Forgive the Bad Texters

Illustrations by Hannah Robinson Whenever I receive a text , this is what happens.

I pick up my phone.

So far, so good.

I experience whatever emotion the message elicits—the pleasant warmth of being reached out to, possibly the annoyance of being interrupted.

Then, if conditions are right, if I’m not too busy or in the middle of talking with someone else, if my mind is at peace, if my anxiety is at no more than a low hum, if Mercury is not in retrograde, I will respond right then and there.

If conditions are not right, it will be as though the text never existed at all.

Right now, I have 30 unopened texts.

Scrolling through my messages, I find several more that I opened but forgot to respond to for anywhere between a few hours and a week and a half—from my parents, my sister’s fiancé, old friends who are accustomed to this kind of behavior, and new friends who are just beginning to be disappointed in me.

At least two people texted me so long ago—more than a month—that to respond now and remind them how long they’ve been waiting would be worse than not responding at all.

I’m not proud of leaving people hanging.

Every text I owe is a tiny siren in the back of my mind, blaring intermittent pulses of guilt.

Unless I forget about it entirely, in which case I’ll remember it with a shameful jolt some days or weeks later.

I’m not one of those modern hermits who thinks you don’t owe anyone anything, who likes every Instagram post she sees about boundaries and thinks that flaking on plans is self-care.

I write about relationships for a living, and I believe that showing up for one another is the purpose of our existence.