I suffer from emotional addictions. I don’t actually believe that there is a cute twelve step program or a alliterate title for an organization that I can join. I believe there could be a temporary cure in the elixir which causes the disease catered to by the alluded organization, but I enjoy my liver and all the nice things it does to me, all without asking. Now if only it did the dishes, I would be a happy woman.
Some would call my addictions the need to create undo drama. I suppose that would be a very accurate genre assessment. But as a meth addict who sees that the years that are added to the soul of her eyes when she looks in the mirror, I see the damage that my overwrought emotions cause and yet pick up the phone and text again. And again. And then wonder why it’s me. Even though I know it’s not. Because this time it isn’t. But what I chose once and what followed should make everything my fault. But this is my mind, torn off the track of potential and chugging toward the unbuilt bridge with all its promises of future ease and convenience.
This is my mind. Haunted by emotions that belie reality and all its more worthwhile promises. Plus there are eggs everywhere.