I am a pruner, I am a lover, I am an addict.
My initial use of the drug was experimental, as is the case with most teenagers. The allure had always been there, the curiosity and the silent longing, magnified tenfold by the unrelenting campaign by friends, the insistence that this particular drug is an indelible part of society. I am now, and have always been, immovable in my convictions and firm in turning away from anything I did not believe in. But in all honesty, I never really stood a chance.
At first, it was exactly as I thought it would be; unremarkable, plain and utterly overrated. I could not see what it was about the drug that made my friends so eager to sing its praises, could not find the basis of all the false advertising, and I could not give myself any reason to try it again. But I did. And then I did it again and again. And when I thought I was done, I did it some more. I suppose somewhere along the line my curiosity melded into acceptance,and ultimately appreciation; my perspectives shifted and I lost larger and larger chunks of myself.
After that addiction was all but assured. The drug steadily sank claws into me, until it consumed me entirely. As long as I had it, nothing seemed important, or as important. Not the books I had once cleaved or the music that used to permeate every pore of my being. The friends that I considered dear soon faded into the back of my mind, and my interest in a lot of things took a dip. the drug opened my eyes to new, wondrous experiences and awoke my slumbering soul to sensations I had never imagined existed. For three months I basked in its ambiance, and it was all I thought or cared about.
And then the fog lifted.
The first waves of awareness brought with them the realization that the drug was having perilous effects on me. It affected me so deeply that I was constantly on the verge of losing touch with my character completely. I was now haunted by contradictions. I was so happy I could not contain it, and then I was more depressed than I had ever been before. I cried happily and laughed bitterly. And on a good day, I was both aloof and overly concerned. It brought to the surface emotional demons I had long learned to suppress, and turned me into a flickering reflection of what I once was. It is this, more than anything else, that brought me here.
So, yes, doctor, I confess it. My tolerance for psychology is less than I care to admit, but I believe, as you do, that acceptance is the first step towards recovery. And I accept that I have a problem. I am an addict, even when my definition of ‘drug’ does not conform to traditional standards. Everyone has their drug. Even when the drug is, for me, a marvelous creature with stunning eyes and sunny disposition, I am an addict.
If I may sum it up for you, I am all of three things.
I am a pruner, maybe, of compulsions that damn and emotions that condemn; I am a lover, possibly, of all that threaten to undo me; but ultimately, I am an addict. An addict to one whose tender affections I grow weary of chasing.
AND I WANT NO MORE OF THIS.