Quotes About Addiction

The chains of habit are too light to be felt until they are too heavy to be broken.

Cos a cop asking a guy for a discount on his crack, that's screwed up. Sign of the goddamn apocalypse is what it is.

look back at those huge obstacles—such as illness, accidents, addiction, financial loss, children's struggles, and divorce—and see in retrospect that they were actually gifts disguised as problems.

The current antidote for rural despair, he thought, crack cocaine and liquor.

Why were drunks, almost always, persons of talent, personality, lovable qualities, gifts, brains, assets of all kinds (else why would anyone care?); why were so many brilliant men alcoholic?

The alcoholic, to get liquor, will do everything that the drug-addict will do to get drugs, everything but one: and that is murder. Cut off from drink, he'll lie to get it, beg, plead, wheedle, borrow, steal, rob—all the crimes in the catalogue. But he won't kill for it. That's the difference between the drunk and the drug-addict. But the only one.

If he wanted to drink himself to death it was nobody's affair but his own; his life was his life to throw away, if that's what he wanted; but—was that what he wanted? If so, why did he suffer remorse? Obviously there was the will in him to destroy himself; part of him was bent on self-destruction—he'd be the last to deny it. But obviously, too, part was not; part held back and expressed its disapproval in remorse and shame.

How often he had been dumbfounded—at first incredulous, then contemptuous—to hear someone say, after a night of drinking, "God, take it away, I don't want to smell it, I don't want to see it even, take it out of my sight!"—this at the very moment when he wanted and needed it most.

At the corner he stopped in the liquor store to buy a pint. He pretended to deliberate a moment, considering the various brands, knowing all the while he would buy the bottle that was just under a dollar as he always did, no matter how much money he had in his pocket; for he had a dread of running out of cash and being cut off from drink and so bought only the cheapest, to make it last. Liquor was all one anyway.

Why the hell hadn't he bought two pints, as he usually did, so that if one was taken away he would have the other? He always planted one in his side pocket, the bulk of it showing conspicuously, and protested with passion and outrage when it was discovered and taken—then retired in a huff to his room, there to produce the other pint from his hip and hide it. Where had he not hidden bottles in his time?

Was this what he had been seeking? He had reached the point where always there was only one thing: drink, and more drink, till amnesty came; and tomorrow, drink again.

Paradoxically, we often feel like this false self is our natural state, the way we "should be." This could be our addiction or attachment to being that way. We become so accustomed to being our false self that our Real Self feels guilty, like something is wrong, that we shouldn't feel real and alive. To consider changing this problem is frightening.

We actually have four additional choices, which we may learn as we grow older: (1) to hold it in until it gets unbearable; (2) unable to let it out, we get physically or emotionally sick, and/or we may "blow up;" (3) to blot the pain out with alcohol, other drugs or other addictions; or (4) to express the pain and work through it with safe and supportive people.

Coffee is my cup of tea.

You unhinged your body from an opium addiction with a book?" She smiled. "Not just any book. A series of thirteen books by one author. I've read them twenty or thirty times each." "You've read one book twenty or thirty times?" "Actually, I've read thirteen books twenty-seven times.

The kind of people I know now don't have barbecues, Mama. They stand up alone at nights in small rooms and eat cold weenies. My so-called friends are bums. Many of them are nothing but rats. They spread T.B. and use dirty language. They're wife-beaters and window peepers and night crawlers and dope fiends. They have running sores on the backs of their hands that never heal. They peer up from cracks in the floor with their small red eyes and wait for chances.

In a short time he came to like the rum, to prefer it, to demand it. The cheaper and rawer it was, the better he liked it. He reflected on this quirk of human nature and told June Mack, the barmaid, that it was one of God's most merciful blessings that people grew to love the things that necessity compelled them to eat and drink.

Millions more are addicted to Internet pornography, which has led to a horrific increase in the sexual exploitation of children and attacks on young girls naive enough to arrange meetings with men

These days the average primary-school child can sit through thirteen consecutive hours of 3D bestial porn on a WAP-enabled Internet bong without so much as blinking.

He was reminded of TV ads for plug-in air fresheners where some woman would stick the little plastic thing in a socket and animated fumes would waft out and everyone would lift their faces, close their eyes, breathe in deeply and go 'Aaaaaah'. Like they were taking some kind of drug rather than inhaling chemicals.

The only thing I'm addicted to is winning. This bootleg cult, arrogantly referred to as Alcoholics Anonymous, reports a 5 percent success rate. My success rate is 100 percent.

No matter what historians claimed, BC really stood for "Before Coffee.

It was good. It was like something inordinately beautiful and out of this world. Like I'd found an actual planet that I didn't know had been there all along. Planet Heroin. The place where there was no pain.

When my mother asked him for more morphine, she asked for it in a way that I have never heard anyone ask for anything. A mad dog. He did not look at her when she asked him this, but at his wristwatch. He held the same expression on his face regardless of the answer. Sometimes he gave it to her without a word, and sometimes he told her no in a voice as soft as his penis in his pants.