A paradox in a practice
Popcorn didn’t solve my loneliness problem and peanut butter didn’t, either.
Before I returned to food as the drug of choice, I spent years drinking two glasses of wine every single night. Never more. And never less.
Back then, wine had seemed healthier than the marijuana it replaced. At least I didn’t drink during the day.
For years, I attempted to numb the pain of loneliness, disappointment, and stuckness — with things I could consume.
Excuses were made. Changes were not.
Then came the year 2020, and the world turned upside down. Like many others, I found the strength to let go.
My partner of 14 years became “my ex” and a good friend. I said goodbye to my animals and my home.
One life ended.
And a new one has yet to be created. A sentence which offers another excuse for my latest addiction.
Blogging.
Who knew — that a habit others said was a blessing and a way to make things easier — could become another addiction to address.
Just like wine or popcorn, the issue is not the thing in and of itself, but the problem it fails to solve.
Some substances, like social media and sugar, are addictive in their very nature. Others, like peanuts and blogging, present a challenge to me.
Luckily, just like popcorn, daily blogging didn’t solve my loneliness problem.
Luckily, my wrist started to hurt and ocular migraines made it hard for me to see.
Luckily, I recognized the warning signs, because I’ve been here many times before.
Ironically, it was writing about addiction that led to the addiction in the first place.
Helping my readers quit social media was the excuse I needed to try out a practice I’d heard celebrated as great.
For me, blogging every day was too much. It became an escape that prevented me from dealing with a reality I needed to change.
Paradoxically, it was writing that helped me see the truth I was running from.
I longed for Mendoza to be a place I could stay. I desperately wanted to stop moving and to have arrived.
But I’m a city and a country mouse.
And I’m a bird who wants to find a nest.
A place to stop moving.
A space where I can rest.
