J.B Polk | Cold Turkey

I knew quitting would be tough, but I underestimated the true extent of the challenge. My mouth was parched, and it felt like all of the liquid from my tongue and gums had gathered on the tip of my nose, drip-drip-dropping in two-second intervals: one-two-splash-one-two-splash…

I was trapped, unable to break free from the powerful grasp of addiction. 

…one-two-splash…wipe…

“You can do it, girl. Think about how it makes you feel.”

My hands shook as I clenched and unclenched them. But the dopamine sparklers urging me to kowtow to my weakness lit a fire in my mind. I was forced to surrender…again. Because the splendiferous rush I got when I indulged allowed me to be myself. It cracked the door open for the inner troll, who thrived on turmoil and mischief, making me feel alive like nothing else could. And the troll was on the verge of escaping—his pointed-booted foot just inches away from freedom…

My current condition brought back memories of when I had successfully given up smoking. More than twenty years ago, I went through a similar internal combat: the tug-of-war between the corrosive impulse and the desire to wave the white flag.

“Just one day at a time,” I told myself. 

“Remember that feeling of well-being—your mind shackle-free—no nagging thoughts about the constant urge for a fix. Master of your destiny.”

I listed the progress I’d made and the joy I’d experienced as a result of my resistance.

But the beastly troll blew me off.  

“Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-day,” he hammered directly on my eardrum.

“Girl, don’t! You’ve gone nearly 24 hours without it. After two days, it’ll be a piece of cake.” I tried to pat myself mentally on the back, but the ache consumed me. 

…splash-one-two-splash-one-two…wipe… It was salty—a mixture of sweat and tears.

I poked a finger into my left ear to dig out the troll, but his pointy-toed boots were already rooted in my brain.

“If you do it,” he whispered enticingly, “it’ll be pure bliss, and you’ll forget all your problems for a while. One time won’t hurt, right?”

I took a deep breath, inhaled pure poison, and obeyed. I pressed the button, making the computer screen spring to life and display a familiar page loaded with a captivating image – X, formerly known as Twitter, sucked me into its endless scroll of tweets and updates. I paused for a millisecond, well aware that once I started browsing, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

I unleashed my rage in 280 characters, typing out all the pent-up frustration into the Tweet box, releasing the vile troll with all his toxic thoughts and his pointy-toed boots.

“Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-day,” he chanted gleefully.

The act of vomiting hostility online brought relief as if I had opened a pressure valve. Until the next day, when I would go cold turkey and begin the cycle again.  Hating myself for my lack of resolve. Trying to snuff the troll. Failing…