forgetting to text, neglecting to text. I remembered the effort of devising strategies to text during family outings and class without being reprimanded. I remembered the withdrawal - the physical craving for just one more text, the panic when an hour passed with none. I remembered how the constant messaging induced constant uneasiness.

This addictive behavior hurt everyone. It tested the patience of friends and family. My behavior irked, insulted and distanced. Whether I was watching a ball game with the guys or sharing a movie night with the family, my posture always looked the same: neck bent slightly forward, calloused thumbs punching away. Smiles and laughter hid that I could never wholly put my heart into any activity when a chunk always longed for something else. Living in the moment was impossible, and for a long time, everyone knew it but me.

My story is the story of my generation - the generation that has grown up taking technology for granted and abusing it. Our elders, ironically the generation that produced all our technologies, berate us for relying too much on their inventions. As they shun our inability to think critically, they have failed to recognize our genius. Today’s youth have devised more ways to rely on technology than inventors could have thought fathomable. The mastermind behind texting did not think that short messages could supplant the traditional love letter. Our elders cannot comprehend the reinvented language of love - intimacy expressed through affectionate abbreviations like "Luv u 2" and such sweet symbols as :-) and <3.

Sadly, textaholics are too consumed with debating which smiley to send to actually smile at real-life experiences. They are too obsessed with texting to look up from their phone and make eye contact during conversations. They are too busy typing to know how to hold hands, let alone caress another person.

This all does not bode well for our near future. At the end of the day, dating somebody is not a matter of the sweetest texts. It is a matter of finding your best friend - the person you most enjoy spending time with, sharing real experiences with, sleeping in the same bed with after a long day at work.

Today's young lovers are tomorrow’s married couples. If my peers cannot realize this sooner than later, the marriages of my generation may only survive thanks to "Good Night, Baby" texts from one side of the bed to the other.