Video-Game Addiction Prescription

The AMA is considering officially recognizing video-game addiction as a mental illness. Of course, a complete effort will take years of study and debate. Personally, I thought the American Medical Association had much bigger problems on their hands like Bird Flu, Cancer and Heart Disease. Nevertheless, apparently they feel video-game addiction is enough of a threat to our society that it warrants the time and effort required to officially list it among the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. The initial debate begins Sunday and a preliminary vote will take place next week.

I do not even want to consider what this will do to the United States health care system. If it can be officially diagnosed, how many employees will be submitting for paid time off of work based on mental illness leave? And when left alone all day at home with no job to go to, what else will they have to do in between psychiatrist appointments? Besides play video games on the couch?

Speaking from first hand experience, there is nothing about video-game addiction that makes a person mentally ill. Video-game addiction is simply an addiction. And like other addictions, it can be beat. Oh, it is not easy. But with a little blindsided intervention from those who love you the most, it can be done.

Once upon a time (back in 2001), I too fell prey to the video-gaming industry's subtle addicting ways. My brother kindly loaded some simulator on my PC so I could play all the oldie but goodie video games from the 80's. I had Frogger, Tertris and what soon became my master: Dr. Mario.

It all began so innocently. While the children were napping, I'd venture down to the office and play some games for a little fun and relaxation. It was not long before Dr. Mario was the game that truly caught my fancy. Systematically ignoring all other games at my disposal, I became a die hard Dr. Mario fan.

As I got better, I could play for quite a stretch without "dying". This became a problem as the children would awake and while their cries could be heard from the office, I found it difficult, that is impossible, to leave my computer and go to them. Diapers went unchanged, meals went unprepared, baths went ungiven.

I knew it was time for a change. So I made some rules for myself. Only two lives (meaning after I died twice, I had to go back to being a mom), and I increased my speed from low to medium. I was still "living" until level 30 which means the pill bottle is all but full to start, so I increased the speed to high.

Still, I could play the game with relatively no trouble. It became so easy, I started on the highest level the game allows. Yep. Level 20. Speed set at high. That is where I always began.

I rationalized that with my new rules, my games were shorter so I could play more often than simply during nap time. So I decreased my life to one, and added more playing time to my schedule. I told myself I could play after finishing one chore. One load of laundry done equals time with Dr. Mario: Begin Level 20, Speed High, One Life. Unless I die immediately, then its a do-over.

A typical day went as follows: Feed the children breakfast = Dr. Mario. Change a diaper = Dr. Mario. Vacuum a couch = Dr. Mario. Make my bed = Dr. Mario. Brush my hair = Dr. Mario. Go to the bathroom = Dr. Mario. The fact that my minimal personal hygiene began to count as a chore did not alarm me in the least bit.

However, an alarm soon came. My brother and his friend Scott came over one day excited about an upcoming Dr. Mario Tournament at the Provo Towne Center. I encouraged them to enter, and offered if they needed any pointers, I would be happy to coach them. They looked at each other briefly, smiled, and then explained that it was me not them that they felt should enter the tournament.

Suddenly I saw a flash forward in my mind. I enter the tournament with a bunch of long haired, unshaven, fat thirty-somethings that don't shower. Then I kick their couch potato butts. I am called to the podium. With the National Anthem playing, I am awarded the Dr. Mario Regional Champion trophy. As I hold the heavy trophy high above my head, cameras flash. My name and picture with a brief article on how I rose to stardom, are on the front page of the local paper.

Hold the phone! I was not doing that. Despite their pleadings I refused to participate in the tournament because of only one fear. The fear that I knew I would win. At this time I realized that I had mastered Dr. Mario and my addiction had taken me to a place I did not want to be. That is when I realized I needed to change.

But I couldn't stop myself. So I continued.

One morning, after brushing my teeth (a chore complete: check) I went down to be with my love, Dr. Mario.

Houston, we have a problem. My video-gaming simulator for the PC was erroring out.

In a panic I called my brother. College term paper, finals to study for, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. "Whatever, get over here now!" I loudly insisted and hung up the phone. Knowing it would take him all of five minutes to solve my computer problem, I was more than irritated that he did not show. As I laid my head on the desk, willing my computer to work as it should, soon minutes turned into hours. Hours turned into days. And days turned into weeks. With no Dr. Mario, my life seemed empty and boring.

Eventually, I stopped placing unreturned phone calls to my brother. I started to clothe, feed and bathe my children. Occasionally we even went to the library or a park. And I found my life could go on without Dr. Mario.

But like all addictions for me it must be all or nothing. So I have never picked up a controller to empty a Dr. Mario medicine bottle full of pills since. Nor do I have any intention of doing so. But if I do, don't even try to play doubles with me. 'Cause I will kick your Dr. Mario butt!