addi

    For a little over a month now, I have been eating lunch at Fuzzy's Taco Shop, oh, not necessarily every day. When I do go there, I get the same exact thing: chicken fajita salad with avocado ranch and a strawberry lemon mojito. It's fire. I had a bad weekend. I returned to my hometown only to find everything is exactly where I left it. I've been consciously trying to be a better person since I moved away a year ago, but the minute my front wheels hit that turf, it's like I time-traveled. I retrogressed hard. Maybe it was a good thing, though. I realized I am a drug addict, and I have been since I was about 16.
   Originally, I was just about weed. I was the biggest pothead of all time. I smoked before school, at lunch, after school, before work, after work, on the weekends, on holidays, when I was driving, when I was with friends, when I was with family, when I was alone, here, there, everywhere. I started doing molly and ecstasy when I began raving. I did cocaine for the first time my senior year of high school and liked it. I tried acid for the first time at age 21 and I loved it. A couple months ago I did DMT and took a step closer to knowing who I truly am.
   I remember being in middle school being crazy about boys. When I met someone I found cute, I would plaster his initials all over my diary and talk about him endlessly to my friends. They really hated when I did that. I stalked him on MySpace until I knew his mom's name and his favorite color. When I befriend someone, I don't talk to them occassionally and call it a day. I need to know what they're up to. I need them to text me back immediately. I need them to show me that they are as obsessed with me as I am with them, because I would give them anything they asked of me, and that's real shit. I was going to Cold Stone Creamery damn near every day earlier this summer, because I could not get enough of sugar. I would fiend. At my old job, I would excuse myself to the bathroom and then sneak up to a supervisor's desk to get snack-size candy bars. I hated myself.
   The salad. I literally daydream about eating that savory, tangy jumble of tastiness. When I sit down on the barstool to chow down, mid-meal I will ponder whether or not I should order one to go so I can have seconds for when I get home. Or should I order two? I have come to realize it doesn't matter what it is, I am an addict. I let things and people consume and muddle the lines between us until we become one. I have a brother who has been on meth for ten years and running. I have always been hard on him; begging and pleading to save him from himself. Lately I feel like we're the same person. I'm not homeless like he is, but does being able to pay my rent constitute me being better than him? I'm not sure, anymore.
   My favorite book is about a 23-year-old druggie who's admitted into a rehab by his parents. I've read it at least three times. I have always rooted for him and I always wondered how he allowed himself to get that deep. He's a truly smart dude and has insightful philosophies. It must be why I care about it so much; it's a mirror.
   I looked on Thesaurus.com for a synonym for the word "addict". The definition read: a person who has compulsion toward... That's the realest sentence I've ever read. They gave me follower, enthusiast, junkie, fanatic, and aficionado. None of them are mean enough for me. They don't acknowledge the reality of the situation. I could go to jail, shit prison, for buying some of those drugs. I advocate for health and wellness yet I gourge myself with my favorite foods until the fire of my desire is extinguished. I have a good heart and I'd like to consider myself a good person, but how far does that get one when they refuse to muster up the self-discipline to get through life?

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