I can’t remember the exact moment when I became an addict.

Somewhere between all the existential, identity, and post-grad crises that so often creep into the lives of young adults, I needed help. I could no longer live the zombie life that I was leading. Eventually, and I’m not sure when, help came.

Boy did it ever come. I’m going to use the clichéd term that it was like walking on sunshine because I thoroughly believe if I had the chance between walking on literal sunshine or having an infinite supply of my drug of choice, I’d choose the drug.

I try not to think of the dark, dismal days before my addiction because honest to God, it changed my life for the better. I became happy, energized, comfortable, and social. I was alert, aware, and present. It was a beautiful thing. And then, I moved to Australia.

Nothing disrupts a good addiction like moving to another country where you no longer have a dealer with a steady supply, and you have to pay different prices.

I was fine at first because I was able to stock up before I left Winnipeg, but after the first couple weeks it got rough. I didn’t even recognize myself. I was cranky and moody, and I would snap at everyone. Needless to say, I needed a new supply. I needed my drug. I didn’t care if it was foreign and weird and expensive – I needed it.

Although I don’t remember the exact moment in Canada when I became an addict, I remember absolutely everything about my first drug experience in Australia. I’m going to be straight up here, it was the best. Seriously, that was the best day in Australia. It was walking on sunshine good.

I did it over and over again. I did it everyday. I did it multiple times a day. My initial worries about supply and quality were absurd. It was everywhere. It was so good.

It was so good that now I’m back home, I haven’t been able to find anything up to par. The past seven months have been hard. I’ve gone back to my Canadian dealer Tim with his Canadian supply, but I’m sorry Mr. Hortons, it’s just not as good. Australia has made me a coffee snob with its long blacks, short macchiatos, espresso machines, and froth. I miss it. I miss my Australian addiction. Addictions are serious, and withdrawals aren’t fun.

Life of a travelling addict is hard.

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My Australian drug of choice: the long black

If you want to read about the ridiculously amazing coffee culture in Australia, this article outlines the differences pretty well: This Is Why Australians Hate Starbucks

Although I can joke about coffee additions, real addictions aren’t fun. Here’s another link for that: Canadian Centre on Substance Abuse

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