LOS ANGELES -- Lee Dillworth used to tune four televisions to the trial of O.J. Simpson in separate rooms of her San Fernando Valley mobile home. But today there is only desperate channel surfing.
Dillworth, like thousands of other trial junkies across the nation, suffers the crankiness and ennui of cold-turkey withdrawal.
"Nothing means as much,'' said the 55-year-old telemarketer, who works out of her home. "There's a sadness, an emptiness. There's nothing to look forward to in my life. I used to get up like I was going somewhere exciting, only it was my living room and I was going to court.''
For many Simpson addicts, the wholeness of the day, the connectedness to a special world, is gone. Some are rediscovering the real world with gratitude. Others, like Dillworth, are still struggling. This, after all, is a woman who stopped answering the phone while court was in session, who ate lunch when the jurors did, who timed doctor appointments around Judge Ito's schedule, who was on a first-name basis with scores of people she'd never met, from lawyers to television anchors.
At first it seemed these addicts would get a gentle letdown. There was an avalanche of postverdict analysis, then speculation about what the football great would say to Tom Brokaw. Then came the chatter about what it meant when Simpson abruptly backed out of a television interview. Now there is only an occasional morsel.
"Like any withdrawal, people are going to be feeling anxious, depressed, irritable, empty, and overwhelmed with their life," said Dr. Carole Lieberman, a Beverly Hills psychiatrist who studies the impact of media on society. "Since the trial went on so long, people put their lives on hold. Now it's suddenly off; they can still hear little tidbits, but it isn't enough to feed the voracious appetite that developed."
Lieberman believes the large number of people captivated by the trial reflects social malaise. "If this had been a time when people were more involved in their lives and more hopeful that their own productivity was going to have a positive result, then there wouldn't have been so many who became addicted," she said.
For some, the posttrial life is liberating. It means they can resume schedules consumed by the case. Cyril La Tendresse, a 78-year-old retired Michigan farmer who became the resident trial expert in his small town of Chassell (population: 730), has returned to his normal social habits. He now regularly saunters into town and visits with his buddies -- a practice he had relinquished to watch The Trial. No more jamming chores on the 200-acre farm into the morning hours before testimony begins; now he can leisurely mow the lawn twice a week and tend the chickens without rushing.
The lure of the trial was so powerful that it was able to transform even non-television-watchers into ersatz couch potatoes. Barbara Levine, a 65-year-old Sherborn, Massachusetts resident, for instance, does not usually watch television. She and her husband, however, fell under the spell of the trial. Because they missed Marcia Clark's closing statement, they watched a taped rerun at 4:30 a.m.
Today, like many addicts, she is paying the price: She faces a pile of paperwork on her desk, tasks she kept postponing that she has only now begun to tackle.
Yet the obsession brought an unexpected benefit, she said. Because she and her husband sat side-by-side through the court proceedings, sharing them together, a special bond blossomed.
"We definitely got even closer than before," Levine said.
After the verdict, Thelma Olshaker, an author living in Washington, welcomed the productivity of normal life but found the trial created harmful habits she's still having trouble breaking. Her murder mystery, which should have been finished by now, is only half complete. She's having to impose strict discipline on herself to grind it out.
It took several days of sitting through post-trial coverage before Olshaker's exasperation forced her back to writing: "All of a sudden, I said, 'It's over. It's time for me to move on.'''
During the trial, Olshaker found that she crept away from her computer so she could watch the trial. Not wishing to sit idly, she cleaned out drawers (in the TV room), paced on her treadmill (while inhaling Marcia Clark's every word), and made excuses to herself about why she absolutely had to sew her needlepoint (in front of the television).
"I thought it was the biggest news event -- my heart was beating as though I was the defendant,'' sighed Olshaker. "Oh, it was a wonderful trial.''
Dillworth, like thousands of other trial junkies across the nation, suffers the crankiness and ennui of cold-turkey withdrawal.
"Nothing means as much,'' said the 55-year-old telemarketer, who works out of her home. "There's a sadness, an emptiness. There's nothing to look forward to in my life. I used to get up like I was going somewhere exciting, only it was my living room and I was going to court.''
For many Simpson addicts, the wholeness of the day, the connectedness to a special world, is gone. Some are rediscovering the real world with gratitude. Others, like Dillworth, are still struggling. This, after all, is a woman who stopped answering the phone while court was in session, who ate lunch when the jurors did, who timed doctor appointments around Judge Ito's schedule, who was on a first-name basis with scores of people she'd never met, from lawyers to television anchors.
At first it seemed these addicts would get a gentle letdown. There was an avalanche of postverdict analysis, then speculation about what the football great would say to Tom Brokaw. Then came the chatter about what it meant when Simpson abruptly backed out of a television interview. Now there is only an occasional morsel.
"Like any withdrawal, people are going to be feeling anxious, depressed, irritable, empty, and overwhelmed with their life," said Dr. Carole Lieberman, a Beverly Hills psychiatrist who studies the impact of media on society. "Since the trial went on so long, people put their lives on hold. Now it's suddenly off; they can still hear little tidbits, but it isn't enough to feed the voracious appetite that developed."
Lieberman believes the large number of people captivated by the trial reflects social malaise. "If this had been a time when people were more involved in their lives and more hopeful that their own productivity was going to have a positive result, then there wouldn't have been so many who became addicted," she said.
For some, the posttrial life is liberating. It means they can resume schedules consumed by the case. Cyril La Tendresse, a 78-year-old retired Michigan farmer who became the resident trial expert in his small town of Chassell (population: 730), has returned to his normal social habits. He now regularly saunters into town and visits with his buddies -- a practice he had relinquished to watch The Trial. No more jamming chores on the 200-acre farm into the morning hours before testimony begins; now he can leisurely mow the lawn twice a week and tend the chickens without rushing.
The lure of the trial was so powerful that it was able to transform even non-television-watchers into ersatz couch potatoes. Barbara Levine, a 65-year-old Sherborn, Massachusetts resident, for instance, does not usually watch television. She and her husband, however, fell under the spell of the trial. Because they missed Marcia Clark's closing statement, they watched a taped rerun at 4:30 a.m.
Today, like many addicts, she is paying the price: She faces a pile of paperwork on her desk, tasks she kept postponing that she has only now begun to tackle.
Yet the obsession brought an unexpected benefit, she said. Because she and her husband sat side-by-side through the court proceedings, sharing them together, a special bond blossomed.
"We definitely got even closer than before," Levine said.
After the verdict, Thelma Olshaker, an author living in Washington, welcomed the productivity of normal life but found the trial created harmful habits she's still having trouble breaking. Her murder mystery, which should have been finished by now, is only half complete. She's having to impose strict discipline on herself to grind it out.
It took several days of sitting through post-trial coverage before Olshaker's exasperation forced her back to writing: "All of a sudden, I said, 'It's over. It's time for me to move on.'''
During the trial, Olshaker found that she crept away from her computer so she could watch the trial. Not wishing to sit idly, she cleaned out drawers (in the TV room), paced on her treadmill (while inhaling Marcia Clark's every word), and made excuses to herself about why she absolutely had to sew her needlepoint (in front of the television).
"I thought it was the biggest news event -- my heart was beating as though I was the defendant,'' sighed Olshaker. "Oh, it was a wonderful trial.''
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