Best 1307 quotes in «addiction quotes» category

I lived to be forgotten because I'd forgotten how to live

I look away from her. “I have felt like an old man my whole life. And they get to have fun and snort their fucking drugs and get wasted and it doesn’t matter who they’re hurting because they’re young and having fun and I’m a judgmental prick if I say anything.” “Do you think they’re having fun?” I don’t have an answer for her. “I’ll never be able to compete against it.” “Maybe you don’t understand how powerful it is,” she says. “How powerful is it?” “Very.” “And that’s an excuse?” “No.” “When do they get to take responsibility?” “For themselves?” she asks. “Yes.” “Always,” she says.

I loved books, even as I loved the similar way opium had of transporting a mind elsewhere

Il piacere della notifica dura il tempo della sua ricezione, poi ne servono altre e altre ancora, o ti senti più solo di prima.

I love like a beaten child and I trust like an addict.

I lost someone close to me once . . . Taught me to live in the moment. Life is short, you know?

I might have said you'll pay for the wild & reckless hour, pay in the currency of sweat and shiver, the future squandered, the course of years reconfigured, relinquishment so complete it's more utter than any falling in love. Falling instead in flames, burning tiles spiraling to litter the courtyards of countless places that will never be yours, the fingerprints, tossed gloves & glittering costumes, flared cornices & parapets, shattering panes, smoked out or streaked with embers, the tinder of spools, such a savage conflagration, stupid edge-game, the way junkies tempt death, over & over again, toy with it. I might have told you that. Everything you ever meant to be, pfft, out the window in sulphured matchlight, slow tinder & strike, possession purely ardent as worship & the scream working its way out of your bones, demolition of wall & strut within until you’re stark animal need. That is love, isn’t it? Everything you meant to be falls away so you dwell within a perfect singularity, a kind of saint.

Imagine trying to live without air. Now imagine something worse.

I'm not crying out for help, but I am sharing my experience in the hopes that readers will get something out of it. I'm not the one who gets to decide what that is, if anything. I'm just starting the "journey" if you will, so I can't possibly know yet what the "message" of my life really is. I only know what has happened so far, and how I've felt up until this moment. I agree that reading about the pain of others is concerning when they are still hurting and in the same situation as when they wrote about it. But what can you do? You can reach out, ask how you can help and be there to listen. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. You can't love someone who doesn't love themselves enough to take care of themselves and stay out of bad situations. Believe me, I know this.

Imperfect parenting does not cause addiction. If that were so, everyone would be one.

I’m remarrying you, Lil. Fuck, I’d remarry you a hundred times until it stuck.

In a very real way, attention is a drug. Like dope, attention makes people feel good by delivering a ‘’hit’’ of certain neurotransmitters (chemicals that transmit, or block the transmission of electrochemical currents) in the brain. Like anything that does this (viz., sex, risk-taking, power), in excessive amounts it’s addictive. And, simply because it works, nothing is as addictive as a pain killer. Hence Narcissus is well-named from the Greek word for narcosis. Attention is his pain killer.

In a way, being an addict is very proactive. A good addiction takes the guesswork out of death. There is such a thing as planning your getaway.

In a world of selfie-addiction smile usually is the brand name for an essential drug called pretense

In Christ alone there is deliverance from man’s tortured thoughts and freedom from the sordid habits which are destroying so many people. Why does the Bible so clearly denounce drunkenness? Because it is an enemy of human life. Anything that is against a person’s welfare, God is against.

I need a drink. Vodka is the only thing that makes everything go away. Vodka is that delightful, black, ink-out paint that stops everything hurting. Vodka gives me black, dreamless sleep. Like death...like beautiful suicide.

I must give due praise to the man who first extracted morphine from poppyheads. He was a true benefactor of mankind. The pain stopped seven minutes after the injection. Interesting: the pain passed over me in ceaseless waves, so that I had to gasp for breath, as though a red-hot crowbar were being thrust into my stomach and rotated. Four minutes after the injection I was able to distinguish the wave-like nature of the pain.

Imagine this: Ice is coming to YOUR house. Can you HEAR it knocking? Are you ready? What will YOU do?

In Houston, Texas, a man was born again in one of our meetings. He owned a liquor store. The next morning he had a sign on the front of his door saying, “Out of business.

In my view, compassion takes empathy to another level. With compassion, there is an internal calling to move empathy into action. Compassion is love in action.

In individuals who initially felt defected, bad or “low value,” the positive feelings gained from attention and approval can lead to a habit of seeking out similar experiences repetitively to an unhealthy degree

In our twenty first century social media world, people are so eager to have likes from friend on social media for what they do; their writings, images and videos but they are not so eager to have they like of God for what they do or refuse to do!

I never lie ― I am a blatantly truthful person about almost everything. My addiction (or disease as some call it) always lies. I have had very good relationships, but the addict in me always fucked them up. I fall in love quickly, it's a high that rivals drugs for a while. I am monogamous, but I always cheated with depression before the relationship fell apart. Addicts need best friends, healthy people need healthy relationships.

In people like us, the craving is as strong as the craving for food or water, the yearning for touch or light or love. I was looking for something--a diversion, an occupation, an unwavering force--that would elevate me, that would lift me out of the melancholy dissection of my own interior geography that otherwise would have consumed me pitilessly, as it had my father. I wanted to fly above myself-- if only for a few hours--and look down in tranquility upon my life.

