Yesterday I wanted to smoke really badly. I realized that the tips of my emotions are where my addictions take flight. Especially the low end.
I am finding that when I'm mid-range--neither vomiting from anxiety nor high with joy--I'm okay without additives. I don't look for a light, I don't want to go down to the garage and sniff butts off the concrete floor. I don't want a half-gallon of Publix Leche De Luca or whatever the heck that carmel laced ice cream is called. I just sort of live my life without noticing any particular wounds or scabs.
I pretty much function, do work, get paid, enjoy spending my cash, play with the kid, write a few words, wave to the hubby, read a book, and sleep without need of added medication. That, I guess, is what it is for me to be normal.
But at the edges of that place--where knots in my stomach turn into dry heaves and where feelings of pleasure frighten me, those are the places I reach for things that hurt me. To take the edge off. Or to bring the edge closer. Or both.
Anyway, I didn't smoke. But I still want to today.
Did I mention I'm coming off of steroids?
