Let's throw off our contentment and beg for something more.

I don't remember the last time I wrote so prolifically.
Three posts in two weeks?
There must definitely be some kind of emotional turmoil in my life to entice me to write in my online blog more than once a month.

I love driving fast.
I'm a relatively safe driver, but damn, do I love speed.
There's no therapy like driving late at night, with my windows rolled down and my ipod crooning (or thumping) melodies (and beats).

I love baking.
I'm not a fan of sweets at all, but to watch someone's face when they take the first bite of my cookies/brownies/bread/cake?
There's no therapy like getting wrapped up in the deliciously cozy smell of chocolate chip cookies that come straight out of my oven.

I love running.
I'm not a fast runner, but I love pavement, dirt, track moving underneath me.
There's no therapy like running myself blind-- running until I can't feel the rest of my limbs; running until my physical self is as numb as the inside of me.

I hate writing.
It makes me doubt myself; I check, and re-check.
I edit and second-guess.
I publish and erase.
Yet, out of all of my self discovered therapies, it's the most cathartic.

There's something terribly beautiful and stunningly terrifying in opening a new Word document on my computer.
The glaring white and blinking bar signifies the chance, the opportunity, the potential...
Of a story, of a journal entry, of a raging rant.
The glaring white and blinking bar signifies the possible chance of failure, the missed opportunity, the wasted potential.

Failure.
Missed opportunity.
Wasted potential.

The story of my life.

***

Addictions are funny things.
The head knows how wrong it is, how unhealthy it is.
The body knows all that too, but it lusts, and craves and pines for that one substance; that one activity; that one person.
And the physical attraction is so strong that the head gets persuaded.
Matter over mind.
Addictions are destructive.
I know this.

The secret binge eating, compulsive heaving, bulimia filled days of yore...
I miss you.
The emaciated, skeletal, silhouette of me thanks to anorexia nervosa...
I miss you too.

Those were addictions.
Those were problems.
They almost physically killed me.

Yet, here I am four years later.

Reflecting back on the days where my head was constantly hanging out in the toilet (or conversely, was spinning from lack of food) I realize that every time I projectile regurgitated I was trying to get rid of parts of me.
Mission accomplished.
I'll never find those pieces of me ever again.
Destruction, indeed.

***

He's dually, my therapy and my addiction.
I need to get my fix, and then I need therapy.
Or I need therapy from not getting my fix.

Make sense?

Yeah.
It does to me.

I don't want it to end.