Intensity-seeking is an enslavement of our own perpetuation. When we step out of the delirium of always seeking someone new, and meet the same old sad and lonely child within, our healing journey begins. Exhausting ourselves with novelty is a defense against our deepest pain, one that we cannot outrun. But once we stop and feel our losses, we can begin our healing journey and be the authentic, joyous person we were born to be.

In the addiction recovery community, we recognise that addicts can starve themselves of receiving social, sexual or emotional nourishment. Sex and love addicts starve themselves of a healthy, personal relationship and, consequently, deliberately avoid wholesome relationships with other human beings. We’re getting quite deep now, but there are many papers and books published on sexual and emotional anorexia. I have also suffered from emotional anorexia. It’s no myth!

In the beginning, the taste of power is sweet, savored on the tongue, like fine wine. It whispers promises in your ear and pretends to be your friend. It is easy to become addicted to this feeling.

In the grief that comes with recognizing what happened to us, we often feel there is nowhere to turn for solace…We do things to keep it away, such as becoming overly busy or using drugs or alcohol to numb our feelings. When we are caught up in resistance, we do not feel hope, but when we surrender to our sadness fully, hope trickles in.

In the soft light of morning, the sky outside turning light blue, my answer is always and still: “I’m fine.

In Soviet Russia, maybe we could only have cars all the same color, but at least our women weren't sluts and no one did any drugs, I think.

Instead of being a gift that separates us from the animals, free will has become my gaoler. Junkies are the ultimate outsider, not only are we outside of society: we are outside of nature. I spit, turn, and wander towards the beach. Heroin gave me wings but took away the sky.

In today's society, the cell phone has become a remote control. People do not leave their homes without it. With it, they navigate the world and this device turns into their guide to reality.

Introverts just just don't buzz as easily.

...introduced Doc to the miracle of morphine. From that very first shot it was as if he'd discovered the one vital ingredient that God had left out when He'd sent Doc kicking and screaming into the cold, cruel world.

In this cell you are small. They’ve taken your belt and your shoelaces. You break a little. You put your hands over your face so they don’t see. They don’t listen when you shout for water, Please. Your tongue is so dry it feels too big for your mouth. You don’t sleep. Someone behind the door shouts BASTARDS BASTARDS. You think you can see an old man crouched and watching you in that dark corner over there. You try and make spit to drink but you can’t. In the morning they give you half a plastic cup of warm water. Across your tongue they drag a cotton bud which they drop into a plastic bag with your name on it. They take your fingerprints, your photograph, and then when you get home, she tells you she’s pregnant.

I rubbed my eyes. They felt like they were coming loose. Soon they'd slip out of their sockets and I'd be left to wander blind and staggering this land of longing and ache. The things I would have done for a hit. If that asshole who'd kicked me out onto the side of the road had offered me some dope I would have sucked anything he wanted, would have pleaded on my knees topless, would have let him plunge a hand through my ribs and tear out my heart, anything.

. . . is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

I see you running all the time, running, always running. Stop running and look around, you might just find what you looking for. Don’t drown yourself trying to learn how to swim. Know when enough is enough. Don’t quit but take a break every now and then. It’s not necessary for you to have all the answers right now. It’s not necessary for you to know everything. All you are doing is developing an obsession, an addiction in trying to perfect yourself. You are hurting yourself with everything you are trying to know. Some times it’s best just to do nothing and to know nothing.

Isms’ are described as transference of addictive patterns of dysfunctional behaviour, passed down from generation to generation. For instance, if a mother was an alcoholic who never made it into recovery, her behaviour would leave a mark on her children, husband, etc. Unless her adult children join some sort of recovery programme and adopt the mindfulness practice, they will have very similar behaviour traits to their mother but minus the alcohol abuse. There is a strong possibility that they will become codependent and form relationships with other codependents or alcoholics.

I smoked my first pipe with Seth. I knew the stuff was bad, but I was so tired of being the cop, begging and ragging at him, throwing Pampers in his face when he walked in the door. I wanted to be on the same side again. So I smoked with Seth one afternoon when the girls were napping, and oh my God, I can only think about this for a minute or every part of me will turn into a mouth wanting more: the sexiness of it, fucking Seth like wild for the first time in months, going on even when the girls started to whimper and bang on the door. Then looking out the window and seeing the world shake itself to life: the heavy trees, the sky. And I was back on top. We were going to make it, Seth and I. The voice in my head was back again, telling me stories, too many to write down or even tell one from another.

Is it the smoke?' the boy said, shivering slightly. 'I've never touched the stuff, myself, but how it claws at one...like a thorn in every one of your fingers, and a string around your heart...and one fees it always. Nagging. Nagging.

I spent the rest of that day and most of the night thinking about all the hundreds of people I had met in rehabs and sober living houses and on the streets. We were all medicating our fears and our pain!

Issues are like tissues. You pull one out and another appears!

I recovered from recovering so no longer celebrate not doing bad things to defend myself as good. I added new bad for good measure.

Is that the ultimate need? To secure some agent to act as a salve, a bandage, a cover-up, concealer over the black eye, as opposed to facing the issue head on. Nobody wants to address the fist. We’d all much rather take something for the pain and make it all go away.

It almost never takes a pleasant state of mind to desire to be high or drunk.

I take opioids to treat chronic pain. Stigmatizing them will harm me.

I talk too much, but there's a lot unsaid. I've slept in a lot of beds.

I suspect it may be like the difference between a drinker and an alcoholic; the one merely reads books, the other needs books to make it through the day." (Interview with The Booklovers blog, September 2010)

It doesn't matter how much "they" want you to recover, if you don't want it, it's never going to happen.