Hooked: Tears 4 fears 4 years

What's it like to fight an addiction?

As I've gathered my thoughts this topic has become a psychological thriller. The internal struggles it invokes has me questioning how much of myself I wish to reveal at this time and in this medium.

I wanted to start off the way most ppl start with topics close to home "Everybody has addictions..." , but that start is just to make the author feel better. A kind of "we are all in the same boat", "you are just as guilty as I am"..... statement to avoid the sharp criticism that is expected to follow. But I didn't because I wouldn't wish addictions on anyone.

To protect myself in this fragile state I'll start with a reflection on my 'neighbour'. We 'met' when he was identified by the police as one of the suspects accused of breaking into my house; 1989. He was the smallest of the band of 4 and he squeezed through the wrenched grill and removed louvres. He ate our sugar cane and spat the trash in our house and on our lawn. He took down to the cereal we were to have that morning for breakfast. I hated him without knowing him. I cursed him mainly for stealing our new fancy VCR which connected to the old B&W borrowed TV. He took the movies that we had received with it and which had just become our leverage for video games and neighbour hood respect.

When I heard that he had been chopped by other victims and his hand was not as nimble I laughed and said "is bout time"; 1990. When he stole our garbage bin so that he could sell drinks from it at the hospital gate I scoffed..." damn tief. Not a friggin use." My passing mother saw it and asked him about it. He didn't deny it; 1991. When he stole my clothes off the line I was furious. I had recently shed 50lbs in my 1st year at UWI and was now slim enough for him to fit into my new wardrobe; 1994. He said he would steal until he died because that's all he knew how to do.

As the yrs passed he stole less and less perhaps because we gave him no opportunity to, perhaps because he got a job. He moved closer to our house and now he stole our plant pots; 1997. I went and demanded its return. He brought it out filled with feacal matter. It was his toilet. I walked away.

I watched him smoke weed by day, and smelled him smoke by night, until the rumours came that he now smoked crack; 1999. He stinks, he talks to himself, he curses all night and shouts at the roosters crowing, he comes to my front door with story after story trying to get some money. Always a preamble and then the pitch, then tears, and begging. Some days in anger I chase him away like an unwanted animal. Other times I pity him in my aloofness and equally pitiable arrogance and give him a smalls to get him off my back and porch (veranda for the yardies). This great psychologist 'Hayden' accosted him and summarily informed him that I knew he was a crackhead and warned him to change his evil ways. With my renewed Christian fervour I preached to him a judgement of damnation, keeping him captive by waving the money in my hand as I gesticulated..... Yet he returned every weekend with the same old stories.

He was banished from our house for a month. He stayed away for two and then returned. As I played god he played sinner, promising to do better. I stopped giving him money and food in pre-packaged containers. Nothing he could use to obtain drugs. I didn't understand, I couldn't understand because I didn't want to understand. My words became fewer and fewer until they were softened. I thought about him more than I thought about many of my friends and most of my family. He still asks for money, but it helps that I don't actually have any. He asks for candles, sugar, flour, sardines, sometimes even dinner. He's had Christmas dinner on our front porch.

I no longer see him as pitiable despised 'Smeagol'. I've stopped playing god. I've seen his addiction lead him to a state where he was at the 'mercy' of one of his former victims. He has accepted as much abuse from me as I felt he dealt to me. He has made me think. Many can proudly boast that they do not have a substance abuse problem, or some other dangerous addiction. But I know that almost everyday I return to God in prayer claiming to be sorry for some sin. Rarely is it a new one. They are all familiar ones. I promise to do better everytime and yet.....

What if God was to respond to me the way I had responded to him? Everytime I sin I disrespect God. My needs continue to be met. Maybe I 'm denied my assinine wishes for a Hummer H2 which I wouldn't be able to maintain or buy gas for, but I still lead a very blessed life.

My weakness for certain sins may be classified as normal and acceptable in today’s world because they don’t contravene the law… and I don’t get caught. Despite the fact than many would suggest that I am too hard on myself and remind me that my actions and my ‘neighbour’s’ are hardly comparable, I find no solace in those reassurances. Not because of some warped need to be perfect, but because of my intimate knowledge of what lies beneath my surface. But by the grace of God there would I be.

(this post will grow as I gather my thoughts)





Lyrics: Everybody wants to rule the world