When I don't get my fix, the withdrawal symptoms come quick: irritability, depression, anxiety. Lashing out at the slightest provocation. Gobbling heads clean off. My body collapsing in on itself with weariness. The cells of my being screaming in frenzied chorus, Give it to me. Give it to me now.
My addiction began in middle school, out of a sense of duty more than anything else. A few minutes of "quiet time" with God in the morning (or whenever I got around to it). Being a Christian who opened her Bible more than once a week helped assuage the guilt brought on from the statistics spouted by pastors near and far of their negligent flocks.
At the time, I didn't realize how utterly it would hook me. Ruin me forever with this obsession--this hunger that could only be satisfied with heavenly bread, this thirst that could only be quenched with living water, this fire that would burn, burn, burn and crumble my heart to ash, spin my soul in gold.
But it's too late now. This craving will not be denied, and with every taste, I long for more. My moments in God's Presence are no longer an obligation; they are necessity. When I miss a day with Him, my whole world falls into shadow. There is no substitute--no patch I can slap on my arm, no placebo to trick the body into believing in a wellness apart from Him. I live in a constant state of dependency and desperation. And in all my life, I have never known anything more beautiful.
My name is Beloved, and this drug will run through my veins forever.