When life becomes too much, the mind and body look for relief.
When Coping Becomes Escape
Addiction rarely starts as rebellion or recklessness. More often, it begins as relief. Something hurts — an emotion, a memory, a sense of disconnection — and the mind finds a shortcut to quiet the noise. That shortcut can take many forms: alcohol, scrolling, sex, food, spending, even constant productivity.
For a while, it works. The edge softens, the body settles, and the world feels just a little more manageable. But when relief becomes routine, the system adapts — what once soothed now controls. The brain learns to chase the chemical calm, even when it costs more than it gives.
At a glance
- Addiction is often about relief, not rebellion — the body and mind trying to find safety.
- Compulsive habits can become the nervous system’s way of regulating pain or stress.
- Recovery begins with curiosity, not control — learning what the urge is protecting you from.
- Therapy helps reframe addiction as communication, not condemnation.
- Feeling again can be hard, but it’s where real connection and healing begin.
Addiction, in that sense, isn’t about weakness or willpower. It’s the nervous system’s attempt to regulate itself with the tools it has available. When there’s pain and no safe way to soothe it, the numbing agent becomes the surrogate comfort.
Addiction is often a love story with relief — a way of saying, ‘I can’t bear to feel this alone.
When we were children, we had a teddy bear that soothed and helped us regulate. Later in life, we replicate that — but with substances or activities.
The Science of Numbing
Every addictive process involves the brain’s reward circuitry — dopamine, endorphins, and the delicate balance of stress and pleasure. When someone uses or acts compulsively, these chemicals surge, creating a temporary sense of safety. For a trauma-affected or chronically stressed nervous system, that surge can feel like coming home.
Over time, though, the baseline shifts. The brain starts to expect the artificial boost, and natural regulation becomes harder. What once felt like choice now feels like survival. This is why “just stopping” rarely works — it ignores the emotional function the behaviour served.
Therapy, at its best, doesn’t strip away coping mechanisms straight away. It starts by understanding why they’re there. The question isn’t “why the addiction?” but “why the pain?”
Impulse, Pattern, and Control
Not every impulse becomes an addiction, but many share the same wiring. Impulsions are the sparks — the restless itch, the sudden craving, the need to do something now. In neurodivergent minds, this can be heightened: dopamine-seeking, novelty-chasing, or acting quickly to discharge overwhelm.
When those sparks meet distress or emptiness, they can become cycles. The more we try to control them, the stronger they can feel. The trick isn’t suppression; it’s curiosity. What’s the urge trying to protect me from? What would it feel like to pause before I answer it?
That pause doesn’t have to be long — even a breath or two can start to change the pattern. In that space, the nervous system begins to learn that safety can come from awareness, not avoidance.
Finding Relief Without the Collapse
Recovery — in its broadest sense — is about rebuilding trust with the self. It’s learning that feelings can be tolerated and survived, that numbness isn’t the only refuge.
Sometimes, that begins with tiny acts: naming emotions, grounding, regulating breathing, or simply acknowledging, “I want to escape right now.” Awareness isn’t cure, but it’s control reclaimed inch by inch.
In therapy, this looks like creating safety before change. No one needs to be shamed out of their coping mechanisms; they need to be met where those mechanisms began — in pain, not pathology.
The goal isn’t perfection, or even abstinence for everyone. It’s integrity: being able to recognise what’s happening and choose, rather than react.
Reclaiming the Right to Feel
To numb is to say, “I can’t cope with this.” To heal is to learn, “I don’t have to face it alone.”
Addiction and impulsions are not the full story — they’re a language. They speak of needs unmet, pain unspoken, and the very human wish for relief. When that message is finally heard, the need to drown it out slowly fades.
Feeling again can hurt. But it also means being alive, connected, and capable of joy that isn’t borrowed or brief. That’s where recovery begins — not with control, but with compassion.
