The religious are addicted
to God and to faith. The fat are to food as are the drunk to alcohol and the unsatisfied
to sex.
It starts with a fear.
Perhaps a fear of the unknown or of failure or change. Of that teacher that
bullies you in math class. A fear of rejection. Of the abusive boyfriend your
mum now brings home or the dog that you pass on the way to the bus. Of
abandonment, or being alone.
The fear leads to worry; a
reaction to the fear, which in turn creates more fear and, accordingly; more
worry. You start to create little habits like flicking a light switch seven
times or counting the stripes on the zebra crossing each time you’re walking
over it. You avoid the cracks in the pavement and certain numbers because they
don’t feel right anymore. As though out of no where, you’ve created a
dysfunctional defence in an attempt to disassociate from the pain and escape
the uncomfortable.
Next comes the too-late
realisation that these compulsions, this counting meticulously and
straightening and cleaning and picking and colour coding and pressing of
buttons are actually addictions and you feed on them. What was once an act
sought for relief is now what you rely on for normality. It is a fierce
dependence and it rages. It is a certainty.
What once was something you
created to gain control now controls you and you’re in a permanent state of
craving, a relentless pursuit. You’re addicted to being addicted and you don’t even
remember why you started in the first place.
Psychologists will try and make
you remember; tell you that in order to move forward you must first heal the
past but they don’t know the truth. The truth is that it doesn’t matter. It
won’t stop. You are addicted. An addict.
Whatever you felt before is
now replaced by an anxiety that eats at your insides, that makes you claw at
your stomach and leaves you with a lingering desperation, a need for calm; for
sweet, sweet relief.
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