All Wound Up (8 page)

I’m staring out the window plotting my route and feeling twitchy, when Joe asks me what’s on my mind. I say it’s nothing again, because I’m still trying to avoid looking crazy, and besides, I don’t want to tip him off if I decide to go with the running thing. My youngest daughter, Samantha, who’s always been the sort to notice things, has figured it out, though, and she spills the beans. “Mum forgot her knitting,” she drawls, and I can tell that she’s relishing the moment. “That’s what it is. Mum forgot her knitting, and now she’s twitching and thinking about going to get it. She can’t get through a dinner without her knitting. She’s not going to make it.” Sam pauses here for effect, and I feel the urge to defend myself, but really I’ve been sitting there thinking the same thing. I did forget my knitting. I am freaking out. I am thinking about it and wondering what I’m supposed to do for the twenty minutes in between ordering and when the food arrives. The kid has a point. Sam peers at me over her menu and smirks. “You’re addicted,” she says. “You’re a knitting junkie.”

The family erupts into laughter, and they all begin to share stories about me for which my knitting friends would absolutely come to my defense. The time Mum couldn’t knit because her finger was hurt, and she cleaned the whole bathroom with a toothbrush. The time that Mum ran out of yarn mid-hat and tried to make it to the store before it closed and fell down running. Running. For yarn. They whoop and roar, and while they do I’m thinking three things. First, none of these people are getting handknit bloody anything for Christmas. Second, that I really, really wish I had my knitting, because it’s usually what keeps me from saying things I might regret later. Finally—and I guess this is the most important point—can knitting really be addictive? Am I a yarn junkie?

I make it through the dinner without going to get my knitting. It was clear to me that everyone thought that to sprint out the door, run three blocks to our house, grab my little sock off of the counter, and run back would be crazy. I read the look on their faces and could see that’s what they thought. I even could see that there was nobody else knitting in the restaurant, so obviously it was both normal and possible to get through a meal without knitting, but that’s not how it felt. I squirmed. I fidgeted. I thought about my knitting and how to get it the whole time. I was distracted and worried, and I wasn’t just worried about how to get through a meal without my knitting; I was worried about other possibilities. What if, for example, on the way home there’s a traffic jam or some kind of obstruction? Something that hauls us up or means we have to wait in the street. What if when we get back to our house, there’s been a gas leak in the neighborhood and we can’t go inside our house? What if we have to spend seven hours sitting on the curb waiting to be allowed back in? I can’t do seven hours of waiting without knitting. I’ll start to bother people or eat rocks or… As I sit there slightly sweaty, and definitely out of sorts, I wonder again.

Is this addiction? Can knitting truly be addictive? Are we all hooked on yarn and strung out on circulars? Couldn’t stop if we wanted too? I’ve never met anyone who has told me that they are a recovering knitter, fresh out of twelve weeks of rehab, having almost lost their families, jobs, or happiness due to an unhealthy relationship with merino that they couldn’t control; I do know lots of knitters who would be happy to tell you that they’re uncomfortable and unhappy when they can’t have their knitting. I know, too, that it’s not like knitting is a hallucinogen or a straight-up psychoactive drug, but I tell you this: Knitting and yarn are absolutely mood-altering substances, and if you don’t say so, you’re lying. We wouldn’t do it if it didn’t have an effect. Some days, ten minutes with my knitting can save the lives of the humans who surround me, and it gives me the ability to cope with things I find difficult, such as waiting, or listening to people talk about shopping for pants. (It occurs to me that the last argument I’m making there is the same argument I once heard someone give as the reason it took two liters of wine a day to get through life, but let’s set that aside for the moment.)

When I get home (no gas leak—my knitting and I are quickly reunited) I make some notes, and the next morning finds me at the reference library, looking for the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders
^*
, or DSM-IV, which is the American Psychiatric Association’s book that defines all sorts of mental illness and disorders. I flip through the pages looking for addiction, substance abuse, dependency, all the keywords.I find out that “substance dependence” (which seems about right for someone who wigged when she couldn’t get her yarn) is defined as an individual showing any three or more specific criteria within a year. I slump down in the stacks, book wide open, and start to read the list.

“Uh-oh” is my first thought. I reread the sentence, substituting “knitting” and “yarn” for “the substance.” A need for markedly increased amounts of yarn? A diminished effect with the same amount of knitting? The sparks of concern are lit within me. If this were a quiz, most knitters I know would have to tick off that box. How much more yarn do I have now than I used to? How much more complex does the knitting have to be before it turns my crank? Admittedly I do still “use” garter and stockinette stitch, but ten years ago I didn’t need a hit of lace to get through the weekend. Not a good sign—not to mention the fact that I’m more tolerant of what it costs. Used to be that if a skein of yarn was $20 I thought it was ridiculous. Now I’m all like “$20? What’s the yardage?” I sigh. That’s one.

At first glance, I think I might get away on this one. It’s not like knitters coming off of the good stuff get the shakes or are at risk of a seizure. We’re just sort of antsy, obnoxious, weird, and fidgety, which, truth be told, isn’t really withdrawal. At least in my case, it’s the actual personality that I have without knitting. I knit because I’m not patient, because I can’t wait well, because I’m fidgety, and it’s not like that’s characteristic. Most knitters who aren’t knitting are just themselves, no matter who that is, for better or for worse; all different, just bored. I’m about to move on to the next criterion when I realize that it says “either” (a) or (b) could apply, and I realize that I’m hosed. Almost all knitters I know are going to substitute a closely related substance if they can’t get what they usually use. If I couldn’t get wool, I would use acrylic before I quit, and the two times in my life that I’ve had an injury that kept me from knitting? I broke out the crochet hook, and I don’t even really like to crochet. Reluctantly, I mentally tick off this box too.

