The Curse Of Addiction
Part One:
Resting under the sun burns, but why do we love it so much? Similarly, staying in the rain sickens, but why do we find sweet relief in it?
When people hear the word ADDICTION, their mind immediately flashes to weed, drugs, etc. But in truth, a human can be an addiction, Sex can be an addiction, even that toxic relationship you can’t seem to let go of is an example of an addiction. Surprisingly, even the pain that results from a certain pleasure can be an addiction.
But what I find peculiar about all addictions and addicts is this; if it’s not your problem, it can and should be judged and condemned.
I’m in my room again, the blade held precariously close to my wrists. “Just a little cut,” a voice whispers in my mind. “Yes just a little”, I feel another voice back it up. I look at my laps, not covered with jeans as it usually is, and see the marks. Before when I do, at least a tear will slip from my eyes but this time nothing. I guess all the tears have dried up. I look at my smooth wrist; I never go close to my wrist, afraid of puncturing my veins. I look at the razor in my hand, not feeling anything: no guilt; no joy; no sadness; nothing.
No, that’s not right. I did feel. I felt the pain, the relief and surge of adrenaline as the blade slowly moved on my skin, at my guidance. I felt the blood, the warm liquid as it dripped down before I cleaned it off. I felt pity. Pity for myself that this is what I had become. And lastly I felt fear. Fear that this is what my life would always be from now on.
This is a girl that six years ago, just a slight pinch would have made her cry for hours. Now, I couldn’t feel a thing (figuratively speaking), and somehow that scared me the most.
I turned my attention back to the blade at my wrist and look at it fixedly. I’m not scared, no, that’s not why I was hesitating. But I just had the feeling that if I started, I won’t stop. This time I might take it too far. I won’t stop till blood fills everywhere. I look at my thighs filled with marks, some a week old. Right now there is no expression on my face. In fact, for a long while, there has not been any expression on my face. The last time I smiled was probably five years ago. If my mother were to see me right now she’ll probably faint, not due to fear. No, she knows I won’t end my life so easily, I’m a fighter; I really am. But due to shock, that the girl that smiles so much, can look so dull and lifeless, as if in a trance.
I hold the razor for two seconds longer before I put it down and go out. I’m not sure where I was going but I needed to be away from that room. This is how it’s been; some days worse. The newly fading scars on my thighs can testify to that. Other days are better, like this one.
I look up to find the weather quickly changing. “Oh no! I don’t want to go back to that house”, I feel a subtle panic attack. I pick up my phone and I scroll through my contact list looking for who to call. It’s not much, just about 16 names. I sigh and put the phone in my bag. I forgot I don’t have friends anymore. I turn to go back to the house, my feet dragging ever so slowly when the image of my room comes into my mind. Somehow, the image looked too scary, so alone and dreary, so I turn again, deciding to go to the office, at least I can get some work done.
I want to walk in the rain; just soak it in and then go home. But my brain reminds me that there are two flaws in that plan. One, I am wearing artificial hair, what some people call ‘weavon’, and it would smell. Number two is the image of my room. Don’t get me wrong, my room is my safe haven; a place I can finally be myself, remove my bra and lie down all day, so I love it. But all days are not the same. I’ve been sad for too long, even I could feel it. And all of a sudden, being alone in my room, with rain falling outside, did not seem like a good idea. Even though it’s my favorite scenario.
So I’m at work and I’m looking outside, admiring the weather and finding a small sense of joy in the smell that usually accompanies rainy days. None of this can be seen on my face of course; I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I don’t smile. In fact, I’ve not had an expression on my face in a long while; not anger; not sarcasm; not surprise; not even the forceful fake smile I normally give my mum and family so they do not worry about me. I see some of my co-workers walk past me, murmuring, “doesn’t she ever smile?”
I don’t look up of course! Having worked for two years in the company, I’ve gotten used to all their side comments.
“Can she even hear us?”
“I have never seen her smile. How does she even do it?”
“She looks like a ghost just sitting there”
“I talked to her once, and I swear to you, the lifelessness in her voice gave me goosebumps”
“Sometimes, I feel scared just by being close to her”. This was my favorite.
“It’s such a shame, and she’s so beautiful”. This one is from a guy whose voice I remember. I say voice because I don’t look up when someone talks to me. “If I can’t recognize your voice, there’s no need wasting my time looking at you”, a motto that’s probably the reason I earned the nickname, ‘snobby bitch’. He tried to talk to me sometime earlier this year but gave up after a few days.
“He actually lasted longer than the others”, I think to myself while looking at him enter the café. Most of them give up after a few hours. They all think I feel I’m above them, and this is not me being a narcissist. Some have actually walked up to me to say so. I sigh, remembering my life before. Calling it a ’perfect life’ will undermine how perfect my life was. I allow my mind to wander, for the millionth time, back to when everything was alright; it’s the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes.
