Continued Use Despite Adverse Consequences

What does addiction actually look like?

Excursion into Philosophy by Edward Hopper, 1959

People often ask me how I define addiction. Lately, as part of a broader theme in my life, I’ve been drawn to simplify everything from my habits to my thinking. Thusly: I now define addiction as continued use despite adverse consequences.

Upon reading that, you might think—but isn’t that definition rather vague? Continued use of what? Don’t we need a way of differentiating smoking crack from scrolling TikTok?

No, we don’t.

The most important part to focus on is the consequences, how we characterize them, and whom they actually impact. As too many know, much of the fall-out from addiction is suffered by those in close proximity—the fact you have three drinks after dinner every night might not affect your work output the next day, but perhaps you were a subpar lover that evening?

Now, let’s look at something even more basic and commonplace—phone use. Take, say, a millennial knowledge worker. He is a new dad who believes his Reddit and texting habits are completely typical (read: common; not necessarily natural). But when his best friend comes over to visit for the first time in years—a rather analog trad bro who cuts gems and used to rock dreadlocks but that’s not cool anymore—he finds his best pal hunched over his phone literally every single moment there’s downtime. When we’re watching Formula 1: Drive to Survive, working the grill, and even when he’s holding his toddler.

There is already a vast swath of research that shows what happens to infants when their parents cannot properly attune to them due to screen usage. One does not need to summon the ghost of John Bowlby, the psychologist who pioneered “attachment theory,” to predict that we will have a generation of children who are fucked up by their parents’ scrolling. During these precious years of development, when a child’s bids for attention are not met, the subtle seeds of “insecure attachment” are sown. These are wounds that are very difficult to undo, and, if we take the attachment and object relations theorists seriously, will stay with individuals throughout their lifetimes.

In other words, consequence. 

The latest neuroscience research suggests that addiction is not a disease, but the result of “deep learning.” It’s simple. And much like operant conditioning: we learn behaviors through rewards and consequences. When we do something that leads to a positive reward, we are much more likely to repeat it; on the other hand, if our behavior results in a negative consequence, we are far less likely to engage in that behavior again.

One could argue that addiction is a fundamental confusion of reward and consequence. In the pursuit of reward—and in the relief of pain, unresolved emotional experiences, and, trauma—the elements of nature, nurture, and choice become tragically misaligned. When the millennial learns that he can constantly soothe or “entertain” himself by scrolling, he digs a deep trench of habituated neural pathways. As part of this neural architecture, oftentimes, the anticipation of the so-called reward feels better than the reward itself, tickling the neural trench.

Yet humans have a remarkable capacity to learn and unlearn. One of the manners in which I approach overcoming addiction is through mindfulness, often adopting a dharmic perspective. If the father were to consciously focus on both the urge to scroll and the act itself, deliberately slowing down, he would likely become aware of its impact on his well-being. And like most people I know who pay close attention to their online habits, the experience may suddenly appear miles from fulfilling—more of a punishment than a reward. The consequence that his formerly dreadlocked friend can squarely see, but he cannot.

I write about addiction again and again, because addiction is again and again. That is its nature and its place in our society and it’s not getting any better, because it is a natural and meaningful response to the distressed conditions of people’s lives. The result is a contraction of consciousness, which has the same effect as a cheapening of reality.

Please, believe: every essay I write about addiction, I write first for me to read. And I mean that yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I am ever-reminding myself that addiction wants me back. So, I really hope you don’t interpret this as moral pedantry, but rather, as one misbegotten soul sharing the meager yet meaty bits he’s learned.

It took some behavioral and environmental training, but today I am much better at not using my phone when with the people that matter to me. And each time I hang with those who constantly glance down, I feel my heart stutter, sensing a familiar fear and futility, perhaps silly to believe so much to be at stake. I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent; I don’t remember what it’s like to be a baby; and obviously I’ve never, ever had so much to drink that I was a subpar lover—but I do know what it’s like to be the guy in a room with a friend on his phone and it doesn’t make for core memories or deep bonding; nor does it revivify the spirit, as a reunion with an old friend should.