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I told myself, like you told yourself.  This wouldn’t happen again.  Driving away into the night, we muttered the silent promises people do when they’ve reached the end of themselves.  When they have discovered that they really are not just one person.  That we all have to fight a war between the best of ourselves, and the part of us that continues to do us in.

I clicked the radio on, and then quickly turned it off.  I didn’t need another memory to haunt me later.  The last time I had driven away from regret I made the mistake of listening to some jazz station.  Now every time I hear smooth jazz, well, she comes to mind.  And not just her, but the lack of control.  I return to the scene of the crime against myself, in my mind, again.

Thinking you can wash your hands so quickly of memories stain, is one of the biggest lies told.  They don’t live like people do.  They stick to your skin, and smell up your clothes.  And hour-long showers don’t wash them away.
So it’s 3:23am, and although she wanted me to stay the night, I couldn’t sleep there.  I couldn’t awaken to the reality.

So I drive in silence,

to the shower that awaits,

the bed that is mine,

and the sunrise,

that I hope will erase the guilt and ….

Who is she?

Her name is addiction. If you have not met, I hope never to introduce you.  But maybe you already have met.  She is the one that hides behind your predominant self.  The one that allows you to hold its reality at arms length.  To just barely deny its existence, although, like a world wind, it crashes into your life, and whirls you away ever so often.

She is your guilty pleasure.  Your mess of pottage. The last puff of smoke before the lights go out. She is you…doing the thing you said you would never do….again.

She’ll make you trade Life’s love for lust…or passing up real food for a pacifier..casting your eyes from a horizons vision, to the short lived bliss of today.  She is your kindest pimp, and sometimes all you have.  She may even love you.  Smiling, while your heart grows cold, and numb to the seesaw of broken promises, while she whispers into the night that she is doubtful of tomorrows hope.

In other ways, he is the 800 pound gorilla in the room. Territorially invading your space, staring at you with those piercing and dominating eyes. Grunting you into submission.  Denying the option to be ignored, but daring you to confront its undeniable presence.  And when polite company come over, he/she transforms into that little red lizard, and scurries away, deep inside dusty corners of abandoned, cobweb invested attics, or uncleaned verandas.

To the world, you are a self respecting citizen of civility.  In control, and put together.  At church you leave him at home, knowing good and well that here, you do not speak of such things.  Here you sing loudly, smile widely, and keep you mouth shut.

But these are things that must be spoken of.  For they are true.  And a lie lived in secret will kill you.