Am I an addict?
It’s probably not the first time you’ve asked yourself this. The notion has been circling around in your head for a while now. It’s an itch that refuses to be scratched away.
Perhaps you've asked it after another weekend that got more out of hand than you intended. Or after making yourself yet another promise that somehow didn't last. Maybe someone close to you has suggested you’ve got a problem. Or perhaps nothing dramatic has happened at all. You just can't shake the feeling that something isn't quite right.
Recognising that you’re addicted rarely arrives with certainty. It tends to arrive with doubt. One part of you wonders whether you’ve got a problem, while another part can produce convincing explanations for why you haven't.
If that internal debate feels familiar, you're not alone. It's one of the reasons this question can be so difficult to answer. Because nobody is inclined to admit defeat easily. That they can't solve what seems like a simple problem: just stopping. And because there's so much shame and stigma attached to being an addict.
It can be an incredibly bitter pill to swallow.
So are you an addict? Maybe. Maybe not. I can’t give you an answer to the question sat here on the other side of the screen.
But keep reading, and by the end of the article you’ll understand addiction well enough to answer that question for yourself.
Why is this so hard to answer?
If addiction only affected what we did, recognising it would probably be much easier. We'd look at the evidence, reach a conclusion and decide what to do next.
The difficulty is that addiction doesn't just influence our behaviour. It also influences the way we think about our behaviour.
Our minds are remarkably good at finding explanations that allow us to carry on. Not because we're weak or dishonest, but because admitting we've lost control can feel terrifying. It means accepting that something we've always believed we could manage has gradually become something we can't.
Perhaps you recognise some of these thoughts.
I've stopped before.
It's only at weekends.
I'm not as bad as my mate.
Work's just been stressful.
Things will settle down after Christmas. After the holiday. After this project.
If it was really that bad, surely I'd know.
None of these explanations is necessarily untrue. You may well have stopped before. Work may genuinely have been stressful. You might only drink or use at weekends. That's precisely what makes them so convincing.
The problem isn't that they're lies. It's that they stop us asking more difficult questions. They reassure us that this time will be different, or that things aren't quite bad enough to worry about yet. They buy us a little more time before we have to face the possibility that something has changed.
Most of us also carry around an image of what an addict looks like. The person drinking from a bottle on a park bench. The heroin user with a needle in their arm. The person who's lost everything, who's sleeping rough, or whose life is visibly falling apart.
As long as that's our definition of addiction, it's remarkably easy to convince ourselves we don't have a problem. We compare ourselves with someone who's further along than we are and conclude, I'm nothing like that. We point to our job, our relationship, our mortgage, or the fact that we only use at weekends. We tell ourselves that because our life still looks functional from the outside, whatever is happening can't really be addiction.
If you find yourself having the same conversation with yourself over and over again, it's worth paying attention. Not because having doubts means you're addicted, but because the debate itself can become part of the reason the pattern continues.
The question isn't whether you can come up with a good explanation for why this keeps happening. Most of us can.
The more important question is whether those explanations are helping you change it.
So what actually is addiction?
There are countless books, papers and theories attempting to explain what addiction is. Some focus on biology. Others emphasise psychology, trauma, learning, or the environment we grow up in. Each offers a different lens through which to understand why some people develop addictions and others don't.
I don’t want or need to try to settle that debate here. Instead, I want to share the framework that has made the most sense to me, both through my own recovery and my work with hundreds of people struggling with addiction.
I see addiction as having three parts that come together to create the whole. I don't present them as scientific categories or medical diagnoses. They're simply one way of viewing an experience that can often feel confusing and contradictory.
A physical aspect helps explain why so many people find it incredibly difficult to stop once they've started.
A mental aspect helps explain why, despite every promise they've made to themselves, they keep returning to the very thing they said they wouldn't do.
And a third aspect, which I’ve heard many refer to as a “spiritual” one describes something quite different. It isn't about religion or belief in God. And I admit that as an atheist, I grapple with the word, but have yet to find another word that captures what I'm trying to describe. An emptiness inside. Always feeling a little on edge. An anger that can sometimes turn to rage. Dissatisfaction. Feeling alone, like you’re on the outside looking in. Uncomfortable. Immeasurable sadness. Hurting. It’s the answer to the question “why can’t I just stop?”. Because without the relief that drinking, using or acting out can bring, we're left to experience all of this. And sometimes it simply feels too much to bear.
It's about what gradually happens to our relationship with ourselves, other people and the world around us. Little by little, more and more of life begins to revolve around drinking, using or whatever behaviour has become addictive.
The drinking, drug use or compulsive behaviour is the part that's easiest to see. But it's only the visible expression of everything that's happening underneath.
So how do you know?
Most of us carry around an image of what an addict looks like.
One word.
Junkie.
The heroin user with track marks. The drunk swigging from a can on a park bench. The person who's lost everything, been arrested countless times, is sleeping rough, or whose life is visibly falling apart.
