Psst! Have you heard...?

I realized I was addicted to gossiping, so I quit. But after four months, my friends think I'm a narcissistic bore -- and all I want to do is dish some dirt.

By Lucy Silag

Read more: Friendship, Rumors, Addiction, Life

Sept. 3, 2007 | There is a moment -- well, one hopes -- in every addict's life in which the addict sees the path he or she is headed down and prays to a higher power to help him or her change. Of course, this prayer might go unanswered, or circumstances might get in the way.

For me, the moment came on a Thursday in late May; I don't think I'll ever be able to forget it. I was sweating with anxiety, staring at my flushed face in the reflection of the subway car window. I had to stop gossiping. At least until Labor Day. It was ruining my life.

The day leading up to that moment had been like any other day. Just before I left work, I found myself parroting back to a group of co-workers a story of little significance that one of our higher-ups had shared with me. The effect was one I knew well: lowered voices, elevated heart rates, widened eyes and heads shaking in disbelief. There was no reason for me to have repeated what our boss said, and if she had found out that I had told, she likely would not have cared. Still, I felt the familiar rush that accompanies shared speculation, and got swept up in it.

But I can't tell you what I told my co-workers that evening because I don't gossip anymore.

Well, OK -- I do gossip. But now I just feel horrendously guilty about it.

Why the sudden change of heart? I've been gossiping since before I could form coherent sentences. When I was growing up, both of my parents taught me that gossiping is good for you, that it makes you feel like part of a community, and less lonely, even if what you are doing is pointing out how alienating other people are. As a result, I gossip incessantly about friends, family and co-workers. I gossip about politicians, people I've never met, people I haven't spoken to since high school or elementary school, even strangers on the street. I have gossiped about my priest. I even gossip about my dog, who is fortunately deaf and can't hear it when I tell people how much weight she gained this winter. After a trip to a restaurant with friends, I've caught myself sounding like a columnist for the New York Post: "Doug had braised short ribs, while I had the chipotle beef skewers. Julia, however, must be on a liquid diet -- she ordered only vodka sodas at the table." I come home from social engagements with a sore throat -- talking for three hours straight will do that to you. If there has been one constant in my life, it is that if I live to tell the tale, I will indeed tell the tale.

But on that fateful almost-summer evening, the euphoria of gossiping suddenly morphed into something desperate and gawky, a shame that I was determined never to feel again. I thought: If I can't talk about other people -- their failures and triumphs, heartaches and achievements -- I have nothing to say. What does that make me?

When I gave up, I gave up cold turkey, and of course that was my first mistake. Not only could I not offer gossip, I could also not ask leading questions to try to draw gossip into the conversation. (Full of conviction, I actually told people that they could punch me in the arm if they caught me doing either of these things.) When someone offered unsolicited gossip (God bless that person) I would offer up my arm for the punch if I accidentally raised my eyebrows or made a gagging noise in response to the gossip.

Over the next few weeks, I encountered countless challenges. For one, I learned that two of my co-workers had been secretly dating each other -- for five months! Then, my boss became pregnant. When people asked me questions about it, I nearly cried.

My two best friends, who'd been recently out of touch, inquired about each other over e-mail. "How is she?" one wrote. "You'll have to ask her that," I stiffly replied. "What's going on with her?" the other wondered. "I really can't say," I answered -- though I really could, and was dying to!

Next page: Which is worse: To be boring or to be catty?