The Wisdom of Addiction
Sometimes waves of grief wash over me. I am never sure what they will bring: a baptism of tears or a water-boarding. Sometimes I am given warning, and if I am wise, I will go to the woods, and hike as long as it takes to wring myself out through sweat. Of course, as a worker and a caretaker, I don't always find time in time, and waters of sorrow silently swell behind the dam. Then some passing kindness will unglue me, and all the carefully compartmentalized pieces of me spill forth. I will write of the experience of being a "put-together", professional, middle-aged man, uncontrollably brought to weeping in the presence of dozens of strangers -- but not today. (I will only say, lest you try to romanticize, that your mental image is lacking the reality of snot and the regrettable absence of a handkerchief in the modern gentleman's equipment.)
No, today, I want to write to you about the longing desire for a cigarette, some fifteen years now since my last smoke.
Struggling to recover my composure, I was ambling half-blind through the streets of midtown, trying to find a place to breathe, when I came upon a corner market. I had a vision of myself buying a pack and lighter from the beleaguered clerk, too busy with his own cares to remark upon a tear-stained face. I felt myself ritually unwrapping the fresh pack with my shaking hands, the first scent of those crumpled sweet earthy leaves and then the promise of its taste upon my lips, flicking the lighter once, twice, the first drag, gently into my mouth then deeply into my lungs, and then the calming, shocking peace -- oh what a glorious cigarette high I would get after all these years without.
I knew, without doubt -- and it was probably true too -- that within a few drags the shaking of my hands would stop, the constriction of my heart would ease, and I would no longer feel like drowning. That's the core of addiction.
I have been doing without a great many things of late, trying to gnaw at the bone of what really matters. And each thing I give up tugs back at me with the promise of comfort. As with everything, comfort is not bad, nor is it always good. Comfort too must be balanced. And true comfort must be distinguished from false substitutes.
The wisdom of addiction is in the humility of withdrawal. Knowing that without your habit, you will feel begin to feel uncomfortable, then anxious. The black dogs will start baying. And, unsettled, you will begin to feel hunted. Just one drag. Just one drink. Just a snack. Just 5 minutes of scrolling. Just give in, just a bit, and the discomfort will go away.
The wisdom of addiction is that you know it for what it is, and you recognize its many guises. If you want to live, and not only live but be alive, then you must embrace the discomfort of withdrawal, feel your hurts, and learn to accept.