I grew up with addiction. My father was an alcoholic—brilliant, complex, deeply flawed. He didn’t just drink; he unravelled. And in the process, he unravelled others. My mother. His siblings. His children. But mostly, himself. He was an intelligent man who became something of a cautionary tale: how talent can wither under the weight of addiction.

My family feared I would follow in his footsteps. That the bottle would become my comfort too. But I stayed away. I didn’t touch alcohol until my late thirties, and even then, only socially, at a club or an occasion. I don’t like the taste. I don’t like the heaviness in my head. I don’t like the feeling of losing control. I found other things that gave me a high—music, dance, art, movement, silence. I didn’t need a drink. Or so I thought.

But lately, I’ve been asking myself: does addiction have to look like a bottle?

I’ve spent hours on my PS5. Not minutes. Hours. I get neck pain, shoulder aches, stiff fingers. But I can’t stop. Not when I’m in it. It calms my anxiety. It silences the noise in my head. I disappear into it. Just like I used to disappear into drawing. Or writing. Or love. Intense, obsessive, all-consuming love. I don’t do things lightly. I either devour or avoid.

It makes me wonder—does addiction always have to be substance-based? Or can it be a pattern of seeking refuge? A hunger to escape, to feel something more—or feel nothing at all?

Science says that addiction is not just about substances—it’s also about behaviour. Gambling, gaming, sex, even food and love can activate the same reward circuits in the brain that alcohol or narcotics do. The dopamine hits, the compulsion, the repetition—it’s all there. Genetics play a part, yes, but so does trauma. And childhood trauma, especially in cases of parental addiction or abuse, is strongly linked to addictive tendencies later in life. Not always the same addiction. But the same ache.

Being a Gemini, I do move on. These phases pass. But when I’m in them, they feel endless. I get completely immersed, and sometimes that immersion costs me—relationships, sleep, health, time. It’s hard to tell where passion ends and compulsion begins.

I don’t know if I inherited addiction. But I know I inherited pain. I know I carry anxiety that feels older than me. And maybe this need to run, to dive headfirst into something, anything, is part of it.

When I find myself vanishing into something, I’ve started asking: Is this a passion? Or a hiding place?

Not everything that feels good is good for me. And not everything I inherited has to be my fate.

I can break patterns. I can stay conscious. I can love without losing myself.

Because healing, too, can be obsessive. And maybe that’s the one addiction I’ll allow.