by Lauranna Masters“Addiction,” my psychology professor states, “is an illness, not a failure of an individual.” And I’m thrown down a rabbit hole; Alice on her journey to wonderland. Once again I am arguing with a little white rabbit, named Anxiety, that sits in my occipital lobe Who is always watching me fail He gives me two options to get out of wonderland “Drink me,” he taunts. Telling me that I am trading his company for a bottle of pills I tell him I’d rather the pills than his company “Eat me,” he jeers. Calling me an attention whore I call him a narcissistic ass. “Drink me,” But is this addiction? My desire for the tiny tablets in an orange container The way they make me feel normal and not like my life is defined by a series of highs that could break through any glass ceiling and a series of lows Marianas trench deep in depth. After all, my body struggles through withdrawal when I try to quit them The needle pricks of every touch The vomiting and nausea and headaches and not knowing if I am awake or asleep And if this is all a dream, a hazy memory, or a reality. Is the caterpillar smoking in the corner really there or is it all in my head I crave the quietness that exists once the white rabbit residing in the back of my brain is evicted When I can no longer hear him yelling “off with her head” So maybe I am addicted? “Eat me” Is this my failure as an individual? The way I sought help since Before the little pills in a pretty orange container I was insane, flawed Full of post-shower depression spirals closing my eyes to dream of an eternity of jabberwocks and card soldiers forcing myself to get out of bed because I haven’t eaten for two days simply because the act of making myself a meal is too exhausting, But then I am reminded of the way I laugh with my friends of the way I am able to pour my heart out to strangers on a stage of the way that I pull myself together So did I really need help at all? Am I really just an attention whore? But Alice got it wrong She didn’t have to follow the white rabbit down his hole So I chose path number three where I refuse to make a choice Between how I want to choke on the his poison That I will no longer reside in his wonderland I will no longer humor the rabbit named Anxiety Who dwells beneath my skull I am not an addict, for my drugs are necessary I am not a failure, for I am valid in my illness For Alice, wonderland was just a dream For me, Anxiety is just another nightmare |
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