An embarassing addiction ...

Every day I give thanks that I don't drink and that I never have. There are, of course, the health benefits and the financial freedom as a result, but the main reason that I'm glad of my sobriety is because I know that I would be a sloppy drunk--truly a crippled alcoholic. Although I have never experienced the addictive power of alcohol, I have let myself become addicted to another substance. However embarrassing this is to admit publicly, I feel that it is necessary for the purgation of my inner suffering.

Ever since my childhood, I have had a particular attraction to something that piques all of our carnal passions from time to time. But I was not only attracted, I was infatuated, even titillated, stimulated. As I grew older, I felt the same sensation seep through my body, and soon enough I had to act on the desires of what is so accurately labeled "the natural man." The self control that I once firmly grasped was soon dross next to my drive to attain the physical whims for which I so yearned. It started small and has now swelled into a gigantic, obstreperous monkey on my back.

When I went to the store with my mom, while she was deciding between 2% and 1% milk, I stole away and found myself wide-eyed in front of rows and rows of my new-found best friend, which I now know is my unavoidable worst enemy. They came in all shapes and sizes. Of course, the best ones were wrapped keenly in plastic to keep scavengers at bay, but I knew that I soon would be able to get my own passionate fingers around a couple. Then it happened. I won't be specific about the wheres and hows of the story, but it suffices to say that I had my first experience. And once you have experience, you are never the same. I might call it a right of passage, really.

Of course, in this day and age, there are plenty of places to go. You aren't safe at home, work, or even at school, however disturbing that is. Adolescents and children, girls and boys don't have to look too far anymore. The corner store. Dad's "special collection" on the top shelf. The locked drawer in Mr Engleking's desk. Rupert's backpack in health class. Everywhere and everyone seemed to be a resource. Before I even realized it, I was sneaking around behind my parents' back trying to be clandestine in my now compulsory tendencies. Before I knew where I was going, I was on the road to addiction, where I still find myself trodding along in embarrassment. And of course small things don't stay small.

I knew that I had a problem when I got into the serious stuff--double stuffed, to be specific. And once I had tried double stuffed, I had to try the mint and cream and the peanut butter versions of the same vice. Why stop there? My Oreo fetish began to sink in deeper and deeper. My dreams started to involve giant cups of milk spattered with Oreo icebergs. Although I started by indulging myself maybe once a month, it soon became once a week. Then it was twice a week. Now it is almost a daily routine. This morning I was barely able to get the package back into the cupboard before my roommate Stu came around the corner. Can you imagine what he might have thought of me (a self-touted "Mormon") if he saw me with a chocolate crumb-covered mouth at 6:30 in the morning? It was a close call, but when your desires are so intense, your uncommonly strong passions cloud your common sense.

If there is anyone out there than reach down and bring me back from my Oreo addiction, I am reaching out to you. I would do anything to become the man I was before I let myself become the shell of a man that I am today. Oh, reopen (if you caught that play on words, please accept my hand in marriage) the gates to my happiness.