Reading addiction, best writing I ever did

This is a nearly complete cut and paste from a different blog, I wrote it eons ago. 


My name is Lady Chadwick, and I am a reader. When I read I immerse myself in the book, losing all thought of time. Physical needs like hunger, thirst, and rest are pushed away while much stronger thirst for more of the story demands I slake it.

For the sake of a good book I have neglected self, family, friends, chores, and life. But oddly what is forever etched in my mind as proof of my addiction is the many insults given to strangers or mere acquaintances. While awaiting a bus, in a line, or at a Drs, I can remember countless faces all blurring before me as I tried fruitlessly to wrestle my gaze from the latest book, or even just a waiting room magazine. A conversation was merely a series of battles with the need to read pulling me back to the print. Struggles to dredge up the appropriate questions, or comment on the weather were sandwiched between mental arguments with myself. “Just another minute”, “you can read later”, “don’t look at the words”. I always failed in the end and the person lost to the pull of the print.

You might be thinking a reading addiction is a good thing, we spend millions of dollars a year in America trying to convince people to pick up books, newspapers, even just the directions to a game. But to me, reading is a burning need, not a relaxing treat. Offering me a good book is like offering the town drunk the finest of your vineyards. A waste. The point for an addict is not really the act, but the ability to fulfill the need. A chance to quiet the demanding voice for just a moment. I pore though a book immersing myself in the world some author lovingly created. Ignoring all but the most urgent needs in order to read it now.

Then I finish, the world fades quickly, leaving a sweet aftereffect for a moment. I rush to fill my needs before the hunger is back. An insatiable lust for more reading grows stronger by the minute. By sheer force of will I drink water and focus on physical needs. The gnawing desire to read fills my every waking hour. But I battle it down, accomplishing tasks slowly but steadily. I remind myself the hangover I feel is punishment for my abuse. I force myself to complete simple tasks, all the while fighting the urge to open a new book.

Today again, as I have many times in the past, I commit to ‘sobering up’ I don’t want to go ‘dry’ I never want to truly give up my books. But instead I make childish promises that the next book I‘ll read in chapters, rationing myself in between chores. I devise ingenious ways to hide the book from myself. Or I debate when I will really deserve to reread a book. (this never works with a new book).

But then life happens. My day goes wrong. All my good intentions crumble. I turn to my book declaring, "I need this". At first it is wonderful a relaxation of my guard. I release the demon demanding pleasure and allow it full reign. I immerse myself in the world, devouring word after word at break neck speed. A cushion against the troubles of the day surrounds me.

Then I hear a voice, insistent and repeating. I hear it as if from far away, requesting a drink, or help. I work myself back to the present, pulling myself from the fog to listen to the words. I find a child pressed close to my side, as if by physical contact they can bring me back to them. Fortunately a child’s need lends strength to my will. I wrench myself completely free from the words. I see to the need then in a pause when finished the demon urges me back to the book. Some days I borrow strength from my children’s needs to accomplish other tasks. Or I grab a drink for myself as well as them.

But always the book calls to me. A siren call, sweet and seductive, inviting me to lose myself in a world of no real concern. I can resist for only so long, then, my strength depleted, I return to the book. I sink into the enveloping warmth. The cocoon of fog rises to separate me from the world. It is with no small portion of regret that I succumb to the monster need, knowing it will be ever harder to pull myself from its grasp next time.