A Memoir of Addiction, Power, and Redemption
I remember the first time…
It was nothing—just a stick, seemingly unremarkable. Mum dropped it onto the floor with an air of casual generosity. “For you,” she said, unaware she had just set into motion my descent into chaos. I sniffed it once. Then again. And then, something in me changed.
A switch flipped. The world narrowed to that single, splintered object. I held it between my paws, rolled it under my tongue, and felt the universe align into a singular, undeniable truth: This was mine.
I could not name the euphoria. I could only feel it. A great and terrible clarity consumed me. The scent—a dry, woody whisper laced with the ghost of a thousand summer fields—coiled into my brainstem like ivy, clinging, demanding. I was both hunter and hunted, a prisoner of my own desire.
Then Schmutz came too close.
But this time, it was worse.
She hadn’t even wanted the stick. She had been minding her own business, gently gnawing on Mum’s pencil. Mum, in an act of sheer generosity—or treachery—offered her something “better.” She placed the stick before Schmutz like a royal gift.
Schmutz accepted it with quiet delight, rolling onto her back, batting it in soft, playful arcs. She was gentle. Carefree. And something in me snapped.
I don’t remember moving, only the moment of impact. One second, Schmutz was at peace, lost in innocent enjoyment. The next, I had taken it from her. My claws wrapped around the prize, my body tense and bristling. Mine.
Schmutz’s ears flattened. She blinked at me, confused. She did not fight back. She stared—as if seeing me, genuinely seeing me, for the first time. As if realizing what I had become.
A Dry Catnipstickster.
The Spiral
I convinced myself it was just a fluke. A bad reaction. A moment of weakness. But addiction is insidious, creeping in through the cracks of your convictions, whispering reassurances even as it coils tighter around your will. It’s a psychological trap, a game you can’t win.
One stick became two. Two became possession. When Mum, benevolent fool that she is, presented additional sticks to create harmony, I felt only hunger. I wanted them all. Needed them all. I reached out, my paw striking her arm—lightly at first, then with insistence.
My own mother.
I had become the very thing I once pitied: a creature consumed.
I was no longer playing. I was managing. The sheer stress of having multiple sticks at once was unbearable. I could not enjoy them—I could only guard them. Because Schmutz occasionally enjoys catnip sticks, was always out to steal from me, or she would get some she did not need but would keep them away from me, or mum thought it was funny to take them as toys, I love playtime, but this is serious!!! My head whipped back and forth, scanning the room for threats, my tail flicking with nervous energy. If I held one, I longed for the others. If I let go, I feared I’d lose control.
Schmutz learned to step back. Mum, confused, tried logic—“Franzi, there are two more right here.” But logic does not apply in the throes of mania. Logic does not account for the raw, primal terror of loss.
At night, I slept with them tucked beneath me, shrouded in paranoia. What if someone took them while I dreamed? What if the supply ran out?
What if the high never came again?
Intervention
Mum and Dad began whispering behind my back. I heard the phrases: “obsession,” “unhealthy,” “maybe we should stop giving them to her.”
My ears twitched. My body tensed.
Stop? They would stop?
I devised countermeasures. I ingratiated myself, purring louder, curling into their arms like a model of innocence. “She’s just so sweet,” Dad murmured, scratching behind my ears. Yes, yes, remember me this way, I thought. Remember the version of me that does not claw at your hands for more.
But addiction is not subtle. I became unpredictable, erratic. I lingered by the shelf where they were kept, staring, willing the sticks to appear. When one was produced, I snatched it with desperate speed. I could not not take it.
Mum sighed. “She’s getting worse.”
Schmutz watched, her crooked tail twitching, eyes filled with something I could not name. Pity? Amusement? A dark satisfaction that for once, I was the chaotic one?
The Dry Catnipstickster had replaced me.
The Reckoning
One night, it was over.
I waited. I whined. I dragged my toys in an attempt to charm them. But the sticks never came. The whispers had turned into action. The intervention had begun.
The first few nights were the hardest. My paws twitched with withdrawal. My mind, once sharp and calculating, clouded with doubt. I lost my appetite. I prowled the halls, restless, unsettled.
I watched Schmutz playing, unbothered, unburdened by desire. Is this what freedom looks like? I wondered. Has she always lived this way?
But the days passed. I rediscovered old joys—the warmth of a sunbeam, the comfort of Mum’s lap, the thrill of a hunt that did not end in feverish possession. The sticks still called to me, but their voice grew distant. A whisper rather than a scream.
You Will Always Be a Dry Catnipstickster
They say the hunger never fully leaves you. They say once you’ve known the high, you carry it forever.
I still think about them.
When the air is dry, when the scent of wood lingers, when a stray piece of bark finds its way into my paws, I remember. I remember the rush, the greed, the desperate, clawing need.
But I am learning. I am growing. I am more than my addiction.
I am Franzi.
And I am healing.
