I have the sensation of roots being pulled from my heart, dead roots that have been cut off from their source, no longer alive roots but tangled entanglements that no longer pump the drug. It’s visceral, the sensation of withdrawal. I’ve been putting out fires for decades; crystal meth, cocaine, alcohol, nicotine, sugar, needles, anger but this is the smouldering heart of the matter. If I were a twelve step person, SLAA is the group I’d go to.

I’ve often wondered what it is I’m really addicted to. Giving up all those other things was hard, but it wasn’t impossible. I didn’t feel like I was dying.

Now I understand sponsors and one day at a time. The alcoholic who can’t stand it anymore and buys a quart of vodka. My smoking friends who can’t quit. My cells are gasping. I’m looking around for my hit and I can’t find it. I’ve cut off my supply, the tendrils that have gripped and tugged and called it love have withered and grown dry. Recovery is pulling them out and I can feel it. They’re leaving casts amongst the healthy red; white trails of where they used to be. They’ve wrapped and possessed and called themselves true but they weren’t love they were survival. That’s how addiction sets up shop, it always starts as an answer to a problem.

Eleanor

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