re: addictions
Games, clove cigarettes, technology, knowledge, and sleep. Now, most people look at that list and don't immediately associate with some hardcore crippling addiction. To qualify as an addiction, they must fulfill (for me, at least) a few catagories: an escape, a drain on resources/time, and a reduction in quality of life when these things are no longer present.
My father was (and I can only assume still is) an alcoholic. I may have not inherited his eternal thirst for ethanol (it hurts my stomach when consumed in any significant quantity; must be careful at parties or else I pay for it within minutes), but I can see how the patterns surrounding his addictions have emerged in my life as well. I am the first to say that addiction isn't quite genetic, but the learned behavior is very easily transferable to a young impressionable mind because it mimics routine.
Back in 94, my father moved back to the states and back with us. He was a naval officer and a technician on aircraft carriers then after having been a seal when he was younger (a knee injury would see him working less robust roles), but I'll get back to that. My mother never let slip that maybe my father had a problem. He was always just "sleepy". And especially to the Japanese, drinking for the sake of social ingratiation to one's ranking superiors is a time honored tradition, from the laborer to the white-collared businessman. Work hard, play hard. He met my mom in Japan, while stationed Yokoska, and even took up some side employment while there. My mother worked for Mitsubishi until we moved stateside, though she was never clear on the role she filled while there; all I know is that she made bank and still has a savings account in Japan to this day from her time working there.
I digress; when we came to the U.S. to live here after doing the whole Naval family unit thing, my father was afforded the luxury of being able to spend a significant part of his time at home. He would work on wood projects, continue his artistic pursuits and further his intellectual development (we still have tons of his old books and manuals). He would walk to work, walk home, enjoy dinner and stay up all night. Even then, I noticed that he would end the night with his custom glass of wine. The amount of wine would increase as time went on. Many times, when my grandmother would take me to her house for the day, we would come home with my father lying on his sheepskin wool rug, passed out, or sleeping, in front of the television. This wasn't a problem, as it was known that my father worked very hard and led an active lifestyle, even for a former seal with a knee injury that acted up during stormy weather. It was a "quirk", something that was expected for a family living in Japan, but we were no longer living there.
My father was once again shipped out around 1990, stationed around the world. What adventures and trouble he got into, I only have a vague idea. I only knew he would come home for a month during the summer, always with souvenirs and what not. Then, the Gulf Wars happened. It wouldn't be until the middle of '94 that I would see him again. He was a different man. Harder, like the world had worn away all the warm human characteristics he had. No longer the father that I had been acquainted with. He no longer had the compassion that he had developed during his formative years in the 60's and 70's. He seemed meaner, colder, distant and critical. He cared for us, his children, but there was no love. Only an awkward, unspoken barrier, and I think that he was just as weirded out by us, his kids, for growing into mini-persons. We were an unfamiliar obligation, and he was a man of duty. He had seen men and women die, undergone immense stresses as all manner of incoming explosive projectiles were zeroing in on his ship, kept his cool as the enemy was trying to pinpoint his location, but we frightened him. So he upgraded himself to Vodka. A decision that would see us several times get hounded by loan offices, get liens against our house and generate much fighting fuel between our parents. He even stole from my mother's ATM account and blamed me.
Now, back to my addictions. Remember that list? counter-intuitively, I feel as though my sleep addiction is the most debilitating. And I understand why. It is the ultimate escape for me. To fill you in, my imagination and mind are probably the most developed and powerful of 99% of the people I meet (many gaming groups will attest to that). That is no boast, as the cost was far too great to make any sort of good out of it. Until recently, I felt that it was the closest I would have to a holodeck (technology is getting so close!). In this world, I could shape beauty from tragedy, epic stories out of failure, reason and justice from pain. If the world were to live in my mind, no one would be hungry, no one would be impoverished and no one would suffer needless sickness or injury and all would be free, with liberties intact, unburdened by hierarchy, bigotry and cumbersome currency. The Federation of Planets would be a very attainable goal. Well, when I sleep, I get to visit this realm. And it is a very attractive realm to be in; my own personal nexus. The feeling of gratification I get from being here is indeed addictive, and I am a hopeless junky for it. When I wake up, I telepathically curse and cuss and scream.
My conundrum is that there seem to be no treatment options, and it's not as if one can go off sleep cold turkey. All complex organisms with higher brain functions that we know of need sleep. I will binge and purge, binge and purge. It affects my life to a degree that the quality of life I experience is significantly different from normal humanoids. I binge to indulge and purge to make up for the time I lost. What to do, what to do, what to do.
