We're Addicted to Addiction
Katie B

My old minivan chugged into the tiny parking lot of the community center and pulled into the last available spot. I turned off the headlights, but not the engine, trying to convince myself that I had no reason to go inside. ?You?re not like them,? I mumbled to myself, as I slipped my hand into my purse, found one of those sweet cylindrical sticks of addictive relief, and put it to my lips. ?I can stop whenever I want. Just one last time to calm my nerves.?

The industry had lured me in as an impressionable pre-teen, and I had been in denial about my addiction ever since. My parents were both dependent on them, so there were always dozens hidden around the house-- I could take one or two and they would never notice. But now, at 17, I needed help. It was an expensive addiction, and one that alienated me from many of my friends. Maybe if I could give it up now, I had a chance at a normal adult life.

So I shut off the engine and stepped nervously into the doorway of the dimly lit meeting room. The circle of 20 or so chairs was filled with teenage girls like me? I had heard that we?re the most impressionable demographic. Advertising and peer pressure and social norms hooked us young and there was no looking back. I tried my best to blend in with the back wall and listened as the first girl stood up.

?Hello, my name is Megan,? she said confidently. ?And I? I?m? an addict,? she finished, stumbling over the last obligatory phrase.

?Hello, Megan,? her peers replied in an equally obligatory, lethargic chorus.

?I guess I realized I had a problem a few weeks ago when I forgot mine at home and none of my friends would let me borrow one-- and I snapped. I?m not sure exactly what happened, but I think I landed a few of the punches that I threw before I stormed out of Denny?s. A cop pulled me over for going 90 in my neighborhood trying to get home.? Megan was visibly shaken, but looked around the circle and gathered her strength for the last of her confession. ?I went to the doctor and he?s going to help me cut down to once or twice a day, and then I know I can quit.?

Megan sat back down in her chair with an air of accomplishment and lit a cigarette. As she took the first gratifying drag, she knew she wasn?t going to let her chap stick addiction rule her life anymore. And neither was I.

I stepped further into the room and the group leader asked me my name.

?Umm, my name is Katie. And I?m an addict.?

?Hello, Katie,? came the monotone, but still somehow comforting, response.

?Well, I can go through two or three chap sticks a week now? I switched to medicated when the tingle you get from the beeswax stuff with menthol stopped having the same effect for me. Friends tell me I apply it 20 or 30 times a day, but I don?t even notice I?m doing it anymore. It?s completely unconscious. When I forget it at home, I can?t even hold a normal conversation in public. I start looking around like some drug addict for anyone who might have some on them.? I realized my mouth was moving faster than I could think. I took a few deep breaths and swallowed hard. ?And?yesterday I stole money from my little brother?s room to pay for a new pack. I don?t know what to do.?

Suddenly, Megan jumped out of her chair and hugged me.

?We?re all in this together,? she sobbed. ?And we can get through this.?