My Obsession.

 “I am haunted by you. From my suffering self I would tear out my soul to walk as an empty vessel through life if it would end your possession of me…”" - Jerry Kirk

Obsession is defined as the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image or desire. It is a derivative of the Latin word ‘obsidere’ meaning to besiege, in reference to the belief that such passionate and pervasive thoughts were akin to being besieged by powerful spirits taking control of your mind. Manipulating you, possessing you, seducing you with soft whispers and invisible caresses. I for one, have no idea how to make them stop.

Recently I read a dissertation, which brought forth the thesis that the psychology of violent psychopaths was not dissimilar to that of addicts. The author argued that the mode through which psychopaths expressed addictive behavior was through their progressing attachment and participation in fantasy from childhood onward. Originally a vessel to escape reality, fantasy moves on to become an integral part of the psychopath’s ‘identity’. He then goes on to explain how the intensity and depravity of said fantasies creates a euphoria that comes to fill the void in a sociopathic child’s emotional development.

In this way violent fantasies begin working in the brain much like drugs do in an addict. When you become hooked on a drug like Heroin, the drug literally begins taking over certain processes in your brain. In psychology we loosely call these processes apart of your ‘reward system’. The body’s reward system is made up of various chemicals including dopamine and serotonin. When your body becomes too accustomed to a drug manipulating your brain’s production of these chemicals, your body adjusts to that by ceasing to produce them naturally. This is what makes it almost impossible for veteran drug users to stop. Their brain chemistry is now literally altered to make these drugs biologically necessary. They’ll do anything to avoid the misery, apathy and lack of happiness that comes with quitting.

For the young psychopath, half of this cycle is missing. A heroin addict’s brain could take years to normalize enough to feel happiness without extreme stimulus, making it ridiculously hard for him/her to quit. For the psychopath, that reward system was broken from the beginning. What that means is constant fantasizing and thrill-seeking behavior becomes akin to an alcoholic needing a drink. We need it to function normally like others can naturally. We can’t stop, it’s the only thing keeping us alive.

But at this point in my life, I think it’s killing me. I am so deep in my own ocean of depravity I can’t even recall which way is up. I’m drowning with air in my lungs. I’m dead but my heart’s still beating.

It’s impossible to focus. The thoughts have always plagued me, possessed me and influenced my actions. But at one time they were analogous to a friend, a companion. Sure, they played games with me. Cruelly pushed me into risky situations; shoved me into positions a clever kid should avoid. But my thoughts only led me to hedonistic delights. Only persuaded me out of my decorum and sharp tact in order to smother my senses in euphoria. To remind me I wasn’t just taking breaths for show.

But now I’m too far in; too deep in a quicksand I’m not sure I want to escape from. Like I’m climbing a mountain I’m never going to reach the peak of. I feel as if I am literally miles under the ocean with no light to guide my way to survival. There is this bursting pressure behind my eyes, a prickling of a thousand needles under my skin, compelling me to satisfy this need, this fucking uncontrollable desire, and it seems nothing will satisfy it anymore.

Giving in is only a temporary respite. A shallow breath before being plunged back into acrid waters. There is an ultimate pinnacle of pleasure that will come with the perfection of my fantasy, with the flawlessness of my ritual and the re-creation of this ideal. I’m sure of it. This is my obsession. These are the words whispered into blushing ears. These are the beliefs massaged into a pained chest. I have nothing else. My obsession is the single object of color in a world of black and white.

I’m not sure if this feeling of perpetual dissatisfaction, even when enacting long-desired fantasies is a result of one factor or another. I have a suspicion that there is a single individual to blame. My obsession has never encompassed an object or person, but rather a situation or idea. Now it does. Now my perfect fantasy, my addiction, involves a single object I can’t get my hands on. Part of me would do anything to get it. The other part is more prudent; wise. Either way, nothing but death will stop me from eventually assuaging my besieged mind. I’ll get what I want, rest-assured, but how am I supposed to breathe until then?