The Lie Every Addict Tells Themselves (And Why I Still Sometimes Believe It)

“I can control this” and other fairytales we use to stay stuck.

Every addict is a fucking liar.

Not to you. To ourselves.

We’ve got a whole catalog of lies we rotate through, perfectly crafted to keep us exactly where we are. And we believe them. Every single one. Even when the evidence is screaming the opposite.

I know because I told myself these lies for years. Some days, when my brain gets loud and my nervous system gets dysregulated, I still hear them whispering.

The difference now? I know they’re lies. Even when they feel like truth.

Let me show you the playlist of bullshit every addict has on repeat. And then I’ll tell you the one lie that actually keeps us dying.

The Greatest Hits of Addiction Denial

“I can moderate.”

This is the crown jewel of addiction lies. The idea that THIS time will be different. This time you’ll have just two drinks. This time you’ll stop after one pill. This time you’ll maintain control.

You’ve got a whole system planned out. Only on weekends. Only after 5pm. Only when you’re stressed. Only at social events. Only, only, only.

Here’s what happens every fucking time: Your “only” becomes “mostly.” Your “mostly” becomes “usually.” Your “usually” becomes “fuck it.”

Because moderation requires a part of your brain that addiction has already hijacked. You’re asking a broken brake system to stop a car that’s flying down a mountain. Good fucking luck.

“I’m not that bad.”

You know someone worse. You always know someone worse. They lost their job, you still have yours. They lost their kids, you still see yours. They’re homeless, you still pay rent.

So you’re fine, right?

This lie is genius because it’s partially true. You’re probably not the worst addict in the world. Congratulations. You’re still an addict. You’re still dying. You’re still choosing slow suicide over facing your pain.

“A bullet to the chest isn’t better just because someone else got shot in the head. You’re both bleeding out. They’re just doing it faster.”

“Not that bad” is still bad. And comparing your destruction to someone else’s just keeps you comfortable in your own.

“I need this to function.”

You’ve convinced yourself you’re better with it. More creative. More social. More productive. More yourself.

You can’t imagine facing your boss without it. Can’t imagine that family dinner sober. Can’t imagine sex without being high. Can’t imagine sleeping without passing out.

The substance has woven itself so deep into your identity that you literally don’t know who you are without it.

Here’s the mindfuck: You’re right. You probably can’t function without it. Not because you need it, but because you’ve trained your brain to believe you need it. You’ve practiced dysfunction so long, you’ve forgotten what function looks like.

“I’ll stop tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Monday. After this stressful project. After the holidays. After the divorce. After, after, after.

Tomorrow is the perfect lie because it acknowledges the problem while guaranteeing you’ll never solve it. It lets you feel responsible without taking responsibility. It’s procrastination dressed up as intention.

You know what tomorrow becomes? Another today where you say tomorrow.

I said “tomorrow” for years. Every single day became another tomorrow that never came. Until one did. But it wasn’t because I was ready. It was because I finally admitted tomorrow was never coming unless I made today the day.

“This is just temporary.”

Just until things calm down. Just until you feel better. Just until you figure shit out. Just until the pain stops.

Temporary. Like you’re in control of the timeline. Like addiction gives a fuck about your schedule.

You know what’s actually temporary? The relief the substance gives you. That high gets shorter every time. That numbness takes more to achieve. That escape becomes a prison.

Your “temporary” solution has become a permanent problem. And deep down, you fucking know it.

The Lie That Actually Kills You

All those lies? They’re just symptoms. They’re the stories we tell to avoid the real lie. The one that lives in our bones. The one that makes all the other lies possible.

“I deserve this pain.”

That’s it. That’s the lie that keeps you using.

Not “I need this.” Not “I can control this.” Not even “I want this.”

It’s “I deserve this.”

You deserve the hangovers because you’re weak. You deserve the shame because you’re worthless. You deserve the isolation because you’re toxic. You deserve the slow death because you’re already dead inside.

This lie doesn’t live in your head. It lives in your cells. It was probably planted there before you ever picked up a substance. By abuse. By neglect. By trauma. By a thousand small wounds that taught you that pain is what you’re worth.

So when the substance offers you more pain wrapped in temporary relief, it feels right. It feels like what you deserve. The destruction feels like justice. The suffering feels like home.

