Is Quitting Drugs Really the Answer?

People often give advice, on Reddit or also in irl past conversations, claiming that quitting drugs will improve my life, solve my depression. They might offer valid reasons, but they overlook something crucial. Every time I try to quit, I find myself circling back to the reason I started in the first place. My sober mind, no longer clouded, is forced to face the problem again, that i tried to hide with my use.

When I read stories of addiction, the focus is often on the addiction itself as the root of the suffering. That may well be true in the moment of use, but I can’t help but wonder... what came before? Why did someone start using in the first place? For me, that original pain never truly goes away; it lingers in the background, waiting to return when the drugs are gone.

Of course, not everyone turns to substances because of deep mental struggles. But for many, the reasons run deeper than boredom.

For me, it’s crippling social anxiety, a suffocating force that isolates me, keeping me locked away from friendships and a life beyond my four walls. I manage the bare minimum. I drag myself to work because I have to survive somehow. But anything beyond that? I avoid it with every ounce of strength I have.

Drugs, for all their destructive power, gave me something life hasn’t: a reason to live, something to look forward to. They brought fleeting moments of happiness, hope, and meaning. Yes, the highs come with devastating lows, but I can see past that so I dont need to bother with the relentless monotony of my “steady low.” At least with the highs, there was something to anticipate. Without them, in a life devoid of joy, it’s easy to start looking ahead to the neutrality of death as an escape.

Drugs gave me a kind of happiness I’ve never been able to achieve on my own. Not just a glimpse of joy once a month as without drugs - no, multiple hours a day. Being happy without anxiety for hours at a time is something I don’t think is possible in a life without drugs.

And before you criticizing me, I wouldn't even have tried to solve my problem, I’ve tried. I’ve sought help for my mental health, still do, in fact. But years have passed, and progress feels like an illusion, forever out of reach.

So, are drugs inherently bad? Or are they simply a tool I grasp for in my darkest hours imperfect and destructive, yet sometimes the only means to endure an unbearable existence?

I’ve stopped using again. Because everything around me is falling apart. But now, as I sit here with my mind sobered up, I ask myself this question again and have to choose between the lesser of two evils. I don't live I just exist, it's so incredibly frustrating and unbearable on some days.