A D D

I have Attention Deficit Disorder. I admit it. I just can’t get enough. I am totally addicted to it.

I’m an attention whore, a testosterone tease, an admirationaholic, a virtual spunk junky. I soak it up like a sponge. Should I blame the anorexia or just come clean and accept that I need you to notice me to prove the value of my own existence. Without that acknowledgement, I fade away into the cold miasma of household chores and maternal duties.

In an emotional vacuum, I sought any form of approval, any nugget of approbation. I needed you to pay me some regard, be you man, woman or child. I required you to feed my habit, my addiction. I wore the badge of your admiration as some kind of external confirmation for what was missing inside.

Simultaneously revelling in and abhorring the quest for recognition, terrified to put all my eggs into the one basket for fear its capacity would eventually prove inadequate.

And so the coldblooded reptile of my insecurity deep within senses a fresh interest. It turns its face towards his warmth and basks in the sunlight of his gaze, absorbing like a sponge prior to squeezing him dry. Someone should warn him to be careful what he wishes for. Not to try to touch me; that I am wild to hold although I may seem tame.

For the paradox is this: Whilst I crave your declaration of ownership and yearn for you to express your never-ending love, if you want to keep me, you can never let me think that I have you. You must always withhold some part of yourself, retain the tiniest aura of unattainability. Never allow me to lose the hunter’s mindset in pursuit of my quarry or you will, in turn, obliterate my desire for you. Driving me onwards into the next fantasy: chasing after another conquest and a further validation.