I’ve struggled with various forms of addiction since I was a teenager. Some universally frowned upon, like drinking a bottle of wine a night, every night, for much of my early to mid 20s. Some, more nuanced and arguable. I was addicted to finding home in another, addicted to feeling a sense of control and also losing complete control. Addicted to continuously improving myself so I could finally soothe the discomfort of being me, either too much or not enough.
All the numbing and escapism began at early adolescence, born from the collision of teenage hormones and abilities I had not yet acquired, like the capacity to hold the unbearable intensity of my emotions as they met each challenging moment, each life change beyond my control.
That was a long time ago. But since time is nonlinear, only our experience of it - it also feels like just yesterday. I can remember the overwhelming desire to escape the thoughts in my mind, and sensations in my chest and belly, my body too small to hold it all. Like waves of fire, or thick, dense mud. The kind of heaviness that threatens to consume you the more you struggle, like quicksand.
It felt as if I didn’t find a way to run from it, to distance myself from its burning intent to swallow me whole, I would never be able to return.
