Confessions of an Addict (Again)

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I have got to get the crack out of my house. It is just sitting around tempting me, making me all jittery in wanting it. I can almost feel the sensation of ingesting it into my system and letting the wave of pleasure wash over me. I WANT to ignore it. I NEED to ignore it, but it is everywhere—in my pantry, in my fridge, on the countertops. I even found a small bag of it under my child’s bed. That’s it!.

Oh sorry, I guess I should clarify what I mean by crack. By crack I mean sugar. Why? Because sugar IS my crack. I am completely addicted to it, and as much as I want to be strong and resist its pull, I can’t because I just have no power over it. I want to detox. I mean it. But, even an hour without just a smidge of the white stuff makes me hanker for it in my BONES. You heard me, I said in my BONES.

Part of the problem is that some of my very favorite forms of crack are in plentiful supply at this time of the year. The crack dealers are all out in the open in full-force-promotion mode. Some are disguised as grocery store managers and CVS clerks. Others are Dollar Store stock boys and gas station attendants. That’s right. Pushers hiding in plain sight. Don’t believe me? Look at those luscious displays of goodies surrounded by smiling jack-o-lanterns and friendly ghosts. The dealers just make it all look so appealing, and I fall for their underhanded tricks every time.

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Just last week, I consumed—by myself now—four bags of Tootsie Pops that I bought for “Halloween.” I thought I was doing okay because I avoided the chocolate crack. You know, the Heresy Bars, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Rollo’s, and Crunch bars. Even though I am totally capable of justifying eating a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup because it has peanuts in it, and peanuts come from the ground, and peanuts are a whole food. Therefore, having anything with peanut butter must be like eating a vegan lifestyle. Yeah, I know, that is the sick way my mind works. I could easily make the same justification for eating an Almond Joy bar if I liked that sort of thing.

With Tootsie Pops, I can’t find any reasonable argument for consuming 4 bags of them in one week. I am pretty sure other than sugar—bleached refined white crack-like sugar—there is nothing in them that comes from the ground. But, will the logical side of my brain tell the impulsive side of me to run away? No. I am too far gone. I am like that owl in the 1980s Tootsie Pop commercials.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?
Uh one. Uh two. Uh three.
Three.

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Well, I have totally skunked that old owl because by the end of my binge, I was down to no licks and just one chomp to get it going. That’s right, they were more like Tootsie Roll Midgets to me by the end of the week. (I have to confess my teeth started to hurt.)

Am I proud of this? No. In fact, I am not proud of any of my Tootsie crack behavior. I found myself hiding them from my kids, putting them in my purse or stashing them in my underwear drawer. The other day, I looked up and panicked because the kids would be home in 5 minutes, so I had to scramble to hide “the goods”. Whew! I was barely able to cover my crack with some dirty socks before the kids came barging into my room. Why all this? Because I did not want to share my stockpile. I KNOW this is pathetic, but…What if I ran out of Tootsie Pops before I could get to the store? Would I go through withdrawals? I talked myself into thinking it was just plain bad for my health to share candy with my children. (Now that I see this confession in writing, I think I may have to see a therapist.) My husband came home one day and found a trail of colorful wrappers that led right to my desk where I work on my writing. I must have been a sight—white lollipop stick poking out of my mouth, slurping syrupy drool from the side of my mouth, a mound of wrappers and white sticks by my side looking like the kindling for a small fire, and small pieces of hard candy sticking to my t-shirt (the ones on which I crunched too enthusiastically and debris landed on my shirt).

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