The trouble with that image is that it encourages us to ask the wrong question. Instead of asking, "What's happening in my relationship with alcohol or drugs?", we tell ourselves, "I’m not like them."
We get caught up looking for the differences and not the similarities.
But addiction isn't measured by how much you use, how often you use, or what you're using. It isn't measured by how much you've lost, or how much you still have. It isn't the difference between smoking crack in an alleyway and sipping vintage champagne while sniffing the finest Colombian cocaine.
It's measured by what happens when you start, and whether you can stay stopped once you've decided enough is enough.
That's the question I'd encourage you to keep in mind as you read through the following questions.
You probably won't answer "yes" to all of them. You don't need to. But if several feel uncomfortably familiar, it may be worth asking yourself whether your relationship with alcohol, drugs or another compulsive behaviour has changed in ways you've been finding difficult to acknowledge.
Do you ever drink or use alone?
Have you made promises to yourself about cutting down or stopping that you struggled to keep?
Have you found yourself making rules in an attempt to stay in control?
Do you avoid people or places that disapprove of your drinking or drug use?
Has your work ever suffered because of your drinking or using?
Have you ever lied about what or how much you drink or use?
Has it become harder to imagine relaxing, socialising or coping without it?
Do you rely on it to cope with stress, loneliness, anxiety, shame or other difficult feelings?
Has your drinking or drug use made life at home unhappy?
Do you continue drinking or using despite negative consequences?
Have you ever stopped for a while, only to find yourself gradually returning to the same pattern?
Do you sometimes wonder whether things have gone further than you'd like to admit?
What matters isn't how many questions you answered yes to.
What matters is the picture they paint, taken together, about your relationship with alcohol, drugs or another compulsive behaviour.
When I understood what the problem was...
I first thought I was maybe an addict when I was 20, as I was already experiencing consequences. So in order to somehow convince myself I didn’t have a problem, I switched to a different substance. And before long, I was back to square one. I was again making promises to myself, trying rules, bargaining, swearing that next time would be different. Sometimes it was. Often it wasn't.
Every time I failed, I explained or justified it away. And it became another piece of evidence that I simply wasn't enough. That there was something inherently “wrong” with me.
Above all, though, I think I was scared of stopping. I couldn’t imagine life without using. The fun it brought (though those times were becoming more and more seldom). The relief it gave me. The freedom it allowed me. I imagined a life without drugs as a long, grey, meaningless existence.
But then one day, it all finally came crumbling down, and I found myself on the precipice. Faced with the choice to carry on using, to lose the last remnants of hope I still carried, or to try something different—to stop trying to stop just by myself.
And when, at last, I did that, I learnt that I had the problem completely the wrong way round. The problem wasn't that I kept failing to control it.
The problem was that I was an addict.
That wasn't a moment of defeat. It was a moment of clarity.
And once I understood what the problem really was, I was finally able to step into a solution that, for me, really worked.
So what now?
Perhaps you've read this article and thought, "No. This isn't me."
If that's the case, then I'm glad. I hope you've found some reassurance, and perhaps a better understanding of what addiction actually is.
But perhaps you've identified with some of what you've read instead.
Maybe some of those questions made you uncomfortable. Maybe you've seen your own promises, your own bargaining, or your own attempts to control something that increasingly feels beyond your control. And perhaps you've realised that you've been asking yourself the same question for months, or even years.
If so, don't make the mistake I did and assume that things have to get worse before they're serious enough to do something about. They don't.
I don't believe in the idea that we all have a "rock bottom" we have to reach before asking for help. If rock bottom is bedrock—solid stone—then, ultimately, that's death. I've seen that happen too many times.
So, my friend, if you’re seeing yourself in what I’ve written, you have a choice. You can step off the elevator any time you want, just as I did. Things aren’t going to get any better if you keep doing what you’ve always been doing.
For me, saying the words “I’m an addict” out loud for the first time was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. There’s a lot of shame in it. I eventually realised that much of that shame hadn't started with me. It came from the way addiction is often talked about and the assumptions people make about those who struggle with it. And once I understood it wasn’t my shame, I could begin to let it go. Saying “I’m an addict” doesn’t define the totality of who I am. It’s part of who I am. And it helps remind me that I can’t use drugs or alcohol safely when those occasional thoughts of “Maybe I could…” drift through.
But whether you eventually decide the word addict or alcoholic describes you is, in many ways, less important than what you choose to do next. If alcohol, drugs or a compulsive behaviour are making your life smaller, causing you distress, or leaving you stuck in a cycle you've repeatedly failed to break, what do you want to do about it? If you've recognised yourself in these pages, perhaps that's the only decision you need to make today.
Recovery for me began because I stopped trying to solve the problem by myself and accepted that I needed help.
Written by Dan Lee
Therapist working with men and LGBTQ+ clients around addiction, shame, codependency and identity.
About Dan
And if and when you’re ready to accept some help, I’m here for you.