Am I… Obsessive?

A character in a favorite book of mine once said,

“I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.”

It was one of those strange, indescribable moments

you come across very occasionally while reading,

where you’re taken out of a fictional world completely

and put back, quite brutally, into your own.

It was as if Richard Papen had said it straight to my face,

looking deep in my eyes, with his spittle flecking my cheeks

from the intense force of those words—as if he had meant to say,

“You know what I mean.”

And I did know.

Instantly I knew, and I understood him.

I, too, was nothing in my soul if not obsessive.

I realized it then, book in hands.

Who am I if not addicted to my addictions?

Who am I if I am not diving face first

into my latest fixations, having hours and hours

of conversations with myself about my own fascinations?

Who am I if I am not defined by these things I love so dearly?

Who would I be if I could pursue people

or friendships or relationships in a healthy way?

Who would I be if I knew how to like things normally?

I’ve never been able to like things a little bit.

I love or I hate—or I fully contemplate, praise, and dismantle,

feeding my obsession for rating systems and analyses.

I have to go full throttle.

I have to give it my all.

I can leave no stone unturned, no story uncompleted.

I have dropped maybe three books in my entire life.

I am constantly praying at the service of my obsessions.

I have to dedicate every essence of my being

into what I love, anything I love, anyone I love.

I have to despise and utterly resent anything I hate.

And I must love or hate—rarely is anything else in between.

I must give it all a hundred percent, a thousand percent,

because I have to.

It’s my disposition.

It’s in my blood.

Thanks for that, Richard Papen.