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I have an addiction

I have an addiction.
It’s not worrisome or harmful. It’s not the type of addiction you’re probably thinking of. In fact, it can be a good thing. It can be fruitful and refreshing. It can be healthy. But this addiction has taken over me. And the more I engage in it, the more I want to do it. Ah, so typical.
It has become my go-to coping mechanism for life’s stresses. And I love doing it alone, especially at night when everyone’s asleep—like right now. It helps me deal with my anxiety. And I can’t get enough of it. I would probably benefit by doing it more in the morning. I love the dopamine hit it gives me.
When I’m sad, it gives me hope. When I’m in fury, it helps me find the strength to use my voice. When I’m anxious, it gives me space to find control and safety.
I didn’t think that something so simple could be so powerful—powerful enough to keep me gravitated with every inch of my flesh and bones. Most people do it everyday in small doses. I believe they take it for granted. And I wouldn’t blame them, its power isn’t loud. It’s not aggressive. It’s not fast. It sizzles. It whispers. It sounds like a drop of water. You have to really listen to realize the power that drop of water holds, as it cascades ripples among its surroundings.
But it wasn’t always like this. See, I used to resist its temptation. I used to take it for granted. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to engage with doses higher than what I was used to. But like any other addiction, it happened gradually. I couldn’t continue to resist feeling pulled by its gravitational force. I felt propelled by its uncanny ability to translate the intangible to something seemingly tangible—something I could touch and feel. And let me tell you, that offer was something I couldn’t resist.
My addiction helped me figure out how those abstract pieces fit and what they meant. And nothing felt as satisfactory. Oh and don’t get me started, my addiction helped me find the perfect curation of syllables that captured the picture my mind and body painted. My addiction helped me relay what my body could not. It was the perfect solution.
But my addiction didn’t always work. There were times I wasn’t able to figure out how the pieces fit. Or what they meant. Some pieces were lost. And I was left more disoriented than ever. I relied on my addiction for relief, but I became tolerant to its effects.
So, I waited. I looked at the pieces I had in hopes they’d fit. But I realized that some were missing, perhaps lost. And in an attempt to find the perfect curation, I learned about grief. I learned about acceptance. I couldn’t find the perfect curation to capture some pictures that my mind and body painted. Not because they never existed, but because they no longer did. And so I curated the outlines of what was. And that’s when I became addicted to the process.
Reema
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Reema AlYousef

sharing stories and exploring human emotion

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