Addicted to the Scroll: How Writing Becomes Your New High

By Vikki

You don’t drink like you used to. You don’t smoke like you used to. Maybe you’ve walked away from the obvious addictions.

But your thumb? Your thumb is still chasing something.

Down, refresh. Down, refresh. Down, refresh.

Let’s be honest: scrolling is a socially accepted relapse. It’s just dressed up as “staying updated” and “killing time.”

You’re not “just on your phone”. You’re dosing yourself with distraction every few seconds and wondering why your life feels out of reach.

The Scroll Is a Drug

It hits all the same circuits:

• Anticipation: What’s next? Who posted? Who liked?
• Dopamine: New post. New reel. New DM. Little sparks, over and over.
• Escape: For a moment you’re not in your life, you’re in someone else’s.

You don’t even have to move. You just lie there and let the world drip-feed itself into your brain.

It looks harmless. It feels harmless. But look at your screen time and tell me it’s not an addiction.

What You’re Really Using It For

Most of the time, you’re not scrolling because you’re interested.

You’re scrolling because you’re:

• lonely
• stressed
• bored
• numb
• avoiding something you don’t want to feel

Phones are the cleanest addiction. No hangover. No smell. No visible wreckage in the morning.

Just this quiet little ache that your life is slipping by and you’re watching it through a glass screen.

Writing Is the Opposite of Numbing

If scrolling is emotional anaesthetic, writing is emotional exposure.

Scrolling says: make it go away.
Writing says: show me what’s really here.

That’s why it feels harder. That’s why you “never feel like it”. That’s why your brain whispers, “Just check your phone first.”

Your addiction will always steer you towards the thing that helps you avoid yourself. Your healing will always call you back to the page.

Why Writing Feels So Sexy When You Actually Do It

There’s something intimate about sitting with yourself and saying, “Okay. Talk to me.”

No filters. No audience. No algorithm.

Just you + a pen + the truth.

Writing turns you on to your own life again:

• Your brain stops chasing everyone else’s drama and starts caring about your own story.
• Your nervous system drops a gear. The chaos feels further away.
• Your emotions get seen instead of shamed.
• Your desires, ideas and boundaries start showing up on paper.

That clarity? That self-respect? That “I actually know what I want” energy?

That’s hot.

Scrolling Consumes You. Writing Connects You.

There’s a shift that happens the moment you put your phone down and pick up a pen:

• From consuming to creating – instead of swallowing content, you’re making something real.
• From chaos to coherence – random thoughts become actual sentences.
• From avoidance to awareness – you move from “I don’t want to feel this” to “Okay, this is what I feel.”

Your life stops being a feed and starts being a story again.

“But My Phone Is Just a Habit”

Sure. And so was the drink. And the cigarette. And the late-night binge. And the ex you kept going back to.

Habits become addictions the moment you stop feeling like you have a choice.

If the thought of leaving your phone in another room makes you twitchy, we both know what that is.

A Simple Swap: One Minute Before the Hit

I’m not going to tell you to throw your phone away and move to the woods. You won’t. I won’t. Let’s be realistic and a little bit ruthless instead.

New rule: Before you scroll, you write. Even for 60 seconds.

That’s it. One minute. You can still have your fix afterwards if you want it. But first, you give yourself a hit of honesty.

Write:

• “Right now I feel…” and finish the sentence 3 times.
• 3 things that are actually bothering you.
• what you’re trying not to think about.

Don’t edit. Don’t be poetic. Don’t be impressive. Be honest.

Your nervous system will feel the difference almost instantly. A little less buzzy. A little more grounded. A little more… you.

You Don’t Need Another Hit. You Need a Pen.

Next time your hand reaches for your phone like it has a mind of its own, pause.

Ask yourself:

• “What am I trying not to feel right now?”
• “What could I write instead of scroll?”

Your addiction wants noise.
Your healing wants words.

Choose the thing that brings you back to yourself, not the thing that helps you abandon yourself more quietly.

You’re not weak for wanting to escape. You’re human. But you’re powerful the second you decide you’d rather meet yourself on the page than lose yourself on a screen.