My name is Linda Welch and I’m an addict.
It started harmlessly enough. A few minutes here, a few minutes there, but before I knew, I was using every day, and now, when I’m not at work, I can’t stay away from it. I wake in the middle of the night, needing it. Sometimes I go back to sleep but more often than not, I creep out of bed, because I know if I don’t give in, the craving will keep me up all night anyway.
My husband knows because I don’t try to hide: in the kitchen, the living room, the office, the den; I’ll do it anywhere, in plain sight. But still, I don’t think he truly comprehends the depth of my addiction. He thinks it’s a harmless diversion.
Every year at my annual check-up, my doctor asks if I’m still using, and how often. Then he tells me that much could be bad for my eyesight, and I could give it up if I want to. “But I don’t want to!” I tell him.
Why aren’t there support groups for people with my addiction? Perhaps being among people who say, “There, there, we know what you’re going through. We’ve been there. We’re with you now and you can lean on us,” would do the trick? But, probably, that wouldn’t work either. I’m in too deep.
I think only my day-job keeps me from entirely sinking into the morass. If not for that twice-a-week break, I would be at it all the time. But, oh, how those days seems to last an eternity. And the first thing I do when I get home is satisfy the craving which threatens to engulf me.
Excuse me, I have to go now. My manuscript calls to me.