Quiet Surrender - An Addiction Story 9-9-24

I’ve had a habit that’s clung to me for as long as I can remember—a secret, almost primal urge that I just can’t seem to shake. I’ve managed to cut ties with other vices, like weed and cigarettes, and I’ve built a life where self-care is a priority. But this? This indulgence, this need for release—it has its claws in me still.

It’s not excessive. Just a nightly ritual in the dark hours, maybe around three or four in the morning, when the world is quiet and my thoughts are restless. I even tried using an app to help me control it, to break free. But then, I come across a provocative image, a curve that catches my eye, a woman who makes my breath hitch, and suddenly, I’m back where I started. The pull is too strong, and I give in, just for a moment’s satisfaction.

People say that this sort of thing distorts how you see women, that it taints your mind. But for me, that isn’t true. I can talk to a woman, share a laugh, look her in the eyes, and my mind stays clear. That is, until something stirs within me, awakening that familiar need, and I’m thinking about that next fall from grace.

It’s almost laughable, how predictable it is. The fleeting rush of pleasure, only to be replaced by a wave of disappointment, a shadow of shame that settles over me like a fog. Why is it like this?

It always happens when I’m alone, enveloped in that thick, intoxicating fog of solitude. My eyes, already heavy with sleep, become half-lidded. And then there’s the mess—on the sheets, all over my hands and stomach, The aftermath. I haul myself out of bed, my skin tingling with bliss and regret, and head to the sink to splash cold water on my face, washing away the evidence but not the feeling.

I’m ashamed. But soon, sleep will come and pull me down under.