Sickness and Self-control

It really is a neurosis. A sickness of the mind, this urge to consume, this infinite dissatisfaction with what ought to be enough but never is.

It’s criminal. I’m so fucking driven towards excess in every category that I can’t fucking think straight half the time. I’m constantly chasing sex and food and sin of every shade. I make myself sick with it.

I suppose that’s what defines an addict. Most people can enjoy a cup of scotch or a slice of cake or an evening of hot sex. But I’ll take all three and come back for seconds. And thirds. And then I’ll wake up at 4 AM and try to get some more any way I can. It’s fucking ludicrous.

Now, I’m generally able to hold my liquor. I can drink a couple beers with friends and I’ll never feel like I need more. But with those two beers in me, I’ll be texting every girl in my phone trying to get some pussy. And that’s not fucking normal. My friends tell me they need to be emotionally connected to someone before they fuck. I can’t even explain how alien that sounds to me at this point. And that sucks.

Now, I recognize that this is an addiction. I recognize that my patterns of behavior with women and with food are not healthy. And I’m trying to change, but… Sometimes it feels like life isn’t even in my control. I have the best of intentions, but at some time during the day, I’m no longer the one in the driver’s seat.

It’s at those times that we really need to have discipline. Which sucks for me because I never learned discipline. My father was a wimp and my mother was a pushover. “Discipline” in our household consisted of who could listen to the most whining before giving in to the others’ demands. And I was an autistic little monster, so I couldn’t give half a damn about anyone else’s feelings anyway.

It comes down to responsibilities in the end. You have to be responsible for your own state, your own actions, your own choices. You have to recognize that wherever you are, whatever shitty fucking place you find yourself in, you put your own damn self there. And you’re responsible to get your own damn self out.

Addiction comes in as many forms as there are addicts, but regardless, we all have to admit that we have a problem. And we have to admit that we are not sufficient to solve that problem alone. We need God. We need help from friends and family. We need to be willing to admit that we aren’t enough on our own. Our friends are here for us, if we are able to set aside our pride and ask.

Of course, I can’t fucking do that. Maybe one of them will read this and text me and say, “Hey, tell me about the people whose lives you’ve probably ruined”, and then we’ll have a whole thing talking about how fucked up I am. I won’t tell him how much I love being fucked up, and he’ll pretend not to know it. And I’ll promise I’ll change and he’ll tell me he knows I can do it, and we’ll both walk away feeling a little better about ourselves. Then a few months pass, and I’ll fuck some married woman with her kid in the room and her husband down the hall, and I’ll think, “fuck, am I really still doing this?”. And then I’ll lean back, and say, “yep. Still here living the good life.”

And I’ll sleep real easy.

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