My husband and I have been watching a new series called ‘Rev’ on tele (can’t remember which channel) in which the reverend, after whom the series is named, has mental conversations with God. I recall the same scenario with Ronnie Barker in ‘Open All Hours’ and it got me wondering about the number of silent conversations that occur all around us. The contemplative, the angry, the desperate, the questing, the hopeful, the needy, the greedy, etc – and I wondered who these conversations might be directed at. In the two tv shows they spoke to God. I myself have never conversed with anyone since I was a child when I thought the wind and trees were alive (there’s a confession). But then I realised that bloggers have one-way conversations all the time. Diarists do the same. The very act of transcribing thoughts to paper/PC is cathartic. In fact, is it not a known stress reliever to note down thoughts, desires, etc? Is blogging therefore a stress reliever? I never thought of blogging as therapeutic but I realise now that for so many people it is exactly that, even if they don’t realise it. But what of when the therapy becomes an obsession? When the drug meant to cure becomes an addiction?
I have never tried drugs. Not because I’m square or was never presented with the opportunity but because I have seen its destructive effects and I am very well aware that I have an obsessive personality. I would have been an ideal candidate for dealers handing out sweeties at the school gates. Thank goodness my mother warned me against strangers handing out sweets and toys. So now I’m trying to work out what I am addicted to. Chocolate – well, I managed to give it up for a whole year without any problem at all (I’ll go into why another time); my husband – I did without him for nearly a whole year when he worked abroad but I don’t want to think about life without him, so we’ll leave that one forever; my kids – less addiction and more that they are part of me, I may as well claim to be addicted to having feet; walking – to look at me you would know that is not true; music – I love it but if I didn’t hear any for a few weeks I would not be tearing out my hair; alcohol – nope; cigarettes – can’t stand the things; reading – now there, that one, fits the bill. I cannot live without books. I have to be able to read, or write. Yes, my addiction is words. I can get extremely narky if I’m in the middle of a particularly gripping storyline (either reading or writing) and can’t get back to it, although my family would claim they can’t tell the difference as I’m always grumpy.
I realise now that reading/writing possibly gives me the same dislocated feeling that drug addicts get, without the doping effects. I escape, completely, into the amazing worlds and characters. Unusually, I don’t get the same effect with film and in fact I would much rather read about it than see it, possibly because my mind places me squarely within the scene. With films I am still just an onlooker in someone else’s imagination.
I read once that you can’t dream of your own death, cannot dream that you die. I can tell you, here and now, that is untrue. I have died many, many times in my dreams, in all manner of ways. I can see I am going to have to blog about dreams some day.
So, is there anyone out there willing to admit to an unusual addiction? Not drugs, alcohol or anything OCD and definitely clean.