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?

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),

The Good,

The Bad

&The Ugly

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,

The drama,

The humanity,

The brutality,

The wit,

The bravado,

The conviction.

And the music.

Especially the music.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OiIe2znA1ao

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

spilling over

above the temperature

of my surging heart

giving permission

for it to still

while I

a ramen noodle

soak away my crusty brittleness

renew my pliability

restore my requisite resilience.

She slipped me the desire for sugar-sweet

chocolatey something

substantial to eat

She guided my dreams to cookies and cakes,

the things I can always

truly enjoy

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

and boredom

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

feeling it?

She knows I can’t, so

she makes me want something

nameless

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

Perfection rushes

endorphins to my brain

Rarely achieved and

forever coveted

I must have success

or I have

lived

and

died

for nothing

I’m a junky for

the journey

that leads

to victory

I wonder what

the consequences of

such an

addiction

may entail…

I must wear shin guards

in rehab

for the fall from this

high

will destroy me

through and through

#drugs #addiction #poetry #success #rehab #brain #high

Drive,

Headlights call,

Engine rumbles,

Inhaled exhaust,

Crank the music.

Wind rushes,

Open windows,

Dark roads,

Vast emptiness.

Breath,

Press the gas,

Acceleration,

Tight stomach,

Exhale.

Signs flash,

Memories flash,

Lights flash,

Life flash.

Empty tank,

Quiet station,

Lonely road home,

Parking brake,

Lights off.

Remnants,

Burnt rubber,

Tire marks,

Dried tears.

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.

Faceless strangers

Stroking my ego as I stroke their cocks.