My sweet addiction

I am an addict. And I need my fix right now. Not 5 seconds from now. Definitely not an hour from now. Right this second. Thank God for an expeditiously fast Wi-Fi connection.

The itch burns through my skin. If I keep it up, I’ll probably faint. Who knows what will happen yet.

What usually happens to addicts without their source of energy over a lapse of time? Do they fester like the dream Langston Hughes was talking about during the Harlem Renaissance? Do they melt like the Wicked Witch of the West? Do they mentally form of straight jacket in their mind to keep themselves from hurting themselves and others? Or do they just cast it all away?

The worries. The doubts. The pain. The drought.

My addiction has turned into my daily bread, my meditation, my everything. It’s become a ritual to log on to this sweet life where I can control the image of me I want people to see.

I seek attention from it. I see attention from it. Every single “like” fills my soul with gratification — if only for a moment.

If only for a moment, I feel complete.

I can concentrate on someone else’s successes, not my failures. I can triumph on someone’s mountain, not my rough, dark valley in my life.

I can lean on my own understanding, instead of God’s.

I yearn to quit cold turkey. You know, this sweet addiction of mine. To die to my flesh and to not look for temporary, materialistic things to make me their slave.

This sweet addiction that exudes a manufactured life.

It ain’t so sweet, is it?

Like what you read? Give Aaricka Washington a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.