I wanted TikTok to get banned.

Not because of the content or because it’s a Chinese-made app. I just want my life back.

I spend four to six hours a day, or just shy of 40 hours a week, scrolling through short-form videos of dogs, a stranger’s marital drama and far too many advertisements.

The intentionally addictive TikTok is a way to decompress after a long day of keeping up with a 24-hour news cycle, but the hours spent on TikTok offer more than just entertainment.

I’m a business reporter for The Banner, and the app has helped me discover interesting story ideas with equally interesting people over the years that I wouldn’t have found without it.

It’s how I knew that the federal government’s move to ban the app would negatively impact some of Baltimore’s content creators. And it’s how I spotted local businesses to include in an article about “recession core” and “underconsumption core” trends. TikTok has even led me to sources for my colleagues’ articles.

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These stories — and my being the only Banner business reporter who uses the app — make me think that there is a lot of value in staying on top of social media trends as a journalist. But I’m mourning the loss of my hobbies, my attention span and my mental and physical health.

I’m ready to quit TikTok, but fear what I’ll miss if I do.

I wasn’t an early adopter. I made it through the worst of the pandemic without it, and I already had Instagram, YouTube, LinkedIn and what was once known as Twitter.

But my then-boyfriend started using the app to create funny videos with filters, trending audio and my dog as the star of his show. I thought, “Why not see what all the fuss is about?”

A few minutes of innocent curiosity turned into a couple of hours, then exploded into a chunk of my day.

The time I’ve traded in for TikTok was once spent reading books, going on long walks, working on my embroidery projects and watching television shows and movies.

I can’t remember the last time I sat through an at-home movie without also scrolling on TikTok. I’ll turn my phone’s volume down and scroll silently with the movie playing in the background.

On the weekend, I grab a book to have quiet time on the couch, but my phone beckons me to scroll.

“At 12:30 p.m. I’ll put it away and read,” I tell myself.

Then 12:30 comes and goes, followed by 1:30, 2:30 ... finally, I give up on literature to continue scrolling, until my eyes are dry and tired.

In an earlier quest to quit, I employed screen time blockers and hid the app on my phone. The longest I ever went was nearly a month — after TikTok was briefly banned.

It wasn’t even 11:59 p.m. on Jan. 19 — doomsday for TikTok — when the app stopped working for American users.

Yes, I did say I liked the idea of losing access to TikTok. But I was devastated when I couldn’t get more videos to load.

So I deleted it. What I didn’t know was that it was removed from the Apple App Store. There was no getting it back.

For weeks, I watched my then-boyfriend continue to scroll and laugh. He must be laughing at me and my suffering, I thought.

Those dark days showed me that the app had completely rewired my brain. I started opening, closing and then reopening the other social media apps to try to fill a void.

Instagram kept reminding me I had seen every post from the last three days.

Then it happened.

“TikTok is back on the App Store,” my then-boyfriend told me in February.

“Thank God!” I replied.

My screen time on TikTok is the worst it’s ever been. I’m easily hitting three hours a day.

I don’t post videos, and I rarely comment or reshare. Yet I’ve been caught, more times than I’d like to admit, fast asleep, phone in hand, with a TikTok video stuck on a never-ending loop.

Psychologists have a term for this addictive behavior: Problematic TikTok Use (PTU). A psychological condition “marked by compulsive and excessive engagement with the app, often characterized by prolonged scrolling, content interaction and seeking user feedback.”

It’s unclear how many people this affects, but I can say, anecdotally, it has to be millions. Plenty of Banner employees have told me they’re struggling to get off the app, too.

It’s not all doom and gloom. Sometimes I laugh so hard I cry, or I find new recipes to try or things to do in the city.

The best part is the juicy gossip you could only find on TikTok.

There’s value in being on social media, especially as a reporter. But I think I’ve had enough — at least until I find the next good story.