I recall my mother sitting on the couch, my head on her lap. We are surrounded by my siblings, cousins, uncles, aunt and my grandfather. I had gone home for the holidays but the university decided to go on strike. Everyone is laughing, including me. I turn to take a glass of milk from my aunt, she loves giving me things like this and frankly when she’s around, I prefer being close to her sometimes rather than my own mother. “Thanks aunt”, I say beaming at her. My brother retorts enviously, “Aunt what of me?”
“You’re too old to be drinking milk,” my aunt tells him laughingly. “But that cat is already 18”, he says looking like he’s been seriously wronged.
“I’m not a cat and it’s not my fault everyone prefers me to you,” I tell him sounding a little annoyed at the name.
He always calls me cat, or dog face, or the one I hate the most, little bear. My mum caresses my face as she says, “Don’t mind him dear, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world”. I laugh a little at the exaggeration, there’s no way I was the most beautiful but I knew I was beautiful. Everyone says so. I turn to my brother, sticking out my tongue, and I turn away laughing, happy to see him looking positively murderous. I knew it was childish, babyish even, to enjoy resting my head on my mother’s lap but what can I say? I love it, it soothes me, and it feels like no matter what, the world can’t hurt me.
I come back to reality to see my boss looking at me weirdly. “What?” I ask him dispassionately, a little annoyed that I was disturbed.
“It’s rare to see you in the office. You love working from home. ” He says that like it’s a confirmed statement. It is, of course, I made sure to include it in my contract, but that doesn’t mean I can’t come to work.
It’s a marketing agency you see, and I’m in charge of all the online works. In summary, my work does not need interaction with people, just the way I like it. I refocus my eyes on him just to find him still there, staring at me. “I just strolled in, I’m leaving soon,” I say getting up.
“Wait!” he calls out to me as I’m about to walk out the door. “There’s a company dinner tonight. Maybe you could come?” he asks almost tentatively, as if afraid to offend me or say the wrong thing.
“Okay”, I say, not turning back to look at him and I hear his breath of relief. “Am I that scary?” I ask myself knowing the answer.
I open the door to my room; it’s a one-room apartment just spacious enough not to feel too small or congested, not that I have a lot of stuff. I look around and take in the scenario, scattered clothes on the floor, an unkempt bed that looked like two dogs had a fight, and a reading table littered with books and empty snack wrappers. I walk in as I usually do and throw myself on the bed, removing my bra while doing so. “I’ll just clean tomorrow”. I turn at the ringing of my phone. It’s an unknown number. “Not today Satan”, I say throwing the phone back on the bed. Anytime I see an unknown number, I’m reminded of the only boy I ever loved. The phone rings again, distracting me from my memories; I pick it up to see “Mummy” boldly showing on the screen.
“Good Evening Mum”, I greet her.
“Good Evening Baby, what’s wrong with your voice?”
Oh no, I forgot to sound happy.
“Nothing Mummy”, I say a little too brightly and wince at how fake it sounded.
“Is anything the matter dear? You’ve not been home in years. I’m worried” she says in that voice I love hearing.
“No Mum, everything is fine. How’s that big head?” I ask in a more moderate cheery tone, trying to turn her attention to my brother.
“Your elder brother is fine” she says, stressing the word “elder”. She hates when I insult him.
I roll my eyes; my first real reaction since the dawn of the day.
“Ok Mum”
“You’ve not been sounding yourself lately. Should I come?” She asks for the umpteenth time this year.
Of course she noticed. Sometimes I want to tell her, I truly do. But knowing my Mum, she’ll probably take me to see a therapist. Strange for a Nigerian mother or African parent I know, but then again it’s one of the reasons I love her so much. Apart from that, I’m likely to be tagged “depressed” when that’s not it.
“It’s alright Mum. I’m a grown woman now, stop worrying so much. My friends are laughing that you will soon start breast-feeding me,” I say to distract her from me. Surprisingly it works.
“Well you’ll always be my baby and tell them to mind their business,” she replies sounding a little smug that my “friends” know she spoils me.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I say, laughing so she hears me.
“Alright dear, take care of yourself,” she says before hanging up.
Of course as soon as she does, the smile drops from my face. I sigh a little relieved. It’s becoming harder to pretend I’m fine. I take my phone and scroll through my playlist, putting in my air pods. The sound of Tinashe singing comes on, “can we pretend, that everything is like yesterday…” I close my eyes, allowing my mind to wander.
Abstract
Each person in the world has a sense of passion.
Those that don’t either looked for it and did not find it; scared to go for it either because they’re not bold enough or they have been hurt too much; numb to life and feelings; afraid to be happy; and the list goes on and on. Now, the use of the term “sense of passion” here means different things to different people but in a simple sentence. It’s a thing that a person feels passionate about because it brings happiness, joy, and even pleasure. Make no mistake about it; these three terms each have their succinct meaning. The difficulties in finding it makes it all the more surreal and makes one not want to let go.
….to be continued
*All images are sponsored by Pixabay License, Free for commercial use and no attribution required
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