My father was (and I can only assume still is) an alcoholic. I may have not inherited his eternal thirst for ethanol (it hurts my stomach when consumed in any significant quantity; must be careful at parties or else I pay for it within minutes), but I can see how the patterns surrounding his addictions have emerged in my life as well. I am the first to say that addiction isn't quite genetic, but the learned behavior is very easily transferable to a young impressionable mind because it mimics routine.
Back in 94, my father moved back to the states and back with us. He was a naval officer and a technician on aircraft carriers then after having been a seal when he was younger (a knee injury would see him working less robust roles), but I'll get back to that. My mother never let slip that maybe my father had a problem. He was always just "sleepy". And especially to the Japanese, drinking for the sake of social ingratiation to one's ranking superiors is a time honored tradition, from the laborer to the white-collared businessman. Work hard, play hard. He met my mom in Japan, while stationed Yokoska, and even took up some side employment while there. My mother worked for Mitsubishi until we moved stateside, though she was never clear on the role she filled while there; all I know is that she made bank and still has a savings account in Japan to this day from her time working there.
I digress; when we came to the U.S. to live here after doing the whole Naval family unit thing, my father was afforded the luxury of being able to spend a significant part of his time at home. He would work on wood projects, continue his artistic pursuits and further his intellectual development (we still have tons of his old books and manuals). He would walk to work, walk home, enjoy dinner and stay up all night. Even then, I noticed that he would end the night with his custom glass of wine. The amount of wine would increase as time went on. Many times, when my grandmother would take me to her house for the day, we would come home with my father lying on his sheepskin wool rug, passed out, or sleeping, in front of the television. This wasn't a problem, as it was known that my father worked very hard and led an active lifestyle, even for a former seal with a knee injury that acted up during stormy weather. It was a "quirk", something that was expected for a family living in Japan, but we were no longer living there.
My father was once again shipped out around 1990, stationed around the world. What adventures and trouble he got into, I only have a vague idea. I only knew he would come home for a month during the summer, always with souvenirs and what not. Then, the Gulf Wars happened. It wouldn't be until the middle of '94 that I would see him again. He was a different man. Harder, like the world had worn away all the warm human characteristics he had. No longer the father that I had been acquainted with. He no longer had the compassion that he had developed during his formative years in the 60's and 70's. He seemed meaner, colder, distant and critical. He cared for us, his children, but there was no love. Only an awkward, unspoken barrier, and I think that he was just as weirded out by us, his kids, for growing into mini-persons. We were an unfamiliar obligation, and he was a man of duty. He had seen men and women die, undergone immense stresses as all manner of incoming explosive projectiles were zeroing in on his ship, kept his cool as the enemy was trying to pinpoint his location, but we frightened him. So he upgraded himself to Vodka. A decision that would see us several times get hounded by loan offices, get liens against our house and generate much fighting fuel between our parents. He even stole from my mother's ATM account and blamed me.
Now, back to my addictions. Remember that list? counter-intuitively, I feel as though my sleep addiction is the most debilitating. And I understand why. It is the ultimate escape for me. To fill you in, my imagination and mind are probably the most developed and powerful of 99% of the people I meet (many gaming groups will attest to that). That is no boast, as the cost was far too great to make any sort of good out of it. Until recently, I felt that it was the closest I would have to a holodeck (technology is getting so close!). In this world, I could shape beauty from tragedy, epic stories out of failure, reason and justice from pain. If the world were to live in my mind, no one would be hungry, no one would be impoverished and no one would suffer needless sickness or injury and all would be free, with liberties intact, unburdened by hierarchy, bigotry and cumbersome currency. The Federation of Planets would be a very attainable goal. Well, when I sleep, I get to visit this realm. And it is a very attractive realm to be in; my own personal nexus. The feeling of gratification I get from being here is indeed addictive, and I am a hopeless junky for it. When I wake up, I telepathically curse and cuss and scream.
My conundrum is that there seem to be no treatment options, and it's not as if one can go off sleep cold turkey. All complex organisms with higher brain functions that we know of need sleep. I will binge and purge, binge and purge. It affects my life to a degree that the quality of life I experience is significantly different from normal humanoids. I binge to indulge and purge to make up for the time I lost. What to do, what to do, what to do.