In a perfect week, I get high Monday through Sunday. A decent week means I’m high at least five of those days. Less than that? You probably don’t want to be around me. After 48 hours without my usual dose, such as right now, I radiate what an ex-girlfriend once described as “an aura of black sludge.” My post-high positive outlook is gradually replaced by anxiety, cloudy thinking, and general negativity, and the more time that elapses after each high, the more my thoughts are consumed with getting the next one. Often my only desire when I wake up is to get my fix, and I’ll ignore my family until I achieve my altered state, if I have to. I can’t help myself. I need to lace up my shoes, slip out the door, and run.
If the source of my high were nicotine, alcohol, or cheese puffs, I’d clearly be labeled an addict. But it’s running, which is obviously healthy, so it’s all good—right? Maybe I’m paranoid, but I’m starting to wonder. After all, the ingredients of my black sludge include the common signs of drug withdrawal, which might lead someone to believe that my habit is really a dependency. Meanwhile the bible of professional psychiatrists, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, was updated in 2013 to include gambling in its list of addictive conditions—the first time an activity has been filed alongside substance abuse in that category. I can see where this is going. Sex and Internet addiction are already on their radar. It’s only a matter of time until they consider my running a subversive condition. We need to stop them! But why do I feel so alone?
[Goes for a 35-minute run.]
Please disregard everything I previously wrote. All I was trying to say is, The world is So. Freaking. Awesome. And so is running. I love you, man.