addict.

One of us, in chef pants and a ribbed wifebeater and day-glo-pink bra; one of us, in unbuttoned chef coat rolled up at the sleeves, and men's boxers, having stashed the chef pants in the car immediately post-class; one of us - the one with no evening classes - in seahorse-printed pajamas. The former two sweaty and stinking of dead food; the latter, with avocado-green face, waddling around hot-teal foam toe separators with lighter in her mouth, a pack of American Spirits and phone in one hand, glasses of wine in the other. All of us, settling together on the tiled front stoop of a house fifteen minutes from the beach, arms resting on drawn-up knees, side-by-side in the thickening evening, intertwined trails of smoke carrying deep sighs, secrets, truths, laughter: camaraderie formed of habit and need and the understood collapsive versions of acceptance we offered each other in these vile indulgences.

____________

I miss smoking.

It might gross you out; it might disappoint you. But I miss it fiercely.

I miss smoking. I miss drinking. I miss sex. I miss the times before I became aware that even food serves an addictive purpose for me - to indulge and numb, or withhold and punish. I don't have a particular poison; I am propelled toward poison by the drive to poison.

I miss addiction as balm, however temporary; whatever the means; however destructive the aftermath following that brilliant balmy disconnect, when I still believed I'd somehow circumvented what was dormant in my bones this whole time. Before I knew that addiction is no balm. Before I understood it as a slow, desperate death with a long game.

I know that, even as I sit here fidgeting for a yellow pack of American Spirits, I can't do it. I know I can't have even one. I know I would purchase a pack tonight for a single fix and destroy the remainder only to repeat the entire ritual tomorrow. I am thankful for, and brought to frustrated, hungry tears by the dead headlight in my car, for which I would incur a ticket I have no business paying were I pulled over, and of course I would be pulled over, because, seriously, let's all have a chuckle: have you seen my luck unfold? Ha. Ha. Freaking HA.

I know that keeping wine in one's house isn't a bad thing, but I know why I bought the bottle of sauvignon blanc that's in my fridge, and I know that I purchased it solely for deglazing the surface of my brain. I know the danger in recognizing that I function better, happier, while drunk - that nothing is as daunting, that I feel happy and myself when I am not myself. I know all the art a chef can create in a kitchen with a well-stocked selection of liquor, but I also know that My Drink is gin and soda with extra lime, and I know how much cheaper it is to keep my own gin on-hand than tell myself I'll only drink if I'm out somewhere, as though I'd ever limit myself to maybe two; as though you could ever treat oxygen as a treat.

I know I am lucky to recognize these things in their infancy; lucky that the basket of regrets I've accumulated is heavy enough to keep me from filling dumpsters; I am lucky to know that,with each time I indulge it, addiction germinates in my joints and creeps along my limbs like poison ivy.

But oh, when you're alone and jonesing for something, is it nearly impossible to disconnect the brutal truths of addiction from the comforting rituals that surround it. The suspended belief in those rituals is what I miss; the little intimacies of sharing a lighter or bumming a smoke or thoughtlessly grabbing you a beer along with mine. Loosening limbs and words, and the stupid, drunken illusion of emotional competence as hands and lips find each other under blurry Christmas lights; raucous laughter, or quiet conversations, for an evening, or just for a time. The built-in camaraderie of shared indulgence - that's what I miss. The guarantees of a window of connection which won't close prematurely because of the needs that prop the window open, and letting yourself believe that the little thrill of reaching for a second cigarette, packing a second bowl, cutting a second line, slipping a hand under a shirt, making a drive-thru run all mean I want to share this experience with you, rather than I need to stay in this suspended place. I wonder, sometimes, if there aren't different kinds of addiction: the kind where I'm only hurting myself, versus the kind where I'll numb myself at anyone's cost, where I can only reveal the most truthful version of myself as the need in me exploits the need in you while you exploit the need in me. Or, are they all the same? I don't know.

It is work, to form a long counter-game; to quiet the hunger by remembering, rather than repressing, the aftermaths; by reminding myself that the camaraderie of addiction is false: that what looks like acceptance isn't always intimate: that addicts are a scared group of people afraid to know anyone for fear of being known, afraid to call out anyone's sickness so as to hide our own.

____________

I'm sitting here on my couch dying to sit on my front stoop and draw crackling drags and breathe in deep, calming breaths full of poison which, I know, will eventually strangle and kill me. I straight-up love the sight of a sweating wineglass of chilled sauv blanc, and I'm dying to feel the fragrant thrill in the back of my throat and the warmth deep in my chest, despite the potentially poisonous interactions between alcohol and medications I'm taking. I am lonely, but I know better. I want all the cheese, but I'm not hungry.

I'm still pretty new to this, but I'm starting to understand what seasoned addicts mean when they say there is no such thing as a former addict. 

Lord help.