When my dad died, I was in such a state of shock that a doctor prescribed Ativan. I abused it. I didn’t really understand what “take as needed” meant. I was grieving, barely functioning, and they handed a woman with ADHD a bottle of pills and vague instructions. “Well, I fucking need it,” I thought, letting another one dissolve on my tongue. “Because if I don’t, I’m wrapping myself in his sweaters just to smell him and crying on the floor.” I bounced from clinic to clinic until someone finally flagged it and cut me off. For a brief moment, I felt nothing. And it was nice. That’s when I understood the appeal. Not because I wanted to get high. I just wanted the grief to stop. So when people ask me how addiction happens, I think about that feeling. I think about how seductive relief can be when you’re drowning.