I avoided responding to a text for two weeks and now it’s driving me insane

5 hours ago 3

Opinion

November 4, 2025 — 7.00pm

“Don’t leave me hanging on the telephone,” Blondie once sang, and I didn’t realise until recently that the lyric was actually about me.

Sometimes, I just physically cannot reply to a text message. And as days pass, the weight of not responding grows heavier.

There are text messages on my phone that I have not responded to for months. I have not lost the ability to use my hands due to petulance a la Doctor Strange. And no, I haven’t forgotten about these messages. So why can’t I reply?

There is one message in particular that is hard to explain. My cousin kindly asked me, “What is the name of your puppy?” I have sat on this message for two weeks. Not because I don’t know the name of my dog, but because I responded internally … and forgot to reply externally. You know, like how conversations normally work?

I don’t hate my cousin, I quite like her. Sometimes, I just physically cannot reply. And as each day passes, the weight of not responding grows heavier and heavier, like I am holding all these unread messages on my back, as if each message were a stone. Until I am crushed under their weight.

Initially, I saw this as a cute character quirk. Like those people who always forget to lock their car, or constantly trip over. I have another cousin who does both. However, after failing to reply to my doctor with a simple “YES” to confirm an appointment, I’ve realised my text-avoidance is not cute at all. It’s just annoying.

Texting was a fundamental part of my early adulthood in the 2010s. In high school, when I had started texting a girl and showed my friends the receipts, they ridiculed me for sending “double texts” and paragraphs, while she gave one-word replies. I chalked this down to the fact that I was chatty. It turned out that I was wrong – she wasn’t interested.

Given my poor form, my friends put the fear of a texting god in me, and taught me their tricks and strategies. One friend, Andrew, told me to “open the message, leave it for two or seven hours, so she thinks you won’t reply … And then you do.” I felt like J. Robert Oppenheimer when he met Niels Bohr. My whole world was cracked open.

But I’m not playing those games any more. I double, triple, quadruple text my girlfriend all the time. She assures me it doesn’t make her like me any less. However, the texting paralysis that entered my dating life has followed into texts with friends, employers and my mother. I am not an avoidant person, generally. I don’t want to ghost anyone. But, there is something about the tone, pace and consistency of digital etiquette that fries my brain. I receive a message. I read the message. I process the message. And then … I ignore the message. In my head, I know I have to reply to that damn message, but then three weeks go by, and I’m left thinking: would it not be easier to just leave the country?

This situation where people think they need to be available all the time is part of the problem. No wonder we are getting burnt out when we feel like we can never sign off. Being available 24/7 across every app is a new kind of exhaustion. I’m jealous of my parents’ youth. Their only form of communication was a phone call once a week, and then a Friday night date.

I adore a phone call. I can be honest and witty and funny, and I don’t have all the time in the world to think of a perfect response, or an excuse to avoid. I just do. With Snapchat, BeReal, Slack, Messenger, WhatsApp, Instagram DMs, Gmail, Discord, TikTok inbox, LinkedIn messages, the owl postage service from Harry Potter ... how can I keep up? And on the rare occasion I do, I’m second-guessing everything I say: was that funny? Did I reply too quickly? Did I take too long to reply? Was that full stop aggressive? Are they sharing my email with everyone in the office and laughing at me?

I’ve realised that it’s not that I don’t want to reply to anyone, let alone my cousin for asking about my dog’s name. It’s that I want to reply like a normal person, and not like a chatbot.

And in case you were wondering about my dog’s name – it’s Butch.

Roby D’Ottavi is a writer and director based in Melbourne.

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