I am addicted to drugs.
I’ve dabbled with them for years.
Sometimes I go days without thinking about them; even weeks resisting their seductive spell, but in the end, they find me. The pull is always there. These last few weeks have been hard and I’ve found myself turning to their mind numbing promise. Even when it starts out as recreational it so easily falls into habit. It’s always the same old story. I tell myself I deserve a treat; something to help celebrate a beautiful day or a special occasion, but soon enough it becomes a crutch to escape the dole drums of everyday life. I spend money I can’t afford to blow and time I don’t have to burn.
It can be euphoric but other times it drags me down into pits of despair and the only escape is to start the whole process again and hope for a happier ending. I know it’s not real but when it’s good, you keep at it because it’s so good, and when it’s bad you keep at it because the only way out is another trip. Their grip has torn me away from my family and even when I am with them physically, sometimes I’m mentally already gone. I can’t resist. I don’t have to trust you, I don’t even have to like you, I’ll still take whatever it is you’re selling. High quality, low quality, it’s all the same to me. My name is CracTpot and I am an addict.
Now before any of you get the idea in your head to form an intervention, let me assure you, every word above is true… except for one. Read the first 2 paragraphs again, but substitute the word drugs, for books. Does it make it any better?
Losing myself in a plot line is my favourite form of distraction. It’s the easiest thing in the world to slip into something comfortable and slide into a story where everything happens for a reason. The dialogue flows smooth and swift and when characters speak, people listen. If they don`t, the narrative explains why they were distracted and heroines are never forced to repeat themselves for pages on end or until they begin to question their self-worth (or even their existence).
She doesn`t clean her house just so that the kids can mess it up again ad nauseam. She tidies with purpose or so she can discover a hidden treasure that leads her on an adventure, or to receive guests that will change the direction of her tale. The protagonist doesn`t work simply to make enough money to put food on the table (that her family will inevitably complain about) before falling asleep only to wake up to do it all again. Even if she does, it`s only for a chapter or two before she begins to realize there must be something more and then she goes about finding it. Every line is there as an incentive to turn the page and each page encourages you to finish the chapter and so forth until you make it to the happy ending.
The problem is with literary fictions growing distaste for fairy tales. No longer can the mature author pen a story that wraps up nicely with a bow without suffering the scorn of realists that complain that life is not so pretty. This is followed closely by critics that turn their nose up at readers who prefer to avoid tragedies that paint an all too real picture of the darker side of human nature or a disturbing glimpse into the shades of grey and monotony that even the luckiest of us struggle to survive. I get it; life is hard and sometimes meaningless and it can be challenging to keep putting one foot in front of the other when you have no idea where you are going. Still, if I practice positive thinking and constructive decision making to get through the harder aspects of life, why then would I immerse myself in a world that reinforces that everything is awful and everybody dies. To each their own I suppose. I won`t judge you on your macabre best seller’s that peddle sickening twists and turns and play with traditional roles of right and wrong, but you shouldn`t judge me if I choose to escape into a clever and well written realization that everything happens for a reason and the reason isn`t to prove that life sucks. Besides, is there honour among thieves? Can you really judge my crack habit from your position in the bathroom doing lines of pure cocaine on the back of the toilet? I was going to try to end this post with a moral in moderation but drug use isn’t normally a lead up lesson for restraint so let me just finish by saying if we’re going to run away from home let’s not get too caught up judging the destination. Instead, let’s just encourage each other to eventually come back, because like it or not, our life is waiting, be it unorganized and unplanned or seemingly purposeless.
Truth is, even on my worst days I have faith that one day it will all make sense and I will look back on the chapters of my existence and see the foreshadowing that was there all along. Maybe that’s why I don’t mind happy ever afters, because I still believe they are possible, even if they seem to be pages and pages away. Until then I will crawl under the covers and unabashedly steal away a few hours (a few days?) ignoring the overwhelming yet blisteringly boring responsibilities of being a grown up.
My name is Cractpot and I am an addict.
Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read. ~Attributed to Groucho Marx