Addiction is a Bitch

Warning: The blog post you are about to read may cause rolling nausea and repeated cringing.  It is not a tale for the faint of heart.  Unfortunately, every word is true. 

Several years ago, so long ago that I can not even remember the exact year, I jumped on a bandwagon.  A bandwagon, that at the time seemed to be heading somewhere exciting.  The decision to hop on was an easy one.  It seemed interesting and everyone else was doing it.  The exact reasons that most young adults make the poor decisions that seem to follow them throughout their life.  I played an active role for a time.  Treating it as everyone else did, just a casual thing that one does with friends.  I made new friends because of it.  I even turned other people on to it.  It was just the way it was. 

Then, much like the way I started, I stopped.  But, it was still there, out there lingering, on hold, waiting for the perfect moment to reassert itself in my life.  But for a while, it was dormant. 

I didn’t miss it.  I didn’t even think about it.  I moved on to other interests.  Years went by.  And then as these things often do, it came back.  It came back with a vengeance, but not how you might expect.  It began innocently enough with my husband.  Joel had never experienced it.  When most people experimented with it in their late teens/early twenties, he was busy doing other things.  Within a few short days, he became addicted.  I didn’t even think to warn him. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t know what it was like to be in a relationship with someone that needed it.  First thing in the morning, he would turn to it.  Middle of the day, I’d catch him using.  It would be the last thing he would do before collapsing into bed.  It was way more accessible now, than it had even been before.  And it wasn’t very long, before I started again too. 

But I had it under control you see.  Just a couple of times on the weekend, but then a couple of times on the weekend weren’t enough.  I started turning to it whenever the threat of boredom loomed.  Before work, late at night and even in the middle of the work day, I begin to indulge.  I became paranoid about it.  What do people think when they see me using it in the middle of the day, several times a day.  I begin to hide my habit.  I told myself it was only to protect myself from awkward conversations or getting stuck having to make excuses to my friends from long ago.  But I knew the truth, I was ashamed. 

Up until then, it was still somewhat casual use.  Sure, I used frequently, but it was mainly the same stuff that everyone did.  Nothing too intense. 

Until last week, that is.  Someone on Plurk (damn you!!!!) mentioned their own closeted addiction at my worst possible moment.  It was a long afternoon.  Boredom hung heavy in the air around me.  I needed a distraction, a release, something to occupy my mind, and that short small mention in Plurk was all it took for me to tumble into the deep abyss that I had resisted for so long. 

I thought that day was my lowest point, but unfortunately it got worse.  That was just the tipping point.  I lost countless hours over the weekend to it.  Precious hours, I’ll never get back.  Sunday morning, Joel walked in and caught me.  “What the hell are you doing?”  I was embarrassed.  I tried to explain that it’s nothing.  “Just a few minutes of mindlessness, and plus you do it too”, I snapped.  “I don’t do that, and there’s a big difference between what I do and what you’re doing”, he replied sharply.  “I thought you said you’d never sink so low” he accused.  I started grasping at straws and then just like an addict, I started to try to lure him in too.  “I need your help Joel.  Try it, just once.  You don’t have to use it often.  Just help me out.”  I even started to get angry when he refused.  “Why won’t you just fucking try it for me?” I started yelling.  And with a shake of his head, he turned away and left me alone, alone with my addiction.   

Did I stop?  Did being caught embarrass me into quitting?  Not a chance.  In fact, this morning I sunk to a new low.  I started searching online for strangers that shared my own sick twisted addiction.  Strangers with like-minded tendencies, and I lured them in too.  Hoping to find someone, anyone that shared my secret desire.  Even as I was tracking them down, sending them messages, urging them to indulge with me, I felt the big lump of shame deep inside me.  Who had I become? 

How did that occasional thing I did with friends on a Saturday night turn into this shameful secret that I must indulge frequently, repeatedly with strangers? 

Judge me, judge away, but know that this too could happen to you or your loved ones. 

This blog post is my confession.  Facebook was the gateway drug that sent me spiraling deep into the pit of hell that has become my Frontierville addiction.   

Won’t you be my neighbor? 

No, seriously, be my fucking neighbor!  I need some damn cloth, and it’s driving me crazy.  We can turn off alerts, and it will be our own little secret.

Advertisement