“You’re not just numbing pain. You’re confirming your worth. Every drink, every pill, every line is you agreeing with the lie that this is what you deserve.”

Why I Still Sometimes Believe It

I’m sober now. Have been for years. But that lie? It doesn’t just disappear when you put down the substance.

Some days, when everything goes wrong, when I fuck up, when the old shame creeps back, I hear it: “You deserve to hurt.”

The difference between me now and me then isn’t that the lie went away. It’s that I learned to recognize it as a lie. Even when it feels true. Especially when it feels true.

Because here’s what addiction doesn’t want you to know: The moments when you most believe you deserve pain are the moments when you most need to fight that belief.

Your brain is lying to you. Your trauma is lying to you. Your shame is lying to you.

You don’t deserve the pain. You never did.

The Truth That Wakes You Up

Here’s what’s actually true:

You don’t deserve the pain you’re running from. Whatever happened to you, whatever was done to you, whatever you’ve done—you don’t deserve to suffer forever.

But you also don’t deserve the pain you’re creating. The slow suicide. The daily destruction. The life you’re wasting. You don’t deserve that either.

You deserve to heal. To feel. To deal with your shit without destroying yourself in the process.

But here’s the brutal part: Nobody’s coming to convince you of this. Nobody’s going to love you into believing you’re worth saving. Nobody’s going to argue with your lie until you believe the truth.

“You have to decide you’re worth saving. Even if you don’t believe it. Even if every cell in your body says you’re not. Even if the lie feels more real than anything else.”

You have to act like someone worth saving, even when you’re convinced you’re not.

The Perspective Shift That Changes Everything

Here’s what I learned that actually broke the cycle:

Stop trying to believe you’re worth saving. Start acting like someone who might be.

That’s it. That’s the shift.

You don’t have to convince yourself you deserve recovery. You don’t have to feel worthy. You don’t have to believe you’re valuable.

You just have to act like someone who MIGHT be wrong about their worthlessness.

Think about it: You’ve been wrong before, right? About other things? About people? About situations?

So what if you’re wrong about this too?

“What if the voice telling you that you deserve pain is just trauma talking? What if it’s just old programming? What if it’s just your brain trying to keep you in familiar territory because familiar feels safe, even when it’s killing you?”

You don’t have to know for sure. You just have to consider the possibility.

The Experiment That Saved My Life

I couldn’t believe I was worth saving. So I didn’t try to.

Instead, I ran an experiment:

“What would someone who believed they were worth saving do right now?”

Not me. Some hypothetical person who thought they deserved to live.

What would they do?

They’d probably call someone. So I called someone.

They’d probably go to a meeting. So I went to a meeting.

They’d probably eat food. So I ate food.

They’d probably sleep in a bed instead of passing out on the floor. So I slept in a bed.

I didn’t do these things because I believed I deserved them. I did them as an experiment. Like I was method acting. Playing a character who gives a fuck about themselves.

And here’s what happened: Nothing changed at first. I still felt worthless. Still believed the lie.

But my actions started creating different results. People started treating me like someone worth treating well. My body started feeling like a body worth living in. My life started looking like a life worth having.

“The belief didn’t change first. The actions did. The belief followed eventually.”

And honestly? Some days it still hasn’t caught up. But I keep acting like someone worth saving anyway.

The Three Questions That Create Movement

When you’re stuck in the lie, ask yourself these three questions:

“What would someone who loved themselves do right now?”

Not you. You don’t love yourself. We’ve established that. But what would someone who DID love themselves do in your exact situation?

Would they take a shower? Make that phone call? Flush the pills? Pour out the bottle? Eat something? Reach out for help?

You don’t have to feel it. Just do what they would do.

“What if I’m wrong about what I deserve?”

You’re not arguing with the lie. You’re just introducing doubt.

What if you’re wrong? What if the pain you think you deserve is just neurons firing in patterns established by trauma? What if your worthlessness is just a story someone else wrote and you kept reading?

You don’t need certainty. You just need enough doubt to try something different.

“What’s one thing I can do right now that treats future me like they matter?”

Not current you. Current you feels worthless. But future you—tomorrow you, next week you, next year you—what’s one thing you can do for them?

Drink water so they don’t wake up destroyed. Set an alarm so they don’t lose their job. Send that text so they have support. Make that appointment so they have help.

