It's my drug of choice. Well, one of the healthiest ones, I should say. I have others - you know, the usuals of sugar, Netflix, comic books, games, socialization, etc.
Yet trapped in my prison cell during the past year writing is the drug that saved me.
Maybe writing isn't a drug - maybe writing is actually a cure?
The Only Drug I’m Interested In
*statistics, those denoting energy and mood, dropping into the red zone*
Brain: “WE NEED DARK CHOCOLATE. NOW!!!”
It is only in looking back upon my behavior as a teenager that I can acknowledge I was addicted to love. I was stuck in a pattern of intense infatuation, insecurity, and obsessive behavior. My immature mind believed that this other would fill my cup. So glad to be done with that!
As a young mother I became addicted to Vienna Fingers, no joke; the vanilla cookies with the vanilla cream inside. I would always use the excuse I was buying them for my kids but I'd eat them all before they got any. Don't worry. They weren't deprived. They liked and received Chewy Chips Ahoy.
In my fifties, I started a dangerous love affair with wine. Scared the crap out of me because my mother was an alcoholic. I had all these rules; only drink on the weekend; only two glasses max, that I was constantly bending and then I gave it up when I asked myself, "What the hell are you doing?" I do like beer, but I am able to stick to my rules. Only one, and not every day. My favorite beer at the present moment is Evolution, Rise Up Coffee Stout. It is addictive, but I keep it under control.
I would prefer to say writing and reading are passions and not addictions. I know I have an addictive personality and at one point I found myself turning these closely guarded passions into an addiction. I know the signs, perhaps you do too. When we allow what we do to become an obsession instead of a pleasure it's time to take a break. But I can unequivocally state today, writing (and reading) is the number one thing that makes me feel good when I feel bad, besides time with my grandchildren and my dog Booker.
When I was young and I felt bad, or ugly, I sometimes did what my Dad humorously referred to as “chucking a sicky,” by which he meant that though I was not particularly physically ill, I still felt ill because I required a break from the cruelly introspective social pressures of adolescence.
He would let me stay home from school, but insisted on wrapping me up in a blanket, with soup or warm milk & honey, or some other such comfort, and he’d put on a spaghetti western, which I was told I must watch. He often muttered something like “you’ll watch it even if I have to hold your eyes open with toothpicks.” My favorite of these ‘punishments’ (and, incidentally, the best spaghetti western of all time),
absorbed me completely, rendered my paltry problems ridiculous, and transported me to a different plane of existence. To this day it still holds power over my frame of mind.
It is an incredibly immersive work of art:
The panoramic scenes,
And the music.
Especially the music.
If You Seek Eros
There is no greater addiction other than love. Period. Wait, that needs a better qualifier. Romantic : passionate love, to be more specific. Eros to be wholly specific. The can’t-eat-can’t-sleep-can’t-live-without-them brand of utter bullshit.
Editor’s note: I’m open to other opinions of course, but for the sake of this exercise, we’re only talking about me right now. I’m hereby the queen, president, and empress of this story and my word is law.
Back to it. If you didn’t know, the Greeks have seven specific words for all of the nuances of love. Pretty fancy, right?
There’s Philia, the love you have for your friends. Ludus, which is playful love - honestly no idea what that is. Moving along into Pragma, which is enduring love. Philautia, or self-love. Don’t think this mean masturbation, you perverts. Storge, the love you have for your family. A personal favorite - Agape, or unconditional love. And finally, the villain of my story, Eros. Romantic love.
A well-rounded and exceptionally adjusted person has the proper balance of all forms in their lives. And if you want a speed-pass to feeling like a lovesick, desperate puppy, forsake all other kinds and seek out Eros.
Because despite all of the wordplay, we all know that there’s only one kind that causes the addictive cycles of euphoria, distress, withdrawal, anxiety, then more euphoria. And on and on the cycle goes until you’re left in a heap of bones and blood and despair. It’s our good friend Eros. That fucker.
And now I feel like I’ve stumbled upon the money-making idea of the decade. Detox clinics for the Eros-sick. Anyone want to be my first client? Or perhaps I should get cured first...
I seek out water
to cool raging thoughts
or warm away
aches and bruises to my soul.
Let me swim in an endless lake
its chill pulling from me
every doubt that I needn’t keep plunging
one hand over another
fast and steady
to keep from drowning.
Give me to a warm dark cask
above the temperature
of my surging heart
for it to still
a ramen noodle
soak away my crusty brittleness
renew my pliability
restore my requisite resilience.
She slipped me the desire for sugar-sweet
substantial to eat
She guided my dreams to cookies and cakes,
the things I can always
even as I drown in the guilt of eating too
much and the sugar vibrates
in my ribs
She slipped me the desire for stepping away
into a bright, blank world of light
pretending to fulfill me
She guided my dreams to virtual
worlds and virtual words
that stuff stuff stuff my head
with cotton death of new ideas
She knows sometimes I’ll slip and
forget to do more, but I guess
I need this first step before
the more can come
How do you release the grey without
She knows I can’t, so
she makes me want something
and also ice cream
and sometimes I don’t take it
She slipped me the desire for hot, salty
tears that run down cheeks in cold lines
and gasp up from my throat
like purifying fire
She guided my dreams to accepting
my pain in determination of
doing better tomorrow
The euphoria of success
endorphins to my brain
Rarely achieved and
I must have success
or I have
I’m a junky for
I wonder what
the consequences of
I must wear shin guards
for the fall from this
will destroy me
through and through
#drugs #addiction #poetry #success #rehab #brain #high
Crank the music.
Press the gas,
Lonely road home,
My Drug of Choice
My drug of choice has always been sex but not in the way you think.
I have these moments of depression where I close myself off.
Not wanting to feel anything.
I revert to my old ways.
My online persona
This make-believe person who’s forms sexual attachments to complete strangers
Who wants nothing but to give pleasure and to dominate.
To find gratification in knowing that she can please a man.
Make him believe he’s in control.
Fulfilling his every desire and need
Becoming whomever, he lusts for
I find my own pleasure and release hearing them cum for me calling my name.
I get off on knowing they worship me.
Fall to their knees to please me.
But they never do
At least not the real me
They only feed this need I must forget.
My drug of choice is them.
Stroking my ego as I stroke their cocks.