Read Online All Wound Up by Stephanie Pearl–McPhee - Free Book Online

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.
    (1) Tolerance, as defined by either of the following:
    (a) A need for markedly increased amounts of the substance to achieve intoxication or desired effect.
    (b) Markedly diminished effect with