But I know Life isn't always so easy. And there are many of us out there who deal with the horrors of addiction.
The most common addictions that spring to mind are typically drugs and alcohol. But of course, one can be addicted to almost anything: shopping, gambling, sex, video games, pornography,… The list goes on forever.
Webster defines "addiction" as follows:
1: the quality or state of being addicted <addiction to reading>
(Well, that's a cop-out. Every English teacher I've ever had said you aren't supposed to use a form of the word in its own definition. So:)
2: compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance (as heroin, nicotine, or alcohol) characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal; broadly : persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be harmful.
Now, then. That's more like it. -- Tolerance, withdrawal, compulsive, harmful … yes, much juicier.
While in college, I wrote a paper about drug tolerance and addiction, and the overwhelming message I retain from that bit of research (one of the few project whose details I actually remember) is that increasing quantities of drug increases the number of receptors for that stimulus, but decreasing quantities does not decrease the number. Like adipose fat cells, the deck is stacked in favor of human ruin. And so when you quit your addiction, all those starving neglected cells have nothing better to do all day than screech and wail and carry on as they wither in their emptiness. This leads, as any addict will tell you, to some very crazy thoughts, not the least of which are the ever-so-seductive voices whispering in your ear how very much better you would feel if you would just … Give In.
That's it! That's all! You're miserable? I know how to make it stop! Just one little drink. Or pill. Or one more pair of shoes…. Come on, who's it really hurting? -- But of course, the voices lie. Who it hurts is you. Every time. But you still. Can't. Stop.
Having lived on this planet for nearly fifty years, I, of course, have known some addicts. My father was an alcoholic. So was my brother. Another brother did drugs. Various friends in and after college (probably high school, too, though I never noticed) struggled with their own particular monkeys, some more successfully than others.
I, however, seemed fortunate to be lacking the addict gene. I can drink one or two glasses of wine (or none at all for weeks at a time) with nothing more than a temporary high or low. Cigarettes held no appeal past the "cool" factor during high school. Stronger drugs seemed a long walk off a short pier, so those I avoided altogether. I confess I have always been fond of the male of our species but, I think, not overly so.
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| I mean, really, ... |
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| … Can you blame me? |
If you've read any of my previous posts about this summer's divorce, you already know I've had a lot of new experiences, most of them wholly unwelcome. Evidently, lurking among them was addiction.
As they say in AA: "Hello, my name is Samuel. And I am an addict."
(Chorus: "Hello, Samuel.")
I didn't even realize my addiction was an addiction. It didn't keep me from going to work. Or feeding myself. Or living a mostly normal life. But it made -- makes … Once an addict, always an addict -- It makes me miserable.
You see, my addiction is compulsion, or obsession/compulsion, or OCD. (As Willy S. says, A rose by any other name… you know.)
What?!?, you say! EVERYONE does that! It's totally natural! Of COURSE you want to know what your Ex-husband is doing with the girl he left you for, or just, you know, what he's doing in general! That's not an addiction!
But it is. And here are the reasons why:
1. I know it's wrong. -- It feels wrong. He left me. I have to accept that. He unfriended me (so did his girlfriend) on Facebook within about a week of him leaving. I know. I checked. -- So you know what I did? I created an alias. That's right, fifty years old and sporting the cyber equivalent of a fake ID. So I could snoop. When's the last time you had to create a false identity to do something that wasn't wrong? Exactly.
2. I mostly feel compelled to stalk him in the middle of the night. -- One of the self-help books I read recommends, during a breakup, not doing anything that occurs to you between the hours of midnight and 6a.m. This, as it turns out, is a really good rule. And one I have not always followed. I won't tell you how many times I have re-downloaded Instagram, then peeked, then (usually crying) deleted it again. Lots, is the answer. Lots of times.
3. It's deceitful, mostly to myself. -- I feel like I'm doing well, making real progress, feeling strong. I haven't seen or spoken to my Ex since the divorce hearing, about four months ago now. No Contact! Another rule of a successful break-up. Hooray, me! -- Except, it's not No Contact if I'm secretly spying on his life, is it?
But the way I truly recognize this as an addiction is the way I feel in those first few seconds after downloading Instragram for the umpteenth time, as his photos are loading onto my phone. It's pure addict exhilaration. I feel every little withering starving brain cell that has my Ex's name tattooed in a heart on its chest swell with joy and pleasure at the influx of the teensiest bit of Ex-related data, just like a dried-up old sponge swells with water after prolonged drought. If my head were in a CT scan, the whole area would light up like fireworks, probably in the shape of a heart. After the initial rush, however, there is only the downward spiral of pain, desolation, rejection. Withdrawal.
You see, I was addicted. I was addicted to my husband, to my marriage, to the promises of a long life lived together, sharing our pasts & futures. The safety and intimacy, the camaraderie and easy companionship that only decades together can bring. The private jokes.
But those things were taken from me, abruptly and without warning. Cold turkey it is, then. So I have staggered my way over to the long line at the methadone clinic and, being out of methadone, they offered me cyber-stalking instead. It's not the same high as feeling loved and cherished by your life partner, but it beats the big empty of nothing at all.
But eventually you have to kick the methadone, too. So here I am today, having for maybe the first time met and defeated a pretty big challenge to my resolve. You see, the New Girl's divorce hearing was today. So I knew where they would be, my Ex and the New Girl. This was my chance to see them together (which I've been fortunate to avoid thus far, but not forever, I'm sure). The tricksy part of my brain tried to run an end-run around logic to convince myself this way I could see them under controlled circumstances, instead of by accident in the grocery store. But I know my mind plays tricks on me. It's too clever by half. So, after hours of struggling, of walking on that ledge, I did not go to the courthouse.
I'd love to say I did it all on my own, but I had the serendipity of this week's therapy appointment having already been scheduled just before I would've committed said embarrassing act of stalking, and of course my therapist did his best to help me talk myself out of it. Then I bought and consumed a lot of sugar, which I also love but try to limit -- not today. Then, at the last moment, as I was sitting in car, the pendulum swinging in the wrong direction, one of my favorite songs came on the radio. And whenever I hear that song, even if I'm in my own driveway, I will back out and drive around the block until the song is over. So I turned it up -- WAY too loud -- and sang along -- WAY too loud -- and drove. Away from the courthouse. And toward my own life.
And these guys were waiting for me at home. As addictions go, they're pretty harmless. But the likelihood of complete recovery from addiction to their love is mighty slim:
