1. What do you mean by “high-functioning addict”? Isn’t that a contradiction?

Absolutely. It’s a contradiction, a myth—the biggest con of the lot.

It’s a lie we all buy into—that if someone’s upright, working, and not screaming for help, they must be alright. They’re not. That’s the ilusion that buries people.

It’s the opposite of the overt, street-level image of addiction most people expect. And that’s part of the danger. The kind of addict people picture—struggling visibly—might get pulled aside and picked up by the system before it’s too late. But high-functioning addicts can coast for years—five in my case, sometimes much longer—until the damage becomes invisible, irreversible, or both. Especially when it comes to health. Because the outside holds up, no one asks what’s happening underneath. Not even you. And that’s what makes it so dangerous—it delays the fall. It prolongs the denial. And when it finally crumbles, it does so without warning, and usually, very publicly.

2. Do you ever wish you’d never hit rock bottom at all?

If I had to choose? Of course I’d rather not have scorched my life to the ground. I’d rather have protected the people I love, kept my health, stayed intact. But now that it’s happened—now that I’ve seen what’s underneath the bottom—I wouldn’t undo the clarity it forced on me. Rock bottom stripped away the facade. It gave me truth, even if it came through fire. I didn’t want this path, but it gave me back the ability to live with eyes open. So no—I wouldn’t go back. I just try not to romanticize the wreckage.

3. You write about all this with humor sometimes. Are you making light of addiction?

Not at all. Humor is how I stay alive inside the heaviness. It’s not about minimizing the pain—it’s about giving the pain enough air to breathe. I write with humor because addiction is absurd, recovery is chaotic, and sometimes the only thing more painful than the truth is trying to say it with a straight face. Irony has become a tool, not a shield. And if it helps someone else exhale while reading about something dark—then it’s done its job.

4. What does relapse mean to you? Do you believe in total abstinence?

Relapse, for me, isn’t just using again—it’s disconnecting from the tools that keep me honest. I believe in total abstinence because, personally, I can’t touch the stuff. One hit is too many, and a thousand will never be enough. But I also recognize that recovery looks different for everyone. Some start with harm reduction. Some take years to even admit there’s a problem. I don’t judge that. I just know that for me, total abstinence isn’t about morality—it’s about safety. It’s the only container strong enough to hold my life together.

5. What would you say to someone who thinks they’re “doing fine”?

If they think they’re doing fine, I get it. I used to think that too—mostly because no one said anything.

That’s the part most people don’t understand about high-functioning addiction: you don’t get interventions. You get applause. You get extra work. You get left alone. The people around you don’t suspect the truth—they rationalize it. They think you’re stressed, tired, intense, private. And honestly, that’s exactly what you want them to think. I talk more about this in Social Dynamics and Cognitive Dissonance—how a functioning addict isn’t just hiding from the world; they’re actively being rewarded by it.

So how would I know who’s “doing fine”? I wouldn’t. That’s the trick. Most of us don’t look unwell until we’re already ruined. But let’s say someone like I once was found their way here: that cliché—you don’t know what you have until you lose it? As tired as it sounds, it broke me in half when it finally landed. For over a year, I would’ve done anything to borrow a time machine. Sometimes I still would. Not to erase the damage—just to tell myself the truth a little earlier.

And I’d also tell them—that when they hit the wall, it won’t just hurt—it’ll take everything. It strips their life down to the bone and then asks for more. The fallout isn’t just a cliché. It’s a reckoning. They might lose their home, their name, their partner, their mind. They might wish they hadn’t made it through. That’s how deep it cuts.

The truth is, some people don’t come back. And the ones who do? We carry the scar like a second spine. There’s only one life. They shouldn’t wait until they’re unrecognizable to save what’s left of it.

—Alexander Longstaff