What's eating Thomas de Quincy?
Scratch not. Want not.
Something was eating me on my Cuban vacation. Some things, actually.
Countless sand fleas were swarming my body. The tropical sun and bottomless buffet had rendered me limp and lifeless, unable to defend myself.
I guess I should have brought bug spray. But in my defense, I never imagined anyone would ever want my rotten blood. In the past, aspiring suckers would have surely dropped dead.
A year later, I’m nectar of the gods.
As a result, I’m writing this confession with hundreds of bites, up and down my body, all screaming in unison: Scratch me.
And I say, no.
Thou shalt not be scratched.
Sure, it’s nice to have an actual physical itch. Not one of the countless phantom cravings I had in early recovery — the kind that would find their way into my dreams.
When I was using, I had the physical kind of itch too. I was one of those ever-itching junkies, even clawing parts of my skin raw. They weren’t phantom itches either. At least, not in my drug-addled mind. In fact, a 2019 study from the Jikei School of Medicine in Tokyo actually found that the same brain systems that process addiction, also process itch. The research suggests they share the same neurological foundation.
That makes sense. Since going clean, I’ve all but stopped using the three or four back-scratchers lying around the house.
But the present-day plague reminds me of a much deeper itch I used to suffer from. The itch to get high, whenever I felt any discomfort. In that sense, I was a compulsive itch-scratcher.
Awkward social situation? Existential dread? Family argument? Straight to the pipe. Eventually, I was scratching every day, for any reason at all.
My addiction turned into a 20-year itch. One that I never hesitated to scratch.
Maybe that’s the lesson these tiny Cuban bloodsuckers are trying to teach me — to learn to live with discomfort. After all, life is full of friction and challenges. Not everyone goes straight for the crack pipe.
Instead, I’m learning the importance of restraint. Believe me, at the moment, it is not easy. But I know how it works. If I scratch just one of these bites, the whole constellation takes up the chorus: scratch me. They’ll tell their friends that I’m an itch-scratcher — that I’m easy.
I won’t give those bites the satisfaction. Sometimes, you need discomfort in order to grow. If only I had taken that lesson to heart earlier. Maybe I wouldn’t have resorted so readily to Crackynol 1000.
In any case, I won’t be rash. Even if my whole body happens to be one.