WE ARE ALL LYING HERE: Addiction
Recently a good friend of mine has lost several friends to addiction, so he's been speaking out. Addiction has such a stigma, and is typically swept under the rug, kept hush-hush, and that's one of the myriad reasons we lose people to it. If we talked about it, opened up about it, we could support each other. He wrote about his addictions and encouraged others to speak their truths. I admire his bravery and vulnerability, and felt it was a good fit for this project of mine.
I've talked about a few of my addictions already, some from which I've recovered (eating disorder, cutting--well, sort of; more later). Then there are the minor addictions: diet soda, candy (I'm actively trying to consume less of both), peanut butter and ketchup (I'm not actively trying to consume less of either). I don't have a problem with alcohol; I don't smoke.
If I had to pinpoint one destructive behavior, it's my tendency to (ie, addiction to) pick wounds, both figurative/emotional and literal/physical.
I dwell on the past, on the things people have done to hurt me, on the things I have done to hurt others, mistakes I've made. I tell myself I forgive people, that those hurts are lessons for which I can (and try to) thank them, but then I obsess and obsess and obsess. The negative isn't the only ammunition. The good, too, can maim. Remembering good times that are gone, that will never be had again. Fantasizing about perfect scenarios and then comparing them to reality. I seek out emotional pain, wherever and however I can get it. And when I don't seek it out, it's life, it's always around the corner, and when I bump into it, I settle in. As I've written in a song, "I feel good when I feel like I'm brooding." See also: "Tiny Little Bowls" which is, as I say at shows, "about being a masochistic muthafucka," or exactly what I'm writing here. Yearning for that prick, in more than one sense.
More embarrassing and shameful are the corporeal issues. I no longer cut, per se, but I obsessively pluck my eyebrows, pick the skin (and blemishes) on my face (especially my chin) and if I have any ingrown hairs I will get a safety pin or my tweezers and dig the hair out, mostly resulting in not being able to wear shorts anymore (which is great for living in Florida), since my thighs are covered in scabs (which I also pick) and scars and wounds. Part of this, I would say, is generalized anxiety (I also bite my nails), but I would also say this is a way to keep me on edge about my body (which would tie back into the eating disorder, and which is all tied in to that which I never openly talk about (whispers: sexuality; my official, on-the-record stance is I am hermetically sealed)). Hating my body, hating having a body, I must destroy it. I must keep it an embarrassment so I'm not able to ever be comfortable, not able to embrace this aspect of myself.
(The intersection of the eating disorder, body-shame, self-mutilation and having safe-guards in place to prevent me from ever feeling comfortable naked is written, literally, on my lower abdomen, right under my belly button, in slightly faded but still visible scars: FAT.)
I could lie and say I'm trying to stop this behavior of mine, but all I am is aware of it.
I've talked about a few of my addictions already, some from which I've recovered (eating disorder, cutting--well, sort of; more later). Then there are the minor addictions: diet soda, candy (I'm actively trying to consume less of both), peanut butter and ketchup (I'm not actively trying to consume less of either). I don't have a problem with alcohol; I don't smoke.
If I had to pinpoint one destructive behavior, it's my tendency to (ie, addiction to) pick wounds, both figurative/emotional and literal/physical.
I dwell on the past, on the things people have done to hurt me, on the things I have done to hurt others, mistakes I've made. I tell myself I forgive people, that those hurts are lessons for which I can (and try to) thank them, but then I obsess and obsess and obsess. The negative isn't the only ammunition. The good, too, can maim. Remembering good times that are gone, that will never be had again. Fantasizing about perfect scenarios and then comparing them to reality. I seek out emotional pain, wherever and however I can get it. And when I don't seek it out, it's life, it's always around the corner, and when I bump into it, I settle in. As I've written in a song, "I feel good when I feel like I'm brooding." See also: "Tiny Little Bowls" which is, as I say at shows, "about being a masochistic muthafucka," or exactly what I'm writing here. Yearning for that prick, in more than one sense.
More embarrassing and shameful are the corporeal issues. I no longer cut, per se, but I obsessively pluck my eyebrows, pick the skin (and blemishes) on my face (especially my chin) and if I have any ingrown hairs I will get a safety pin or my tweezers and dig the hair out, mostly resulting in not being able to wear shorts anymore (which is great for living in Florida), since my thighs are covered in scabs (which I also pick) and scars and wounds. Part of this, I would say, is generalized anxiety (I also bite my nails), but I would also say this is a way to keep me on edge about my body (which would tie back into the eating disorder, and which is all tied in to that which I never openly talk about (whispers: sexuality; my official, on-the-record stance is I am hermetically sealed)). Hating my body, hating having a body, I must destroy it. I must keep it an embarrassment so I'm not able to ever be comfortable, not able to embrace this aspect of myself.
(The intersection of the eating disorder, body-shame, self-mutilation and having safe-guards in place to prevent me from ever feeling comfortable naked is written, literally, on my lower abdomen, right under my belly button, in slightly faded but still visible scars: FAT.)
I could lie and say I'm trying to stop this behavior of mine, but all I am is aware of it.