Academic Writer’s Journal: Adrenaline Junkie
Name: Goes by Adrenaline/Dopamine Junkie OR pressure performer
Education: Top 100 American University
Experience with essay writing: 6+ years
Self-introduction: I’m replacing my drug addiction with a career in essay writing. I like performing under pressure, using my body and brain like a goddamn tractor you find on the way to your grandma’s farm.
Award from TriadEssay: Purple Heart; First degree urgent order undertaker.
This is coming from a deeply troubled individual, one that has had severe substance abuse issues in the past and is now replacing this issue with a career in essay writing.
I’m a writer. I’m a junkie. I’m a person addicted to an adrenaline rush.
Anywhere I can get it: the buzz from a can of beer or a cigarette. The head rush from a bong hit or a line of coke or special K. But all that is behind me. I’m a changed person. Although my brain chemistry and habituated cognitive patterns still scream for instant gratification, I’ve changed for the better by replacing the vices with something I at least find positive in life: a career in essay writing.
The whole thing started after I graduated from university. C is getting a degree, as they often told me, but what does getting a degree mean? This is a question I pondered when I was at my desk in a 20-employee-sized startup selling adult sex toys. Graduating from a top 100 American university certainly landed me in the right place, given I spent a decent portion of my college life smoking weed in the woods, besides getting Bs, Cs, and the occasional A.
Working at the adult sex toy startup was a makeshift arrangement. It wasn’t something I loved but something I needed in order to prove to my parents and other people that I had a job and was feeding myself instead of lying around all day smoking weed. That job ended on a Friday evening. My boss called all of my coworkers into the conference room, leaving only me behind. During their conference, she texted me saying I didn’t have to come to work the next week. So I just lifted my hip and walked out of the door, JUST LIKE THAT.
I didn’t have a bag with me. I didn’t have any desk setup like small handheld fans, some comforting pillows, or what-have-you like my coworkers did. Most of the time I was working there, I stayed in my own head, thinking why these people would want to get involved in this industry at all. During lunch break, which was about 1.5 hours, I had to ride my scooter to the outskirts of the city and pick up the stash for my next few miserable days, and was just able to get back to the office before the office alarm rang. I rolled my joints in the bathroom, smoked in the safety exit stairway, and continued my afternoon at my desk, still saying in my head, though.
Going through several other jobs I didn’t enjoy, I came across a job post about writing essays for money. It was clear: I write stuff based on the requirements, deliver before the deadline, and get paid if the essay passes at the end. No strings attached, no tolerance for bossy attitudes required, no commuting back and forth between my weed plug and the job site expected. Well. I might as well do it for now, I said to myself.
Long story short, I quickly got into the groove of things. Coming from a social science background, most of the non-technical orders were easy to me. I read fast, I type like a maniac, and most of all I itched for the payment that gets me going. One order after another. Before I knew it, I was making about 3000 every month, which is equivalent to what I made at the adult startup I was working at.
I wasn’t committed though. During my time off taking orders, I still pondered the meaning of life, letting the intrusive thoughts win over me and call me a loser.
The turning point came when some students started to appreciate my work and I started getting some positive feedback from professors. “This is a good piece of fiction,” “Tell the writer I said thanks,” “Thank you so much,” along with other detailed feedback regarding the essays I put genuine effort into, propelled me to feel good about myself and find some value and meaning in life. I know I’m behind the scenes doing this sketchy stuff for students, but hey, who is entitled to say it’s meaningless and that I’m a bad person?
The turning point didn’t only take place in the form of me becoming more attached and committed to my essay writing job; it also came in me trying to quit the substances I was abusing, be it weed, coke, ketamine, or whatnot. I genuinely felt a drive to become a more physically fit, energetic, and just an all-around positive person.
I did it cold turkey and soon got the gist of it, just like how quickly I got into the groove of the writing job. It didn’t work, and anyone who has gone through sudden withdrawal knows what I’m talking about. I continued using but in smaller and smaller doses. Five bong hits spread out through the day became one big fat joint at night. Lines upon lines of ketamine before sleep became a pill of oxycodone. Soon, I was only smoking cigarettes and trying my best to write as much as I could.
I was replacing my addiction with something else, and I knew it. The drugs became meeting deadlines after deadlines and expecting myself to invest fully in every order. I get a rush from the order dispatcher telling me that there is an urgent 1500-word essay order due in 5 hours. My heart starts pumping fast; I need cigarettes right off the bat when I take these urgent orders; I’m filled with expectation about what the grade will be for that particular essay I was genuinely invested in and spent a lot of time finding and reading references for.
It became a cycle I couldn’t step out of. The more urgent the order, the more alive I felt. Back-to-back deadlines stacked on top of each other like waves I willingly let crash over me, each one demanding, each one feeding that same craving I used to satisfy with substances. My fingers would fly across the keyboard for hours on end, day bleeding into night, night dissolving into early morning, cigarettes piling up in the ashtray beside me like silent witnesses. I stopped keeping track of time; all that mattered was the next submission, the next “urgent” tag, the next hit of validation or payment. There were nights I didn’t even remember finishing an essay—just waking up slumped over my desk, screen still glowing, document submitted, body completely shut down. At one point the keyboard gave out from the constant pounding, keys sticking, letters fading, like it couldn’t keep up with the pace I was forcing onto it. I replaced it without a second thought, just like I replaced one addiction with another, convincing myself this one was at least productive, at least justifiable, even as it consumed me all the same.
But hey. If anyone living this kind of life tells you that they are in good shape physically, he is lying. My neck muscle starts to experience cramps and hurt. My lower back hurt, so much so that I pulled it doing 320 deadlifts and had to take a year off from lifting. My eyes started to hurt so I bought a pair of Oakley that allows me to pretend I’m a SF (special force) guy who is on a mission, only in a different context. My shoulders, my bladder (from sitting too much and ketamine abuse earlier), my hands (cramps so often that I have problems typing as fast as I started out). Fish oil didn’t help a lot. Lutein didn’t help much. But I was satisfied mentally. As long as I get to pass the hell out after a long day’s work. As long as I feel drained after prolonged working hours on multiple academic tasks. I was satisfied. I wanted myself dead. I don’t want any way out. I wanted to abuse my body and use it like a goddamn rundown tractor you find at the side of the road on the way to your grandma’s farm. I guess the turning point I mentioned wasn’t a turning point at all, at least not mentally after all.
It pretty much sums up my story. I’m a lifelong junkie, at least so far at this point in my life. I crave adrenaline rushes, dopamine spikes, and the feeling that I’m fighting this entire world using my body, my nervous system, and the very core of my existence.
So here you go. Triadessay asked, I delivered. Now it’s time for me to get my payment for this blog post so I can start tracking the clicks I got, the bounce rate, how the editor rated my essay, and whether this is publishable at all.