You’re not saving yourself. You’re saving someone you haven’t met yet. Someone who might, possibly, matter.

The Practice That Rewires the Lie

Every day, preferably in the morning before your brain gets loud, do this:

Write down three actions someone worth saving would take.

Small ones:

• Brush teeth

• Text a friend

• Take medication

• Eat breakfast

• Open the blinds

Then do them.

Not because you believe you deserve them. But because you’re practicing being someone who might.

This isn’t positive affirmation bullshit. You’re not standing in the mirror lying to yourself about being worthy. You’re taking worthy actions regardless of the belief.

“Actions first. Beliefs follow. Sometimes years later. Sometimes never. Doesn’t matter. What matters is you stop letting the lie run your life.”

The Truth About “Deserving”

Here’s the mindfuck that freed me:

Nobody actually “deserves” anything.

Deserving is a made-up concept. A story we tell ourselves. A judgment system created by humans to make sense of chaos.

The universe doesn’t give a fuck what you deserve. The sun doesn’t check your worth before rising. Your lungs don’t verify your value before breathing.

You exist. That’s it. That’s the only qualification you need.

“Recovery isn’t about deserving it. It’s about choosing it. Healing isn’t about being worthy. It’s about being willing. Living isn’t about earning it. It’s about doing it.”

Stop waiting to deserve recovery. You never will. None of us do. We just choose it anyway.

What This Looks Like in Real Life

Someone offers help. The lie says: “You don’t deserve it.”

You say: “Maybe not, but I’ll take it anyway.”

You want to use. The lie says: “This is what you deserve.”

You say: “Maybe, but I’m going to try something different today.”

You feel worthless. The lie says: “Because you are.”

You say: “Okay, but worthless people can still go to meetings.”

You’re not arguing with the lie. You’re not trying to convince yourself of anything. You’re just refusing to let it make your choices.

The Commitment That Isn’t About Worth

Make this commitment:

“I will act like someone worth saving for the next 24 hours, regardless of what I believe about myself.”

Not forever. Not even for a week. Just 24 hours.

Act like someone who matters. Eat like it. Sleep like it. Reach out like it. Show up like it.

Then tomorrow, make the same commitment again.

Not because you believe it. But because you’re willing to be wrong about yourself.

Because maybe the lie that’s been running your life is just that—a lie.

And the only way to find out is to stop living according to it.

The Choice You Have Right Now

You can read this and go back to your lies. Go back to “tomorrow.” Go back to “I can control it.” Go back to “I’m not that bad.”

That’s a choice. Your choice. And you’ll make it until you don’t.

Or you can read this and recognize the lie for what it is: trauma’s voice pretending to be truth.

You can decide that even if you believe you deserve pain, you’re going to act like someone who doesn’t. You’re going to get help like someone worth helping. You’re going to fight like someone worth fighting for.

Not because you believe it. But because the lie has had enough of your life.

The Bottom Line

Every addict tells themselves lies. But only one lie keeps you using: the lie that you deserve the pain.

That lie was planted in you by people and experiences that had no right to define your worth. It was watered by trauma, fed by shame, and reinforced by every moment you chose suffering over healing.

But lies only have the power you give them.

“You can believe you deserve pain and still choose recovery. You can think you’re worthless and still get help. You can feel broken and still GET THE FUCK UP.”

Your worth isn’t determined by what you believe about yourself. It’s not determined by what happened to you. It’s not determined by what you’ve done.

Your worth just is. Even if you can’t see it. Even if you can’t feel it. Even if you’ll never believe it.

The lie says you deserve this pain. The lie says this is what you’re worth. The lie says this is all you get.

Fuck the lie.

GET UP.

Not because you’re worth it. Not because you deserve it. Not because you believe it.

Get up because you’re done living according to a lie that was never true.

Get up because you’re tired of dying for something you didn’t even choose to believe.

Get up because the part of you reading this, the part that’s still fighting, the part that hasn’t given up—that part knows the truth:

You don’t deserve this pain. You never did.

And maybe that’s enough to try one more time.

— Cody Taymore

Kill The Silence

If this gave you clarity, peace, or just helped you feel a little less alone — and you want to support more work like this — you can leave a small tip here.

Buy Me a Coffee