The older I get, the more I realize how important it is to do what you love to do. But my question is; how do you know the difference between addiction and passion?
Think about it.
I had an epiphany last night after coming home from massaging people’s backsides for 8 hours. Everything that I am, all that I know, all that I do, is built upon the structure of pure addiction. I am addiction incarnate. My persona is held together by an inferior sugar-laced, heroin injected lattice framework meant to dissolve in tears when I don’t get my fix.
Addiction keeps you away from people. It makes you selfish. When you’re not in a high, you dissolve. When you lose that thing that defines you, you fall apart.
When I was under ayahuasca, she said to me that addiction is a way to fill the void where your faith should be. It keeps fear at bay. And ALL fear, no matter how big or small, are subsidiary branches growing from our one mega fear of death.
Like the tree of life has its branches that lead down to mushrooms. We are related to fungus, just like having addictions are related to the fear of death.
Our ego’s can only be controlled and fastened when something outside ourselves defines us. And where there is nothing to define us, we fill the void ourselves whether it be through art, writing, drugs, alcohol, fooling ourselves into thinking we’re somebody we’re not by hanging around with people who like only our facade image.
We run from the loneliness, run from not feeling connected to others. We fill the void by avoiding fear altogether.
Addictions holds us away from people. The same people who make you feel unconnected to them. Unconnected from the world, society; having unique problems that nobody gets or understands. We are alone in our heads. I’m the only person occupying the inside of my head.
Writing to me, is as much of an addiction as it is a passion. Completely derived out of fear, not curiosity. How true is this? I want nothing more than to hole myself up in a strange exotic land, not talk to anyone, not know anyone, and write. Just lose myself. Detach from my head. If I make something real, than I become real. I become defined and palpable.
As real as my beating heart, only this time, knowing why it beats. Or you can have the unhealthy kind of addiction. The kind that makes you not care anymore.
Why me? Why here? Why now? These are questions that lead us to addiction. They are questions that can’t be answered until we pull the wool above our eyes and make the connections. Until we stop finding answers at the bottom of a pint glass.
Today is my day off and I just wrote all that crap between blowdrying and straightening my hair.
I’m wearing a dress! I bought this dress last year for a wedding that I never attended. I’ve been in uniform most days between then and now. My legs are hairy. Damn….
So anyway, I’m a writer. That’s what I love to do. But another thing I’m just learning about myself is that I love making money. Maybe as much as I love writing. Money brings freedom, so maybe I’m addicted to freedom? One major reason why I love being single.
But it’s troubling to me. It’s troubling to learn this about myself. To actually contemplate the question; would I choose money over writing? If I could choose only one? I’m leaning towards money. Maybe because I don’t have any yet. I don’t have any money yet, but a superfluous over-flow of words that need to be written are well at hand.
I better go. I have sheets that need washing.