Addict
It’s five o’clock. The day is over. You pull back from your desk and shut your laptop. It’s been a good day. You sling your bag over your shoulder and join your friends. On the way home, you talk about random things. There’s the empty-headed boss, the salary situation that’s still under discussion, the hassles of being single.
You get to church in time for evening service. The powerful sermon gets you fired up. You’re an overcomer, victorious. Forward ever. Hallelujah.
You get home late. The silence greets you at the door, a subtle reminder:
You’re alone.
You get supper and settle in front of the TV. You change the channel.
Sports.
Click.
Music.
Click.
Legs. Voices. A man. A woman. He wraps his hand around her waist. Their lips are locked.
Your thumb stills on the remote. You take a deep breath, let it out.
You change the channel.
A pop star gyrates across a stage to the adulation of a rowdy crowd. You see them. You hear them. But in your mind, there’s the woman and the man. His hand moves a little further down.
You push the power button on the remote and toss it away.
This isn’t happening.
Not today, you tell yourself. You know how this works. You’ve been here before. All you have to do is go to bed. Before you know it, it’ll be daybreak. Another victorious day clocked.
You lock the door, go to your bedroom and turn out the lights. All is quiet. In your room. In your mind.
The man rips off her clothes.
You pause the scene.
No. No. No.
It’s happening. You’re at the precipice. Stop or Play, it’s your choice. You’re in control. You sigh. Control? There’s no control. The tremor in your hand is proof of that.
How do you stop something that feels this good?
How is that even a choice you are expected to make?
This thing controls you.
The scene plays on. Your heart races. Anxiety heightens the pleasure stirring in your loins. You watch till the end.
You replay.
Forward.
Reverse.
It’s not enough. You need more.
But you can’t. It’s late. You have to go to work tomorrow. If you start …
No, it’s fine. You’ll be careful this time. Just a short while. Five minutes. That’s all it’ll take. Five.
You run to the living room, turn on the TV.
Music
Sports
Advertising.
Where are they? You flip through the channels, all twenty-two of them. There’s nothing. Your hands are shaking now. You turn off the TV.
Options.
You have a laptop. A few videos would have been enough to take the edge off, but now they’re gone. You watched a stupid YouTube sermon and Myles Monroe told you to delete them! You rake fingers through your hair, pacing. Maybe you don’t need them. You could just wait it out. It should pass soon.
But that’s not true. You need to satisfy this craving. You need the release. Release. The word sounds so distasteful, but that’s what it is. You’re chasing after that release and only then can you let go. You hate it. You love it. You despise yourself for wanting it. But the pleasure … it’s everything.
Options.
You have your phone. You have the internet. You type in words that make your skin crawl. You’re appalled. You’re excited.
Videos flood your screen. Your thumb hovers over the screen. You’ve done this before. There’s nothing really wrong with this. It’s better than actually doing it. There’s no specific scripture—
Click.
Click.
Click.
Five minutes. There. You’re done. You’re okay.
Maybe another five.
Okay. Ten minutes gone. No release.
Ten minutes more.
You check the time. It’s midnight. You have to be at work in seven hours. Okay. You can still make it in plenty of time. You just have to take a quick look at another video. Something stronger than the last one.
Click.
Stronger.
Click.
Much stronger.
One a.m. Three a.m. Five a.m.
Sunlight streams in through your window. You’re still awake. You head is aching. There’s a dull taste in your mouth. You’ve been through the phases: guilt, shame. Now you’re stewing in that final phase where you identify as a piece of crap. A waste of space. You can almost hear the whispers as heaven look down at you in disappointment. All that time. All that effort. Six months you stayed clean. And now, here you are, swimming in filth like a pig.
“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”
“So then, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth.”
You shut your eyes and toss the phone. Scripture. Quiet time. What’s the point? Thirty minutes of that every morning and you still fell.
This won’t happen again, you say. You’re done. This is the last time you’ll ever fall. You know who you are and whose you are. Your voice wavers. Words are easy. You’ve been saying them for over a decade.
But in that moment, when you’re shaking, desperate for a fix, all knowing flies out the window.
You’re better off dead. That would put an end to this cycle.
Grace.
You hear the voice, can’t even believe that He would speak to you at this time.
“… He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion …”
You scoff. When will that be? You’ve heard the stories, the testimonies. But it’s hard to believe there’ll ever come a day when you’re no longer an addict. No matter what he does, you’ll always get in the way.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.”
You drag yourself out of bed, put on the mask that gets you through days like this, hoping against hope you don’t end up here once again at the end of the day. Somewhere in your mind, you want to hope for liberation, believe that today will be different.
But only one thought prevails:
You will fall again. It’s only a matter of time.
#ADDICT
Photo by Tarun Anand Giri on Unsplash
“No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you
