Craving: I know all
about it. In fact, I’d venture to say
that most humans with a pulse – whether they choose to admit it or not – do,
too. Even Nuns. I bet those birds crave a thing or two now
and again, (and it’s been well documented that Priests do).
But suppose it’s not fair to speak on behalf
of the population as a whole. In that case, maybe I am
unique in my craving? Maybe no one else on Earth, past or present, has ever
known what it feels like to desire something so strongly as to become almost
possessed by it – certainly not the estimated 2.1 million members of Alcoholics
Anonymous worldwide*.
Sticking to
my personal experience, I’ll share that my sense of craving began in
infancy. Not that I was capable of
coherently identifying or understanding, that, what I was feeling was called a
craving, but I certainly cried out for milk when I was craving food. And when I craved sleep, I let that be known
through blood-curdling screams as well.
As I developed, I began to comprehend that I most definitely craved
safety. In fact, I feel comfortable identifying “safety” as my strongest need on Maslow’s hierarchy.
This craving for safety morphed into an
uncontrollable anxiety that crippled me throughout my entire childhood – most
likely perpetuated by my getting lost at Santa Anita racetrack when I was
two. Anxiety wracked my being – the only
thing that could quell my nerves was to know where my family was at all times,
and the only way I could do that was through control. I began to crave control – which is a futile
and exhausting effort. Later on down the
road, I discovered the only other
thing that could mitigate my fears – alcohol.
It didn’t take long before I began to crave that beast. Even when I had a drink in my hand, I was
already nervously anticipating the next – I needed to make sure there was
enough supply to medicate my dis-ease.
Before I knew it, I couldn’t function without it. Sure, I had plenty of moments when I was dry,
but I always felt more relaxed with booze coursing through my veins. The problem is: inevitably it stops working (quicker for some
than others). And much to my dismay and
benefit, alcohol stopped working for me around the time I was thirty. Suddenly I craved relief – relief and rest
from the exhaustion trying to control a drinking problem creates. I craved it like I had never craved anything
in my life, because I was at the end of my rope. It was now a matter of life or death, because
I knew my soul was empty and it was only a matter of time before my brain
caught up to the idea that death may be a more suitable option.
I got a taste of sobriety and hung on for
dear life – I began to crave recovery.
It gave me a new lease on life. I
was surfing a “pink cloud” and I had never felt so good. Life got better fast, and before I knew it,
life was actually good. I started to dream again, and as my dreams
grew, so did my vision for my future. I
had ambition! I started to crave achievement…
success!
I dove, head first, back into
the entertainment industry (my only constant love) with unadulterated
enthusiasm and vigor. I put twenty
thousand miles on my car in four months, driving back and forth between San
Francisco and Los Angeles, until I finally cut the apron strings and made the
move to live in La La Land amongst all the other transplants and dreamers. I landed in features, then television; and
during the course of my employment on a procedural drama I would never be given
the opportunity to write for, something even better happened: I met my future husband (in a rather
roundabout way) through a co-worker.
We jumped into a relationship, and before I knew it we were engaged and I was pregnant, and that, in and of itself, introduced a
whole new comprehension of craving (apart from FroYo at 10pm) – I had a craving for Life, and a deeply burning
desire for the life growing inside of me to thrive and be healthy. Now I crave the knowledge and empathy
necessary to make me a good parent – a parent equipped to raise a well-adjusted
and capable child, one who can differentiate between right and wrong and who “makes
good choices”, as my father once (and still does) badger me to do. I crave compassion. And lastly, I crave the power to stop cursing
like a truck driver, cuz that’s really gonna fuck up my kids.
