It appears that addiction — regardless of the form it comes in — is not necessarily about “sin” or weakness, but may often be a normal response to pain, which also comes in many forms.
So I wrote a Fractal Fairy Tale about it, which I’ll share over the next few days.
Meanwhile, in addition to “The Wonder Click,” the group is working to de-stress the solar plexus, pesticide exposure, loss of faith, and that pesky amoeba.
Here goes the FFT, for those who are as weird as I am.
THE ROOM THAT FORGOT ITS SONG
A Fractal Fairy Tale About Addiction, Neurochemistry, and Remembering Your Own Light
Chapter 1
The Woman and the Can
Tess had a problem.
It was not a glamorous problem.
She was addicted to sweetened condensed milk.
Not in coffee.
Not in a recipe.
Not drizzled artfully over a dessert with a sprig of mint nearby to make it look respectable.
No.
Tess would find herself eating it directly from the can with a spoon while standing in front of the refrigerator, wondering where her life had gone.
“This is temporary,” she kept telling herself.
She had been saying this for years.
It had started with a recipe for key lime pie that called for sweetened condensed milk.
The rest was history.
At first, she thought it was harmless. A spoonful here. A spoonful there. A little creamy sweetness to take the edge off the day.
But then the spoonfuls became larger.
The cans became hidden behind the peanut butter.
Eventually, the grocery store had her picture taped beside the register with a handwritten warning:
DO NOT SELL THIS WOMAN SWEETENED CONDENSED MILK.
This was awkward, because then she had more shopping to do.
Many evenings, despite her best intentions, she would find herself whispering, “Just one more,” to a half-empty can as if negotiating with a criminal.
What Tess did not know was that she was never alone in her kitchen.
The demon Glibb — or one of its sticky little minions — was always there.
In ancient times, people had spoken of such things…terrifying presences in the unseen world, with missions assigned by the Evil One.
Now such a concept was laughed at, which made Glibb’s job even more simple:
Keep people chemically confused enough that the brain — in reality a powerful CPU — could not operate with clarity, stability, and full power.
The method was neurotransmitter distortion.
Sugar was one of the easiest ways to go about this, although almost any substance, behavior, activity, drama, distraction, person, screen, or habit would do. In fact, screens were becoming even more effective than sugar.
Neurotransmitter distortion was the key.
Neurotransmitters were not merely little brain chemicals with difficult names. They were messengers. Tiny couriers of mood, motivation, reward, focus, calm, appetite, sleep, pleasure, courage, and the general feeling that life might be worth getting dressed for.
When these messengers were balanced, a person had a better chance of thriving in their role in the cosmic reality game show called Planet Earth.
Yes, it was all a game.
The human spirit took occupancy of a designated room — the physical body — with a mission of bringing service in one form or another to a specially designed gameboard: Planet Earth.
And that — service — was exactly what the Evil One, known as EO, could not allow to happen.
That was how addiction had become one of its favorite tools.
Not because sweetened condensed milk was evil.
Sweetened condensed milk, in reasonable amounts, had done nothing wrong and had probably improved several church luncheons.
The problem was not the milk.
The problem was the groove.
Addiction, in its many forms, carved a little pathway in the brain and then kept walking it until it became a trench. The brain began to associate a substance, behavior, food, drama, person, screen, habit, or spoonful of dairy goo with relief.
Relief became reward.
Reward became craving.
Craving became identity.
And identity was where EO did its best work.
“This is just who you are,” the demons were instructed to whisper.
“You need this.”
“You deserve this.”
“You can start over tomorrow.”
Tomorrow had become Glibb’s favorite word. An entire career was built on “tomorrow.”
Tess, of course, did not know any of this. She only knew that every time she felt sad, tired, unappreciated, creatively blocked, spiritually restless, or vaguely annoyed by the state of the world, she found herself standing in the kitchen with a spoon in her hand.
And Glibb would grin bitterly.
Because Tess was especially gifted.
That was why the creature had been assigned to her.
She could walk into a room and feel what had not been said. She could pray in a way that changed the atmosphere. She could speak one sentence to a hurting person and somehow make hope reappear in the corner like a lamp switching on.
This made her dangerous to the mission of EO.
Gifted people filled rooms with Light.
The Evil One was deeply opposed to light-filled rooms.
So every night, just as Tess began to feel the nudge to write, pray, create, call someone, clean one drawer, forgive one person, drink water, go to bed early, or sit quietly with God, Glibb would leap from behind the toaster and shout:
“CONDENSED MILK!”
Not audibly, of course.
That would have been easier.
Instead, it came as a tiny chemical suggestion.
A creamy little whisper in the brain from one of Glibb’s minions.
And Tess, believing the thought was hers, would sigh and say, “Well, maybe just one spoonful.”
And another evening would be saved from purpose
