Caramel Crutches
I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. I rarely even drink. I proudly declare every time I'm in the doctors office filling out that interview form. I don't share that I crave all of that now, more than ever before.
'#2020' I say inside while throwing up peace fingers and flashing a selfie worthy smile.
'Defiance, unfed rebellion, leftover teenage angst - that's why you crave those things', I tell myself. Understandable. Just workout harder. Meditate more. Get up earlier, keep a to-do list, meal plan, learn to manage your schedule, empty the dishwasher before bed and make sure the laundry gets folded and put away. Tidy up the kids toys, wash your face and moisturize daily. That will help, right instagram? Right!
'Oh c'mon!', I practically whine, 'Just like, one cig, I'll throw the whole rest of the pack away, I promise. Please?!' Like a toddlers tantrum, I try to convince myself I'll stop this charade if we just swing by Wawa and buy a pack of camel lights. I yearn for a peaceful 10 minutes without this pain, without anxiety, a little puff to return me to my regularly scheduled program.
'I'm so strong. I'm no addict.' I say as I drive by. Yep. That's me. Rosie the Riveter stomping a pack of smokes with the toe of my work boots.
Tisk, tisk, tisk, I click my tongue, 'You poor deluded thing.' as I pour hot sugar over my wounds. The delicious brown butter caramel syrup I made this morning.
"We're having monkey bread for breakfast kids!" They cheered and helped as I donned my adorable frilly lemon printed apron. They ate one piece and ran off while I proceeded to demolish half the pan before catching myself.
Sugar sucks at this job. I don't know why I keep asking him to do it. He's like the cashier at the grocery store who avoids his lane pretending he's not there until you force eye contact and insist he step behind the register. Then he charges you the red pepper price for green while letting the bananas tip the scale from the edge of the belt. Careless.
He does his job just enough not to get fired. The side effects of his inefficiency are slow to recognize. His ill suited skill set easy to disguise as someone else's problem. He knows nothing of the ache he's brought in to fix, only of building houses for himself, throwing off quick energy and dopamine hits and ensuring I'll come back to him for this nonsense, day after day. The weight stores he leaves behind standing sentry over my wounds, pound after pound layered over my stricken solar plexus like a sticky wax. Impossible to remove and impenetrable to cleansing, why even try.
'Why can't I quit him?'
Because what joy is left in my day? What dopamine hits remain? Who will hold back the tears? Who will calm the ache? What will keep the screams of desperation from escaping my throat? Who will keep me from grabbing my car keys and taking off in the middle of the night to a quiet air bnb on the coast of some obscure southern town?
Raw and aching, my wounds cry out to be tended, healed, soothed. I've lived with this darkness longer than I can remember. Maybe they're karmic. Wherever they're from, it's been close to 40 years and I still can't find a healthy thing that turns it off.
'I'm pretty sure you're an addict.' I say to the mirror. 'Just maybe a lucky one.'