Ash Magazine Issue 2 Page 3
Addiction
By Tammie Painter
The lights are dimming. My coma will begin any second now. I shut my eyes, waiting to be satiated. My addiction finally satisfied. I envy people with easy cravings that can be fed on almost any street corner.
Not so for me. I'm an addict chasing the dragon I thought could never be caught: dreams.
Just as some people are hooked after one drag or ride on the Horse, I can't dream without being left with the hand-shaking, jonesing for just one more. Everyone's had them, those dreams where upon waking you will yourself to fall back to sleep hoping for the dream to continue. I need the dream to continue.
The ones that leave me cursing the rising sun like a modern day Nosferatu are surreal, simple, and, yes, sometimes sexual. An espresso and chat with a long dead author or actor (albeit in a mish mash-only-exists-in-dreams ramshackle house where the owner misplaced her pet ducks); a tour through Rome with no one around except the ghost-hosts of dead gladiators and Caesars; the kiss of a stranger I can't find again; or the espionage dream where I almost save the world (were it not for the real-world cat pawing at my head to be fed). I'm pulled from these by daylight and strain to return. Like the alcoholic barely sobering up for the workday and counting the minutes until happy hour, my life has become a long series of waking hours.
I started learning how to bring on the best dreams, the blissful escapes from the real world. It didn't take long to notice a glass or two of wine before bed delivered my sleeping mind to a vivid world. It wasn't alcoholism. If it weren't for the dreams the noble rot induced, I could care less about my glass being filled. Still, my spouse became concerned when I began going through my box-o-wine (the cheaper the wine, the better the dreams) in a week.
I then discovered the subconscious wonder world of Nyquil. I remembered the bizarre nightly plays I'd have as a child when my mom would dose me up with the thick unearthly green liquid. Half a dose was enough and I could sneak my sip before hopping into bed where I urged my mind to quiet its waking thoughts and allow me back into my preferred realm. Empty bottles were easily disposed of in my company's recycling bins and a new bottle could be picked up from the drug store on the way home. Problem solved. Lovely dreams and no more nagging about needing to "see someone about my drinking."
With the knowledge of what alcohol could do, it didn't take a great leap of curiosity to wonder what visions stronger drugs could bring. The lab my sister manages studies addiction. She's the only one I've told about my cravings. "You're an addict," her eyes lit up with the diagnosis.
"What? You want to study me?"
"My sibling guinea pig," she cooed and it was tough to tell if she was mocking or serious.
"I just want some of your stuff."
Her research centers on coke and meth. Stimulants wouldn't help me, but over years of waiting for grants to come through, she has concocted some of the best LSD this side of the Willamette. And being around college students meant unlimited access to pot.
"What effects do you expect?" I'd become no better than one of her mice.
"I'll let you know."
I was disappointed. The pot only made me sleep. No dreams, just a strange feeling in my mouth. Not an experience to feed an addiction. The LSD had so much potential but never delivered the coherent and focused dreams I wanted, only a series of swirls and percussions of reality. I suppose it's better that way because if I couldn't even drink a few glasses of wine without being harassed, what would have happened if I was dropping acid each night before tucking in? I reported to my sister and picked up an economy size bottle of Nyquil on the way home.
I can't give it up, the dreams, not the Nyquil. If I could have the subconscious intensity without the green goo, I'd gladly give up that sickening antifreeze-like stuff. But I yearn to get back to that espresso, to my superhero/spy antics, to one more kiss, to explore another alleyway with the gladiators.
After a while, eight hours proved to not be enough.
I started napping in the lounge at work during lunch. A website on power napping worked better than warm milk. A jigger of Nyquil, a few repetitive phrases, and I was out.