People who hate get off on the brain chemicals of hate. They are addicts. They find groups to hate and encourage others to do the same. That they have no clue that they are addicts or that their brains are making up stories to justify and accelerate their addictions. The haters believe their own bullshit and look for "evidence" to support it. This results in a binary world where truth and love become ever more elusive.


When the pain comes my brain makes a million excused to cave in, and I only need one. My thoughts are as a brilliant rat in a very bad maze, for it's just too easy to solve. Then I'm there, at my addiction, awaiting a new fix, praying I can survive this "cure" for the never ending search for comfort.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, February 11, 2019.

"Dale, I don't give a crap about the medical establishment; all they do is shine the shoes of big pharma with the sorrow of their patients. Addictions are the need for intensity of feelings, so that's the drug they need, real natural joy. Life in this sterile dystopia is like feeding an infant watered down milk, who can thrive on that? We're gonna helped addicts to find intense feelings in healthy ways - by being truly present in the moment with a natural healthy passion. We're gonna get to know them, help them to get to know themselves, then once they find their passion we just stand back. If we get it right, they'll be addicted to life, addicted to helping others and addicted to shining like the god damn stars they were born to be."


I have a master. He controls every inch of me, my body, soul and mind. I have to visit him a few times a day, otherwise I fear I'll go insane. It hurts to be away for too long, I start to feel weak, my body aches and I struggle to act rationally. When I finally see him, everything seems whole, the world is whimsical and perfect. He is all I need, all I could ever want. He is perfect.

He shows no mercy, it only takes a few careless encounters and then you fall for him. He becomes your everything, you will do anything to get to him; lie, steal, cheat. He changes you into somebody that would sicken most people, but you can't help but love him for it. Love the energy and happiness he brings.

I'm not the only one that visits him, there are others like me too.

By ash, September 7, 2013.


It’s in his eyes, I can see
He simply can’t hide or mask a disguise
Not from me
He went someplace he shouldn’t be
He wouldn’t go, he promised me
He cannot look, not straight at me
I wonder
This time, what could it be?
Is it me, or was it she
Not again, not possibly

I fear but I hope
He did not return, not to dope
That destructive white substance call coke
Whatever it is
It’s taken over his soul
Made him high
He came home ugly
Heart black as coal

He constantly lies
He’s ruining our lives
A sick joke
He thinks I don’t know, I can’t tell
But I’m not going through this hell
Not with him
No, not again

He needs help
Away from his friends
Bad influence
Release your hold on him
It’s a fight but one he must win
They ain’t got nothing you can’t resist
You must persist
Set your eyes on me
My love will set you free
Why can’t you be addicted to me?

Written by: Charmaine Wallace

By charmaine, November 9, 2014.

His addiction was such that he cared for nothing else. Everything he had once held dear fell by the wayside, his family, his friends, his career. He would lie, cheat and steal for it. He became someone else, someone I once loved but now feared. They say to love the addict and hate the addiction. But I'm ashamed to say that all I love is the memory of who he was. This addict he is now is like a demon wearing his skin, talking with his voice, crushing my soul. He manipulates me and wheedles into my affections then without conscience he deceives me and extinguishes the hope he had tentatively built up in me. Sometimes, on my blackest days, I wonder what I would feel if the police came to tell me he was dead. And I really don't know. I guess I should pray I don't find out.

By neeta, November 4, 2013.

I once asked him to describe his addiction. He looked at me with those dead eyes and said "Imagine a rat gnawing on your living flesh. Now imagine you had a magic stick to poke that rat away with in your hand, and if you poked that rat you would be filled with the most glorious feeling of contentment and warmth. Imagine using that stick would bring you to a level of happiness you had never achieved before, a personal nirvana that you never wanted to leave. Now imagine you are told not to use that stick and to let the rat keep on gnawing. That's my addiction, that's why all these therapies and groups will never work. You can detox me all you want but that rat is going to come back one day and when it does I'm going to be reaching for my magic stick. Nothing will stop me.

By neeta, November 4, 2013.

I move for more despite my brain protesting, as if my actions have become severed from my thoughts. My hands move the prepare the dose while, with the battle lost, I begin to create reasons for the behaviour being alright: "It's just one more, I'll do better tomorrow, I deserve it because..." I'd never thought of it as an addiction before I tried to stop. I won the first round, isn't the resolve always strongest then? The slide backwards was just small "rewards" at first, but they grew back into a habit thicker than it was before. I used to joke about it, saying "I'm a sugar addict," but they say its as addictive as heroine. I can believe that. And its only one of my addictions, without caffeine my head pounds fit to crack. I could fight it of course, but isn't it easier to have a coffee and a cookie?


Since I hate me, I might as well hate you too. Since I don't give myself respect, you can whistle for it, or go jump, I don't care which. Everything is black or white, but never right or wrong; you are either a person to facilitate my next fix or someone in my way. Property is something that can be sold and traded, simply another form of money, winner takes all, taker wins. Theft is an idea for middle class saps with jobs; the poor steal and the rich rob everyone blind. Love is for losers. Life between each high is a nightmare of frenetic activity, but every hit is a jackpot win.


They say I'm an addict but all I see are conformist robots. All they do is follow predetermined rules: go from A to B, eat the pop tart, pay taxes, smile at the cashier. They aren't even alive.

Doctors and social workers talk at me with sterile voices, leaning in with well crafted professional caring, before going home to self medicate with television and junk food.


Addiction is my nemesis and my closest friend. My higher brain applies logical thought, as if that could make a difference, and then avoids the sharp pain of failure by backtracking and granting excuses for the slip. My primal brain doesn't care, it feels the screaming of my body chemistry for more and takes over to "preserve my health." There's no way to educate that part of my brain that I've been poisoning myself and the chemicals it craves aren't anything to do with survival. So it's me against millions of years of evolution and you can guess who's losing.


I know it’s an addiction. Everyone tells me. But it’s to painful to let go of. It’s always there for me when nothing else is. It makes my brain feel happy again. And I feel so bad to just let go because it’s like my best friend. What’s my addiction you ask? Well it’s...

By charliewrites, May 30, 2019.