ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel
  • »
  • Books, Literature, and Writing»
  • Literature

my pet illness

Updated on December 28, 2010

Am I a hoarder? No, I throw away my trash, be it old stained t-shirts or full on old dirty garbage. Am I a junkie? No, I drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes but should the end of the world come, I'll be more concerned with what I can contribute to my cave in the way of food, homeopathic medicines and warmth than what gets me high. I tend to think that what would get me high in the dark, survivalist circumstances of the end of the world would be a little more nature loving and a little less world peace loving than what a hit of immediately pleasurable narcotics could do for me.

Do I have a sex addiction? Oh hell, yes I do. But no more than every homosapien has had since the beginning of time. And guess what? My addictions, be they what they may, do not counter act the love and trust I have for my husband and family. Nor do they counter act the trust and love those said family members have for me.

Am I a person with a 'strange addiction'?

Oh, by god, no. My addictions are not this strange. But they are strange addictions...I pull out a little, phallic tube of tobacco and upon placing it between my lips I already feel a sense of relief. Furthermore, I flick the spark that turns it from a little, phallic tube of dried tobacco to an ignited, burning piece of ember, that sits precariously between my fingers. I wrap my lips around it and draw in; a long inhalation of what comes; a long inhalation of filthy, smelly smog and adorably mind numbing calm. Pulled right into my lungs. Ahhh. My addiction to this ritual cannot be any stranger than the strange addictions I read of and watch on TV. Yet it seems to be, and why? Because it is globally accepted as such? It is globally accepted and has been for centuries that smoking tobacco is of the norm.

And so it is easy for the public to condemn. It's right out there. A tobacco stain on humanity.

But I digress. An easy thing for me to do. I have always pointed the finger at myself in the hope of identifying with the hand that cuts me down in the hope of sliding in closer to my enemy, perhaps? A strange addiciton for one so young. Yet I am of Scottish descent after all, and Scotland's children have been oppressed by England's almost since time began. Another strange addiction I am working on. But one made tolerable and even amusing by the whole of England's empirical decree on what is today's English speaking world.

Am I a hypochondriac? This is one cause I refuse to fight for. So many loved ones are dealing with so many real health issues, that anyone can pretend to be sick is beyond me. I say they are beyond me but what I mean is that they are deplorable. Anyone who fakes being ill, should be shot up with a healthy dose of what they claim ails them. Do you listen to the news? Do you read the news? Do you hear of who, in your city or township has duped their caring fellow man into donating money when they have no illness to speak of?

Ashley's story is one of many. She is one of many human beings who deserves, unflinchingly, to have REAL cancer. She deserves to feel the agonizing nausea of chemotherapy treatments. She deserves to feel her life slip away, not knowing if she will have enough time tomorrow to make amends with the people she needs to.

She deserves to cry every morning upon waking, simply because she awoke. She deserves to cry every night upon laying her head down, simply because she's alive to do so. She deserves to hurt, she deserves to lose and she deserves to fall down, and hard.

Ashley Kirilow, if you read this, I wish nothing but poisonous, horrid and cancerous cells to take you over. You have set the bar, my dear, for truly unfeeling people to perform their truly unfeeling acts of false sincerity upon the stage of a victim's heartstrings. You are to be despised. And you are. By me. If I could take the world's cancer and deposit it into your bloodstream I would.

I don't have cancer, Ashley, but I take your indirect defamation of cancer patients' characters through carefree disregard as though I did.

Am I callous? In some respects, by all means. Is this an illness? In some respects, yes. But it's not an illness that promotes negativity, rather it's a state of being promoting change. There's enough of that unclear and globally accepted illness already parading in its healthy, strengthening robes. Our countries are fighting each other and only in some small cases do they have justification, and only subjectively are those cases valid. One day, our countries will not be countries any longer, but masses of land on which masses of human population fight other country's masses of human population. And this differs not from our world today, but in a distant time those masses will not be so divided.

My illness of callousness is tempered by everything I see and hear about the global situation.

Am I bipolar? I think not. My mental ups and downs are just that. Mental ups and downs. We all have them, but only some of us are encumbered by them. Some of us remain mentally stoic in our fighting of emotional down pull. Those of us capable of remaining balanced through the ups and downs of life's turmoil, should the end of the world come, will be the ones looked to for rights and reasons and fair deliberation.

Am I weighed down by a popular illness? No. None that I know of, anyway. My pet illness is one that can't be recovered by medications or therapy. My pet illness is at once destructive and conducive to who I am. It IS who I am. I don't claim to have cancer, a bipolar disorder, or an irregularly strange addiction. Because I don't. Nor do I want to suffer from any of those ailments. My pet illness is not a pet of mine. I don't coddle it. My illness cannot be cured by the Dr. Phil's or the Dr. Oz's of daytime television. Nor can it be quieted by receiving Oprah's flat screen TV or my local lottery's big win.

My pet illness has been mine to have since before the 'pet illness' bandwagon came calling 'round. It will be mine and as unresolved and as undissected until my time here is done. And the difference between the whole of the human condition and me, is that I'm okay with the not knowing.


    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    • fi fi profile image

      fi fi 6 years ago from Niagara, Canada

      crystolite - Thanks for the positive feedback and for visiting :)

    • crystolite profile image

      Emma 6 years ago from Houston TX

      Informative article that is well shared.

    • fi fi profile image

      fi fi 6 years ago from Niagara, Canada

      Stan Fletcher - I hear you. I've struggled with the same battle for almost twenty years.

      20 years! It sounds so much worse when said out loud.

      Thanks for reading and for the humbling comments! :)

    • Stan Fletcher profile image

      Stan Fletcher 6 years ago from Nashville, TN

      This was intense and well written....I've struggled with nicotine on and off for 30 years. So wish I never would have lit the first one.

    • fi fi profile image

      fi fi 6 years ago from Niagara, Canada

      reekhover - Great story!

    • profile image

      reekhover 6 years ago

      I had the privilege of taking part in a Native 'Smudge Ceremony, a cleansing of sorts and an invitation to the spirit world to protect me from harm etc. Ever since that ceremony I have REALLY wanted a cigarette. I used the 'smudging' mindset to cleanse my house after an ill wind had passed through. It worked so well that a friend and I now make regular trips to Moraviantown to buy some DK Discount smokes.

      Good Work fifi

    • fi fi profile image

      fi fi 7 years ago from Niagara, Canada

      Druid Dude - Your comments/compliments are always sheer pleasure to read :)

    • profile image

      Druid Dude 7 years ago

      Better than caves await us. Smoking? Native Americans developed it long before Freud lit his first cigar and mused on why he liked big, fat...well, you know Freud and his dirty little mind, which was not on the minds of those who used tobacco as a sacrament to the Great Spirit. I smoke too. Prayers rise up on the smoke, which is related to the Spirit. Nice little hub, with lots of little insights into one of my favorite contemporary writers. Accolades, to you fifi, for just a few months ago, my only favorite contemporary writer was Stephen King! Keep it up! Peace