Addiction

As a part of the boomer generation, and as an adoptee who has spent an inordinate amount of time numbing my feelings, I am no stranger to addiction. When I was in the throws of smoking Marlboros, drinking alcohol, and wasting my time in a desperate search for Mr. Right, I wouldn't have described my various coping mechanisms as addiction. They were just me. My emotional imprint was well established and I didn't have a clue about why I acted the way I did. Outspoken and generally angry, my addictions were merely tools for self-expression, and for the years that I indulged they served me well.

When, after graduate school, I got a job working in a smoke-free environment, I realized just how addicted I was. I tried quitting on my own, but the inevitable weight gain and emotional pain I experienced sent me right back to the security of the little red and white box. Knowing I wouldn't be able to indulge during the eight hours I spent at work, I smoked as many cigarettes as I could on the way, and did the same on the drive back home. To cover up the smell, I wore perfume and chewed gum. Although I felt guilty about my addiction, I wasn't able to stop on my own. Finally, I tried hypnosis and after one or two sessions, I simply lost my desire to inhale, but there were consequences.

Suddenly, I became brutally honest. Instead of calling me Jan, my co-worker called me Frank. At the time, I didn't understand what was going on, but thanks to the vision of hind-sight, I now understand that smoking enabled me to mask my feelings, to say yes when I meant no and no when I meant yes, to do what was expected of me, rather than what I wanted to do. To be the good adoptee, not the bad one. To avoid feeling, I simply lit up and inhaled. This was particularly useful in the case of the more uncomfortable emotions like: envy, jealousy, sadness, grief, shame, and fear; although my habit also saw me through times of transition from one activity to another, and kept me company while I was on the telephone or driving to work. Cigarettes provided a smoke screen of protection.

Of course, once I let go of the nasty weed, I clung to other methods of distraction--retail therapy, unhealthy relationships, mindless eating, and of course, drinking. When applied collectively, these tools were almost as effective as inhaling smoke, but they caused me varying degrees of pain and discomfort and so over time, as my collection of self-help books grew, I let up on them.

I have to say there are times when I miss being blissfully unconscious, but once my feet were firmly planted on this particular path, there was no turning back. This morning it occurred to me that my morning coffee ritual might just be an addiction. Well, OK, I know for certain that I am addicted to both the caffeine and the ritual. It's the way I begin every day and when the power went out recently, I spent forty-five minutes grinding my beans with a mortar and pestle until they were fine enough to drip through my Melita filter. As soon as the power went on, I ground several packets and put them in the freezer "for emergencies." Hello. My name is Jan and I am a coffee addict. It's 9:00 P.M. and I'm contemplating tomorrow morning and what it will be like to wake up and NOT smell the coffee. The truth is, I'm not entirely certain I have the ability to let this last habit go because a part of me is afraid of what negative emotion is hiding underneath. Or maybe I am free. There is only one way to find out...and so, tomorrow morning, I'll breathe and read and then who knows...