I only have one thing to say to that. Shut up. I always meant to have this much yarn, and for the record, I was planning the whole time to stay up that late knitting, and “just one more row” is simply a turn of phrase. Also, everybody has this many projects at once, and yarn in the freezer is normal. It keeps it safe from moths. Pass me my sock and get off my back.

Thankfully, I don’t have to tick this box. Sure, I’ve de-stashed when things got a little wild, and there are times when the yarn budget has to be reined in, but that’s just life, not addiction. It’s not like I’m walking around saying, “Man, the hangover from last night’s scarf is killing me. I can’t tie one on with mittens tonight; I’ve got to cut back.” Well, at least it’s not like I’m saying it
that
much. (There have been a few incidents around the holidays, but everyone tends to overindulge then.) The same is true of yarn diets. There have been times when I’m choking the wool money, but that’s the same as not buying much of anything when you’re broke, and that’s always successful. I’ve never told my kids that we’re eating a single can of discount peas for dinner because Mummy blew the budget on merino, and what’s more, I can honestly say that I have no desire—absolutely none—to cut back or control my knitting. As a matter of fact, I’d say I’ve got a persistent desire and I’ve made continuously unsuccessful efforts to increase my knitting and yarn use. I’m sure that these addiction book-writing people would just say something about needing to admit I have a problem, but screw it. I’m still going to work and cooking for my family; nobody who lives in my house is sharing a bed with a sibling because their room is full of yarn; and I say there’s no problem to admit to.

As much as I was developing a righteous head of steam on that last one, number five is a problem. There are three yarn shops in town where they know me on sight, and at one of them I’ve lobbied to have a cubby to keep my things in, given how much time I’m there. I’d say that counts as spending a lot of time obtaining the substance, and we haven’t even talked about how I go to knitting retreats, run knitting conferences, write and teach about knitting, and have, on more than one occasion, driven across many hundreds of miles to go to a sheep and wool festival for no other purpose than to “obtain the substance.” Is that wrong? Is that addiction, or am I just really interested? I wonder, as I stare at the criteria on the page, what it means that every knitter I know spends tons of time obtaining the substance, and still tries to obtain more when they already have more than they can use. I try to relate it to an addict wandering the street looking for just a little to take the edge off, and realize that we’re a different beast—sort of. A junkie is all about getting and using, and when that’s used you need to get more. A knitter is all about getting and using, but not necessarily in that order, and there’s a certain pleasure in having the substance with you without using it that (and I’m only guessing here) doesn’t really seem to be the way it works with cocaine. With that thought, I resist the urge to check the DSM index for the criteria for hoarding, and move on.

At first I think this one’s okay too. For the most part, I haven’t given up or reduced going to work or play because of knitting. As a matter of fact, it looks to me like my substance use increases my important social, occupational, and recreational activities. I go to a regular Knit Night and almost all my friends are knitters. That’s social. I’m a writer who writes about knitting. That’s occupational. And for recreation I, um… I knit. I’ve never quit a job to stay home and knit, although I know someone who called in sick because she was on a hat deadline. Actually, I know lots of knitters who’ve called in sick to knit, but that’s not addiction—that’s just the month before Christmas. It’s not like they did it so much that they got fired or anything, so that’s reasonable. I know regular people who’ve called in sick and gone to the movies… although I also know knitters who have declined to go to the movies with that person because it’s too dark to knit there. (Personally, I have mostly solved this by taking plain stockinette socks to the movies. I only have to stay home and knit if I’m at the heel, and that seems normal.) As for declining social events, I don’t think the lot of us should be condemned because we’d rather stay home and knit than go to some party, and really, it’s not our fault that society is so backward that you feel you shouldn’t knit at parties. I understand that staying home to knit is perceived as anti-social, but it’s not, really. A lot more of us would take part in social activities if we could use our substance while we were there… and with that rationalization, I tick the mental box for that one.

I stop and review for a second, sitting there with the book open on my lap. I run my finger down its pages, counting the criteria that I’ve said yes to. Five. I’ve ticked off five, although I really resent number six (it’s a coincidence that my whole life is knitting), so let’s say it’s four. Four is not good, since I only needed three in a year to qualify as substance dependent, which I had suspected but don’t really want to hear. I admit that I’m sort of dependent on knitting, but I do like to think that it’s the way that some people are dependent on reading, walking, taking long baths, playing hockey, or breeding small dogs. Everybody has a thing, and just because you would never want to stop doing that thing doesn’t mean that you couldn’t do without that thing. I can’t imagine a life without being a knitter, but if something happened and I wasn’t anymore, I’m sure I’d live. (I’m not sure what that existence would look like, but I guess I could try getting a small dog.) There’s a missing connection here. How is it that I can tick off all these boxes but remain completely unconvinced that it applies to me? Is it just denial? I know that a lot of my behavior spells addiction or dependence and that if these criteria are all there are to it, knitters, rather collectively, are sunk. Rather dejectedly, I scan the last item on the list.