When Work Becomes the Quiet Drug

How I learned to survive by staying busy—and what it costs me

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why I work the way I do.

Why I can spend hours neck-deep in VA law, buried in code on the back end of HadIt.com, writing arguments, tweaking layouts, organizing claims logic—and somehow still feel like I haven’t done enough.

Why I sometimes can’t stop.

And maybe, more honestly, why I don’t want to stop.

It hit me the other day:

Work feels like a narcotic.

Not in some poetic, romanticized way. I mean literally—like something that numbs me just enough to get through the day.

I live with PTSD and Major Depressive Disorder.

Some days it’s quiet. Most days it’s not.

There’s a weight that never quite lifts. And when things are still, when there’s no task to focus on, no system to create or post to write, the thoughts come. The memories. The ache. The stuff I’ve learned to compartmentalize so well that even I forget it’s there—until I don’t.

That’s why I keep moving. Because when I’m working, I can breathe.

Focused work—especially work that helps other vets—gives m…