I am very wary of addiction which, no matter the size of the initial, seems to be offered increasingly like some kind of social mantra. As in “ I was addicted … but got clean and made a marvellous marriage/the latest album/ a million dollars” – whatever success it has to be to be impressive – and the scale only goes up. History doesn’t make addiction any more acceptable.
I don’t like the notion of addiction. It means something else controls me, money or drugs or drink or violence. No thank you. Words taken out of principally medical context into general vocabulary are too often freighted with knowledge or inference the rest of us don’t grasp or push away.
40 years ago a very impressive psychotherapist told me the practical and psychological ramifications of a true “addiction to shopping” and it wasn’t prancing down the street with a Chanel carrier. There were crossovers into hoarding, self destruction, poor self worth, refusal to look, refusal to see. Not to mention debt. Real ills.
I am tired of addiction being offered to me as some kind of social norm, as an explanation (only ever partial) or a failed A level – that letter again. If it’s not Gary Lineker’s brother, it’s Liza with a Z. Famous brother, famous mother – it’s only ever part of the story.
Addiction easily slides into being rationalized through “one more won’t hurt” to a way of life which essentially prevents pain while rationalizing every kind of dumbass risky behaviour – risky of relationships, risky of family, of money, of responsibility – and, and … Think about it. Think about the really hard things you have had to do, how you had to go through them and what you learnt.
I am no more in favour of any kind of pain than anybody else and I think the line between what you feel in your mind and what you feel in your body is thinner than many people are prepared to face. As in “Doctor, doctor – there‘s a pain in my psyche …” and one segues into the other with appalling speed and ease. The timing of the thing that switches the pain off – the click – starts out not happening until 5.00 pm, becomes 3.30 am and winds up whenever. Whenever you want – how’s that for an illusion of knowing what you are doing ? “I didn’t know what I was doing” is a copout – you didn’t want to know – the next drink will fix it. If this has a back up of lots of bodies, lots of noise, so much the easier. God forbid you should be left alone with the person you are.
There is a big piece of self destruct in this. And a big piece of self denial. You don’t want to be this person – this person in pain. Too hard to be this person – so weak in comparison with whoever else, so boring, so … so .. so Comparison begins with C but it is right up there as a prime motivator to acting like a pillock (begins with P). Sound like anybody we have been hearing about lately?
And beyond a certain point, you can’t feel any thing but the blissed out irresponsible stupefied moment. Which equals no responsibility, very limited thought process – you probably still make it to the loo and wash occasionally but take responsibility for little else – depending on the individual and how much disposable income you can lay your hands on or lie to yourself about and how much tolerance the other people in your life extend to you… And you can evade that for years on the basis of other people’s need not to know and your own inability to deal with yourself.
Was I addicted? To patterns of behaviour, not pills, or bottles or injections. Whatever the struggle, it’s called living – living YOUR life. It is a constant evasion – unless you are going for sainthood – that you live for anybody else. The gap is bridged by intelligence, fortitude, a willingness to speak – not often but when you do with some honesty, some sweat and a lot of laughter.
Don’t dismiss little lives. There are actors or artists or poets or musicians who can explain the compromises they have had to make or the choices, in order to do to do whatever it is – and still be a human. There will always be a tortured artist.
Afterword: there are no pictures this week, just for a change – because I couldn’t take a picture of the young man from the Post Office who has delivered parcels locally for some time. Tall, thin, Afro-Caribbean with a great grin. I don’t have many parcels, but I take things in so we began to wave, exchanged names and grinned some more. He came to the door early to tell me, it was his last day, he had a better job. So we shook hands and I put his hand briefly to my face and said “ Good luck, take care and thank you so much for coming to say goodbye.” “Couldn’t just go” he said “not without telling you.”
London 2026 . My life’s work is with people, they are not addictive and bring joy.
Annalog 