The Exquisite Curse Of Being Painfully Addicted To Something

Everybody has an addiction.

Me? I’ve got two.

Well, actually, if we were being really picky here we could argue that I’ve got an addictive personality that grants me a lot more than two. In bikini season I get addicted to the gym, in any other season I get addicted to cupcakes. There are times where I get so addicted to an outfit I wear it everyday until even strangers in the street are thinking ‘seriously girl, get some new clothes already’, and on more than one occasion I’ve been so addicted to a certain song I’ve played it on a constant repeat for three weeks.

But if I really had to narrow it down, commenting only on those addictions that I feel with deep down resounding devotion, there would be just the two that remain unfalteringly constant. Two that will never leave me because they’re ingrained in my heart in a way that makes even the thought of existing without either of them quite impossible.

Now before I tell you what they are, allow me to take a moment to brace myself for revealing these parts of my heart to the entire internet. It’s not exactly easy. During that moment you should probably reflect on your own addictions, but don’t over think it. Just got with your gut. It’s usually the one that’s right.

My special friend, I know what yours is. Or rather, I know who yours is. I won’t name and shame, your secret will always be safe with me, I just want you to find repose in the fact that I understand.

Okay. I’m ready to tell you mine now. Here goes…

My name is Claire and, just like Robert Palmer suggested all along, I’m gonna have to face it, I’m addicted to love. Also, writing. Very very addicted to writing.

Both of them I adore in equal measure, yet at the same time both of them cause me to be caught in some kind of Addict’s Paradox. There are times when the addictions are so relentlessly unforgiving that I’d give anything to be clean from them; at the same time the thought of removing either one of them from my life would render it void and useless.

I know you’re in the same paradox. Trust me, I feel every ounce of your pain.

Seriously, I often pause and think how simple life would be if I wasn’t compelled by these addictions. I’d plod through existence, content that my thoughts consisted of nothing more exciting than where to have dinner on Friday night, or what the traffic will be like on the way home. Instead I’ve got a brain that’s constantly alight with ideas of how I can play out my own glorious romance, and listening to the conversations of the people all around me trying to figure out ways in which I could tell their story.

You’ve got the brain that knows you’ll never find what you’re looking for in the mundane. You’ve got the spectacular brain that needs those fireworks.

No matter how hard I try I just can’t ignore the fundamental truth that I want a life of unrealistic, unapologetic, unashamed, out of this world, romance – where everything is beaches, log cabins and gazing at the stars. More importantly I want a life filled with creating wonderful stories; ones that are worth telling.
For me, a life without either of these is no life at all.

You want a life where that relationship is everything that you want it to be. That’s okay. You’re allowed to hope for that.

It’s wonderful to have that vision. But at the same time it can also be the most agonising kind of pain to feel something that strongly in your heart, all the while not quite knowing how you’re supposed to make it transpire into reality. Because you understand the feeling that sometimes two things, whether that be two people or a person and their own dream, just fit together. Like those best friend necklaces, that are each one half of the same whole. It’s possible for them to exist independently, but they work a whole lot better when they’re joined with that specific other half.

Sometimes that other half gets lost, or it’s a struggle to even find it in the first place. When you realise that the pain of the addiction kicks in. In feeling that pain you come to appreciate how incurable the affliction is. That’s when you really start to worry for yourself.

Like how I worry that I’m going to spend my life on a relentless pursuit for a life that doesn’t exist. A life that can’t ever exist because it’s just too dreamy. Life is supposed to be unromantic relationships and boring day jobs. It’s supposed to be plodding along pretending to care about things that don’t matter, watching tv programmes that you can’t stand, and buying a load of shit you think you’re supposed to want. That’s life. It sucks, but play the game anyway.

You worry that it’ll never work out the way you want it to. That the reality will ever match up to the ideal you’ve created in your head.

Ultimately nobody knows how it’s going to turn out. You could waste your life, or you could get everything you’ve always wanted. There’s no way of ever being sure, and that’s the real scary part.

The only thing I can be sure of (and I’m certain you will agree) is that the only thing worse than not finding a way to feed our addictions, is the painful idea of giving up on them.
Who seriously wants to wake up in ten years time never having tried? It might make us the winners of their game but let’s face it, it’s a game that we never wanted to play anyway.

So sure, we can expect a lot of people to say that we’re too idyllic, that it’ll never happen, that we’re only kidding ourselves, but we’ll just leave them in their reality while we’re off making magic happen in our own.