Hey, it’s Matt with The Addiction Newsletter.

Here’s what’s inside today:

Let’s get started.

If you want some extra accountability from me, feel free to reply this newsletter with how many days it has been.

I read every single reply and do my best to reply to them. I am always here for you.

(Example: “Hey Matt, it’s been 33 days since I have used X”)

Days Since Last Use: 339

Thought: This morning I woke up before my alarm and didn’t feel the need to escape my own head. For so long, mornings meant regret and heaviness. I used to reach for something to quiet the noise before the day even began. But today, the quiet didn’t scare me. I made coffee, sat by the window, and just watched the light move across the floor. Nothing special happened. And yet, everything did. Because peace doesn’t arrive with fireworks. It shows up quietly, when you finally stop trying to fix what was never broken you.

No one tells you that addiction does not begin with weakness. It begins with hope. You pick something up because you think it will help. You think it will make life a little softer, the pain a little quieter. It promises comfort, focus, courage. And for a while, it seems to deliver. The stress eases, the edges blur, and you feel almost safe. That first sense of relief feels like an answer. You think, finally, I have found something that works.

But what it gives in the beginning, it takes away in the end. Slowly, quietly, without warning. You do not notice it happening because it does not announce itself. It steals in small pieces. A little peace. A little patience. A little self-trust. One day you wake up and realize you have built your whole life around something that never cared for you.

Alan Carr often says the illusion of addiction is that it offers pleasure or protection. The truth is that it only removes discomfort for a moment the same discomfort it created. You think it helps you relax, but it only helps you escape the tension it caused. You think it lifts your mood, but it only lifts the sadness it planted. It is a mirror that shows you a version of yourself that looks alive, while the real you slowly fades from view.

You keep returning to that mirror because it tells you what you want to believe. It tells you that you are in control. It tells you that this time will be different. You see a smile that is not yours, and you cling to it because the alternative feels too painful. You convince yourself that what you see is truth, even though deep down you feel the lie.

The most dangerous part is not the substance or the habit itself. It is the belief that you need it. That belief is what keeps you looking into the mirror. That belief tells you that without it, life will be cold, dull, unbearable. And so you stay, even as it hurts you. You stay because the mirror tells you the burn is warmth.

But one day, something changes. Maybe it is small. Maybe it is the way your body trembles, or how tired your mind feels, or how someone you love looks at you with quiet worry. You catch a glimpse not of the illusion, but of the truth behind it. You see yourself, fragile and real. You see the cost of the comfort you bought.

That moment of clarity is not weakness. It is awakening. The mirror begins to crack. You realize that what you called control was dependence. What you called calm was numbness. What you called need was fear. You do not have to fight the mirror or smash it in anger. You only have to stop looking.

Step away. At first, you will not know where to rest your eyes. The world may seem sharp, cold, unkind. You will want to turn back to the reflection that used to comfort you. But stay with the real world. Let the silence stretch. Let the light sting a little.

Soon, the world will soften again not because you escaped it, but because you rejoined it. You will find warmth that does not burn and peace that does not fade. You will learn that you never needed the mirror to see yourself clearly.

You were never broken. The reflection was.

If you find yourself wanting the thing that once hurt you, pause before you reach for it. You’re not wanting it. You’re wanting the peace you imagined it gave you. You’re remembering the calm before the chaos, not the storm itself. Your mind is selective. It paints over the nights you couldn’t sleep, the words that made you small, the effort it took to stay. It keeps the softness and hides the truth. But you can’t heal by touching the wound again. The comfort you miss wasn’t real. It was borrowed warmth. The real thing doesn’t leave burns when it’s gone.

Here is the win of the day for one of our readers. I will keep most of the information anonymous:

"This morning, I woke up heavy. The kind of sadness that used to send me reaching for old comforts. Instead, I sat with it. I let the feeling exist without fixing it. I made coffee, played music, and kept breathing. By the time the mug was empty, the heaviness had softened. I realized I don’t need to escape every hard moment. I just need to stay through it. That felt like progress."

(Note: If you have a win, no matter how large or how small, reply to this email and I’ll include it in the future.)

I refer thousands of people every month to detox and treatment centers across the United States. Depending on if you have insurance and what type, a lot of the time you can get treatment completely free. If not, it does cost money unfortunately.

If you’d like to use this free service, click below.

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Disclaimer

This newsletter is for educational and motivational purposes only. It is not medical advice or a substitute for professional treatment. If you’re in crisis or need immediate help, please contact your local emergency services or the SAMHSA helpline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357)