Addiction

Addiction: The Substance is Not the Root, It’s the Mask

Addiction isn’t about the drink—it’s about the ache it numbs. It’s not the bottle or the reckless choices; it’s the silence that follows, the emptiness you’ve been desperately trying to escape.

For me, it’s been the drink. A liquid balm to dull the sharp edges of memories and regrets. But addiction isn’t really about the substance. It’s about the ghosts you can’t lay to rest—the shame, the self-loathing, the gut-wrenching grief of knowing you’ve let down the people who mattered most. It’s about trying to quiet the storm in your head when it becomes deafening, even in the stillness of night.

Addiction isn’t loud. It’s not screaming in your face. It’s a whisper—a persistent murmur that convinces you the next drink, the next hit, the next escape will fix it all. But it doesn’t. It just pushes the pain deeper, further out of reach.


The Emotional Root of Addiction

At its core, addiction isn’t about a love for the drink; it’s about a desperation to escape yourself.

  • Self-Hate: When you can’t stand your reflection, you look for anything to blur the edges.
  • Anger: Anger at yourself, the world, the hand you’ve been dealt—and nowhere to put it but into another round.
  • Fear: Fear of being seen for who you really are. Fear that maybe you’ll never measure up.
  • Loneliness: And then there’s loneliness. The kind that sits heavy on your chest and whispers in the quiet hours of the night that no one really cares.

I see it most in the silence between me and my daughter, Ffion. She’s my world, my reason to keep going, but every drink I’ve taken is a brick in the wall between us. I miss her so much—her laugh, her curiosity, the way she used to look at me with trust in her eyes. Yet every sip seems to pull me further away from being the father she deserves.

There was a time when she would grab my hand without hesitation, look up at me, and smile. Now, I wonder if she hesitates before reaching out. I wonder if she’s afraid I’ll let her down again.

Loneliness isn’t just about being physically alone; it’s about the empty space between who you are and who you wish you could be. That gap? It’s unbearable without something to dull the sharp edges.


Addressing the Root, Not the Mask

You can take the drink away from an addict, but if you don’t deal with the wound underneath, it’ll just find another way to bleed.

1. Awareness and Acceptance

I’ve had to face it head-on. The drink isn’t the enemy—it’s the crutch. And crutches only work until they snap under the weight of your problems. I had to sit with myself and admit: It’s not about the alcohol; it’s about me.

There’s no healing without honesty. No shortcuts. You have to stand in front of the mirror, look yourself in the eye, and own every scar, every mistake, and every moment you turn away from the people who needed you most.

2. Reframing Belief Systems

Why do I drink? What am I trying to numb? Would Ffion recognize the man I am now? Would she even want to?

The truth is, the drink doesn’t love me back. It doesn’t heal me. It doesn’t fill the spaces where her voice used to be.

These are the questions I have to ask myself every day:

  • What emotional pain am I masking?
  • What belief keeps me reaching for that bottle?
  • Who could I become if I stopped?
  • How do I earn my way back to her trust?

3. Emotional Release

I’ve tried meditation and some days it works. On other days, I’m just a bloke sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying not to cry.

Reiki, mindfulness—all these things are tools in a toolbox I’m still learning how to use. They don’t solve everything, but they remind me that healing isn’t a straight line. It’s a messy, painful spiral. I remember one evening, sitting on the floor after a long day, eyes closed, trying to focus on my breathing. For a few fleeting minutes, the weight of everything lifted, and I felt… still. It wasn’t a grand revelation, but it was a moment of peace—a reminder that even in the chaos, stillness is possible if I make space for it.

Sometimes, stillness feels like holding your breath underwater. But even that brief pause matters.

4. Building New Patterns

I go swimming in the river sometimes. Cold water, shock to the system. It clears the fog for a while, and I feel—what’s the word? Present. Alive.

Exercise helps. So does writing. But it’s not magic, and it’s not easy.

Replacing destructive habits with healthier ones isn’t glamorous. No one cheers you on when you decide to go for a run instead of pouring a drink. But every small choice adds up.

5. Visualisation

I try to picture it sometimes. Me and Ffion. Sitting together, talking like none of this ever happened. Like I never let her down.

It’s a fragile image, but it keeps me going. Sometimes, it feels close enough to touch.


The Role of Support Systems

Addiction thrives in isolation. It convinces you that no one understands. But connection—real, vulnerable connection—is the antidote.

For me, it’s been moments with people who aren’t afraid to sit with me in the discomfort, who don’t try to fix me but just listen. Healing doesn’t happen in solitude—it happens in shared moments of honesty and trust.


A Thought to Hold Onto

The drink isn’t the solution; it’s the delay button. Every day you choose to face it instead of numbing it, you take one step closer to healing.

If you stumble, get back up. You’re worth it. I’m worth it. And we all deserve a chance to come home to ourselves.

One day at a time isn’t just a saying—it’s the only way forward.

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