I've talked a bit about my being an addict before on here, but honestly? I don't think about it probably as much as I should. Was reading Mackenzie Phillips' memoir High on Arrival (because Augusten Burroughs told me to), and she refers to her addiction as a sleeping beast. Now maybe it was because there was a Stephen King biography stacked right next to me in my big lonely bed, but this freaked me out royally. I mean of course I robotically and emphatically state to myself and take as dogma that I am and forever will be an addict. A recovering one yes, but that's secondary to the point. I've been sober for ten years now. Is it a sleeping dragon? I don't go to meetings. I didn't get sober with meetings. I got sober with raw nerve and sex. New love, the original Prozac. Now, I know this makes me a candidate scientifically for some sort of nasty relapse. I already have addictive tendencies with soooo many of my daily activities. I drink a lot of caffeine. I quit smoking (but don't miss it one bit, nor do I miss drinking), but am a total technology addict. I write: therefore I surf. Not that I don't get out of the house, but I become quite the twitchy vixen if I don't check my email, my facebook, my twitter, and write write write write. I do have rare moments, offbeat comedies that run through my mind in which I'm smoking some beautiful weed and am lighter than air. That, my friends, is what I do honestly miss. Drinking, pfft. Smoking? Nar. Pot? Oh, delicious. It was the last of the bad boys that I quit (not counting cigarettes three years ago), and I guess the pure pleasure I derived from it, the absolute ease of conversation...I dunno. Alcohol was my dirty vice, my cheap thrill. I secretly hated it. I hated the fear of throwing up and the lack of control and the morning after. Pot never treated me poorly. It was my girl.
So anyway, the sleeping dragon. I hope it's not stirring.