Addiction Is Not Your Friend

In spite of recent life events (divorce), I've lived a pretty fortunate life. I'm mostly healthy (teeth, vision and respiration, notwithstanding), I have a good job, some pretty fabulous dogs. I live in a cozy home with cozy fireplace and cozy new slippers.

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.

I mean, really, ...

… 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.) 

And before you get too far down the path, let me tell you that I don't wash my hands a hundred times a day (only about fifty -- I am a doctor, after all) or triple check the oven before I go to bed, or have to count my steps from the front door to the mailbox every time I walk the path. No, my compulsion is cyberstalking my ex.

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:

Little Adventures in a Big World: Reflections on Fear

This is where I grew up:

Specifically, in this house, which my dad built before I was born:

(House-proud, I feel compelled to mention we had quite a bit more shrubbery when we lived there.)

My hometown, Lorain, is situated near the shores of Lake Erie in northern Ohio. And, while there may be adventure to be had in Lorain, it is not easy to find. Before the age of twenty, I had never seen a mountain. Or been on an airplane. I had visited my cousins in Florida when I was twelve, so I may have seen the ocean around that time. But when I was little, my idea of adventure involved pedaling furiously on my Huffy ten-speed to make it home before the streetlights came on … completely. (Of course, I didn't even mount up until they'd at least started to flicker on. A rebel, even way back then.)

When I graduated college, I moved -- alone -- to my new job in Indiana. My family thought that was adventurous enough. -- Indiana. Adventurous. Hmm. --  I did, admittedly, find ways to find adventure in the flats of what has got to be one of the least perilous states of the nation.

Wolves notwithstanding, Indiana soon bored me, and so I made my way north to Wisconsin, which made up for what it lacked in adventure by providing six years of solid graduate and professional education. In my senior year, I contemplated a move to Alaska, where a good friend was living. So, yes, it's adventurous to move, but at least I knew someone once I got there, right? Nevertheless, my family was dismayed. "Alaska?!?" By the end of the year, the decision was made, and within ten days of graduation, I had made my way -- a solo 3000-mile drive with my two dogs as my only companions -- to my new home state.

I've now been in Alaska for seventeen years, and there's no shortage of opportunity here to have, find or make as many adventures as your heart desires. Pretty much any land that isn't claimed by private residence or the military is free and open to explore, play or lose yourself in. These are just a few of the adventures I've had while here:

Learning to scuba dive... in January:

Even the instructor looks grumpy.

Kayaking Prince William Sound's Harriman glacier:

Hiking Crow Pass, a 26-mile mountain pass, replete with hornets, moose and bears:

Skiing across a frozen lake to the foot of Portage Glacier:

Cycling through Denali National Park overnight on Summer Solstice:

Cold at 3am on June 21? You bet.

Running the Klondike Road Relay, a 120-mile relay about half of which legs are run in total darkness:

Learning to ski the backcountry (for the uninitiated, that means hiking up a mountain just to ski back down it):

Hiking Kesugi Ridge, along the majestic Denali (the mountain -- not the dog, whose name was Spook):

Participating in a spay/neuter clinic in "bush" (remote) Alaska, with no gas anesthetic:

Finishing a Marathon:

Skiing the twelve miles to Tolovana Hot Springs, which is north of (i.e., colder than) Fairbanks:

Yeah, the little white line in the distance is the trail.

The shelter at the top of the wind-whipped dome (note the poor scrawny tree)

And there are, of course, the everyday adventures. Here are just a few:

Weekly autumn run (fewer bears in autumn)

Wolverine Peak, once a summer, at least

Mountain Yoga

The locals, in my side yard

And travels abroad have provided their own adventures, as well:

The Costa Rican jungle -- snakes, heat stroke, no water… what's not to love?

Taranaki, New Zealand

The trail is on the side of that cliff face somewhere -- Oh, I see it!

Hiking the French countryside -- FYI, they do not chain up their guard dogs.

Cappadoccia, Central Turkish steppes

Taksim Square, Istanbul, a mere four months after the city riots

Toto, I don't think we're in Lorain anymore.

Lest you think this is starting to read too much like a "Look How Awesome I Am!" post, allow me to get to the point: It's not enough.

Not that *I* feel dissatisfied with what I've accomplished in my life, but … Let's just say that the yardstick in Alaska can be a bugger.

No matter how bad-ass you think you are, here in Alaska, there's someone who's doing it higher or deeper or longer than you. As an example, the kayak picture above, with the glacier? This is the picture  I took when I felt like I was close enough to that big wall of ice, thank you very much, … and yet my friends went on ahead, to get closer:

See the tiny black dots mid-photo? That's them.

After a while, I couldn't even see them anymore:

Similarly, the marathon I ran was flat. Meanwhile, my friend John in Fairbanks runs the Equinox Marathon every year -- every year. The course profile (elevation gain at the left):

And the Klondike Road Relay? As if it isn't tough enough that it's a run through a mountain pass at night (one year a black bear ran along with the runners for a stretch -- not joking), some guys gotta show off by dressing up to run their sixteen-mile leg, in feathers no less:

Closer to home, this was my own personal challenge: whenever my ex-husband said he wanted to go for a hike, he usually meant either straight up a mountain, or, to compromise & go flat, maybe something like this:

What trail?

Or, in Dominica, heaven forbid we should stagger off the cruise ship to go lie on a beach somewhere. No, no, let's rent Vespas from a sketchy guy who takes us to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere and go drive around until we find a trail no one's ever been on before:

Met some nice locals, though. Very friendly.

The discrepancy between what I considered an adventure and what constituted "adventure" for my ex-husband was a chasm of epic proportions. 

Which brings me to Fear. 

I am a very fearful person. My mother was strong but timid in her own way. Bees, traffic, crowded places… these were all valid reasons why she might might be busying her hands nervously shredding a Kleenex or even making an excuse not to go out on any given day. Her youngest daughter, I made her fears my own, even while I could sense my father's displeasure in creating a fearful child. He did his best to inspire confidence in risk-taking, and lack of shame in what others might consider failure. And so I was -- and, to some degree, remain -- trapped between these two viewpoints, forcing myself to do things I fear, but remaining fearful all the while.

Of course, some of the extreme adventures listed above have more to do with strength and stamina than with fear, but, underlying it all is a fear of shame or social embarrassment if a feat is attempted and not successfully accomplished. Perhaps this is especially true if the valuation of a loved one is perceived dependent on performance or outcome. And maybe this valuation is real -- and maybe it is imaginary, its own fear.

It holds us back, Fear does. We sometimes live our lives less fully because of it. But all of the photos above are from my own albums, my own experiences, and so I am determined not to allow my life to be limited, by anything, if I can help it. And certainly not by fear. 

And so, in spite of my fear -- and sometimes even because of it -- I forge ahead, into unknown territories. And sometimes, I have discovered an embarrassment… of riches.