Addicted

chasing numb

I get addicted to anything that says,
“Hey, let’s not feel those icky feelings today.”
If it sparkles and screams ‘instant relief,’
I’ll drink it, smoke it, snort it, date it, eat it or swipe my credit card for it.

I’m cross addicted - replacing one obsession with the next in an all-you-can-ruin buffet of self-destruction, served hot and endless, with a side of deep-fried denial. Whatever numbs, distracts, or delays the crash, or at least lets me float above the wreckage for a little while.
But none of it ever fixes anything.

Every time I reach for a quick fix to shut the pain up, to feel even slightly better, I wake up the next day crawling out of the rubble… bloody, broken, emotionally limping, mascara-smudged and soul-bruised, wondering how the hell I managed to make things worse. Again. But now with more shame.

Just when I finally get a grip on one part of my life-like, Cool, we’re no longer drunk texting toxic exes at 2 a.m.,
gold star for me,
some other deeply buried issue claws its way out of the grave, cleans up, gets a fresh haircut, and reappears like, “Surprise, bitch. Miss me?”
Trauma has great timing and even better commitment issues.

So, I get back to it. Tweezers out. Picking through emotional shrapnel with the precision of a forensic analyst, trying to figure out why I overreacted to a stranger’s tone of voice… or why I suddenly feel the urgent need to binge-buy vintage cat-shaped teacups or trucker hats with happy slogans I’ll never actually use on Etsy.

And just like that, I’m spiraling again. Acting out in ways I’ll cringe about later, if I let myself remember them at all.
Or reaching for something-anything-to take the edge off. To shove it all back into the vault it crawled its way out of.

It’s existential Whac-A-Mole. I smack one trauma gremlin down, and another pops up grinning, wearing a tiara, screaming something about abandonment issues.
And sure, I could just ignore it all, but apparently that’s “dysfunctional.”
So instead, I spend my days doing shadow work, journaling like a woman possessed (and oversharing it all here on the internet), resisting the urge to light a joint or spike my coffee with Baileys while eating triple chocolate cake for breakfast.
It’s not healing.
It’s emotional CrossFit.
And I’m still not even sure who I’m trying to impress.
A God who might be watching me?
My therapist?
One of my various 12 step sponsors?
The future version of me who swears she’ll eventually get it all together?
Shit. There’s no such a thing as all together.
Show me a human who has it all together.

But hey, at least now, after I’ve swept up my emotional debris into a semi-neat pile, and fluffed the existential pillows, I can laugh a little more while I unravel or get triggered. And anything can be a trigger:

>A beautiful woman-thinner, younger-just existing in my line of vision. No amount of dieting, starving or purging can make me small enough, and no amount of Botox, peels, or surgeries can rewind me to “young enough” and finally be lovable and attractive enough for some guy I think I want or an ex I’m obsessing about getting back.
>A boss who makes me feel stupid or inadequate-cue the countdown to happy hour where I can dissolve into something easier to tolerate.
>My father, bipolar and suicidal, leaving me to wonder if I was ever worth staying alive for.
>The latest Chanel, Valentino or Balenciaga, dangling effortlessly on the arm of some woman whose life I’ve decided is better than mine. Whose identity I want to wear like an outfit.
The list? Endless. And dealing with the triggers means digging. Dragging out every ghost I shoved in the downstairs closet. Because if I don’t pull them out one by one- get to know them, dance with them, understand why I locked them away in the first place- they’ll just stay there. Lurking. Collecting dust. They’ll reappear as nightmares. Daymares. New partners dressed in fabulous outfits but carrying the same charming narcissistic energy as the ones before. All able to eat me alive and spit me out if I don’t get emotionally fit enough to cope.

Some days, the internal mess is so catastrophic, all I want to do is stay under the covers and never come out. Just take a carefully curated handful of prescription pills, wash them down with a glass or two of my favorite Malbec, and vanish into a haze that feels way more manageable than consciousness.

I wish one of these Silicon Valley tech geniuses would invent a mental cleaning service. You know, someone who shows up in a hazmat suit, spritzes Windex on my trauma, disinfects the shame and mops up the mess. And alphabetizes my coping mechanisms while they’re in there. Or maybe one of those celebrity closet organizers- someone who could come inside here, declutter my subconscious, hold up each memory, and ask: “Do you really need to keep this?”

When I want to, I can look great on the outside. Polished, poised, seemingly perfect from afar. But under the veneer? I’m a self-destructing masterpiece.

And that word—perfect? Who the hell decided what that even means? Advertisers? Society? Bosses? Parents? Exes we still haven’t recovered from? Our value is basically held hostage by the opinions of people who wouldn’t even notice—much less care—if we vanished off the face of the earth.
We’re the ones obsessing over us. Every time we pass a mirror, we might nod at the outfit like, “Okay, this matches, I’m looking sharp” - but then, bam -
Are my crow’s feet creeping?
Is my chin receding?
My gut expanding?
My butt ballooning, or worse - flattening?
Mirrors aren’t for reassurance. They’re for self-inflicted emotional abuse. We’re all just walking contradictions—beautiful, magnificent disasters.
Hurricanes in stilettos, or combat boots. Depending on the day.
The lucky ones? At least we're trying to untangle the wreckage.
The rest? Circling the drain, clinging like bugs to whatever vice keeps them afloat.

Which one are you?
Are you here with me, trying to keep it together, and stay sane out in our chaotic world? If you are… please, throw me some fucking rope.

Love & spirals,
🖤 Cyn,
the Bougie Hippie

Binge first chapter from my memoir ESCAPE TO MEXICO
https://cynishere.substack.com/p/left-my-xanax-in-la-la-land

Please buy me an iced mocha latte so I can quit my day job and keep oversharing on the internet.

Healing is a journey, not a destination :)