I’ve got to get something off my chest. I know, I know. I should be careful what I share here on Say What You Will. They say you should never get too personal on your blog unless you post anonymously. But I fear it’s too late for that.
I realize you, my readers, are neither my therapist nor my small group. You are not my priest or even my mother. (Although, 50 percent of you are.) There’s probably not much you could do to help me anyway.
Alas, I’ve hidden my secret and I’m drowning in shame. In most matters, you see, I am a man of moderation. I know when to say when. And I know when to say no altogether. What began as a social dalliance has gotten severely out of hand. Idolatry is in fact the worship of something good in and of itself, but my indulgence of an innocent pleasure has morphed tragically.
I am not entirely to blame. Whoever is? I understand my mother, while carrying my sister and me, frequently partook of what is now my downfall. In utero, I tasted what I now can’t get enough of. I don’t know whether my twin is suffering as well. This is not something we would talk about. Family skeletons. Closets.
I used to only have some at a baseball game. It’s not included in the song, but to me it is to baseball like peanuts and Cracker Jack. Not only do I indulge at the ballpark, but I must have some while watching a game anywhere, whether on my television or catching a few innings on my iPhone. (Thank you, MLB.tv.)
What’s worse, I don’t even need baseball. I’ll have some anywhere, even while driving. I know, trust me, I know how wrong this is. Initially it was just long road trips. I told myself I’d needed to relax. But now I’m grabbing some while driving around town. I’ll get in my car and drive around aimlessly just to have some, because I don’t want my kids to see. But I think they’re on to me, and I don’t know how I can face them. It might be too late, though; I think they’re doing it too.
What is it that befalls me? What is this thorn in my flesh? My Achilles’ heel?
From a lovely, golden flower, it rests secured by a hard, though easily penetrable, shell, expertly roasted and salted. Yes, the protein and monounsaturated fat are wonderfully nutritious, but the sodium—the sodium, man!—will surely be my death. Who will save me from myself?
Please don’t mistake my poor attempt at humor as insensitivity to those that struggle with real addictions. I’ve known all too well the effect addiction has on relationships and families. If you have a real, hidden shame, I pray you’ll get help. I’m not a priest myself, but I am a pastor and I’ll do what I can to help.