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Perspective

In Defence of the Addictive Personality

By Robertha Green Gonzalez

The phrase addictive personality is usually delivered as a warning. It suggests excess, lack of control, and an inability to let go- typically associated with substances. Psychologically, it is framed as a vulnerability. The phrase is usually brought into discussion when someone looks at their bank account, looks at the bar slot on a Saturday evening after perhaps too many pints, looks rather excitedly into their friend’s eyes and says, ‘We should bet on something,’ or alternatively, ‘Fancy a cig?’ only for the slightly more sober member of the party to respond, ‘I could never… addictive personality’ I suppose in that setting perhaps the idea of an ‘addictive personality’ is justified, but i heartily believe it transcends this. The ‘addictive personality’ can also be explored as an emotional affliction, and within relationship dynamics, perhaps this is not always detrimental.

Firstly, I think we need to make a clear distinction between a ‘love addict’ and someone with an addictive personality. The two, I believe, are quite different. Of the two, the ‘addictive personality’ may in fact be the more constructive temperament. Love addicts, serial monogamists, and those who find themselves addicted to relationships tend to do so in pursuit of the euphoria accompanying romantic attachment. They seek the intense chemical reactions and emotional highs that occur while chasing or beginning a relationship. The experience is often fleeting and perhaps more lustful. It involves romanticising and idealising another person, falling hard for an imagined future with them while overlooking their actual, often less romantic and ultimately disappointing disposition. By contrast, the addictive personality within a relationship is not necessarily driven by this pursuit of emotional highs. I would go as far as to argue that there is an entirely different way to interpret this temperament. Temperament research frequently links so-called “addictive traits” with high sensitivity and reward responsiveness. Individuals who feel pleasure more intensely often return to the source of that pleasure repeatedly, a pattern typically understood as harmful, especially when associated with substance use, like smoking. Within relationships, however, once stripped of its most destructive expressions, this ‘addictive personality’ can be understood as something more poetic, a temperament built for devotion. At its core, the addictive personality, perhaps better described as a ‘devoted personality,’ is simply a personality inclined toward ritual wherein small details become personal mythology. The result is a life composed of meaningful fragments: saved tags, repeated flavours and familiar textures. From the outside, these rituals can appear menial; tea is brewed the same way each morning, the same glasses are used to drink from- but the small details indeed accumulate. Teabag tags are saved rather than discarded, gathered and held carefully in a small Cath Kidston bag that once held a mother’s old coins. The objects themselves are not valuable, yet their meaning is created through repetition, wherein fragments become emotional evidence that life is lived through patterns and curation. 

Through this lens, the danger lies not in devotion itself but in the belief in inevitability. The real vulnerability of an addictive temperament is not attachment, but the expectation that meaningful experiences will repeat. When something feels deeply right, the mind begins to interpret it as destiny. In ordinary habits such as tea, music, or daily walks, this expectation causes little harm. In relationships, however, it can be devastating. People, unlike one’s own curated rituals, are unpredictable. Where others may treat connections as temporary, the devoted personality assumes they are enduring. People with this trait tend to form strong attachments to patterns and rarely move through life casually; this could be attributed to the innate human appetite for comfort, which is forged by predictable routines that reduce cognitive load and increase a sense of control. For some personalities, however, this tendency toward repetition becomes especially pronounced. What others might call fixation can also be understood as attentiveness. In other words, the ‘devoted personality’ is someone who tends not to treat experiences as disposable. 

Literature captures this tension particularly well- a nice example being in Sally Rooney’s Normal People. Throughout the story, the relationship between Connell and Marianne goes through a series of separations and reunions resembling an acute emotional gravity. They move apart, then return to each other again, as if repetition itself carries meaning. However, in the final pages of the book (spoiler!), that pattern is disrupted. Connell has the opportunity to leave for New York and pursue writing, and Marianne decides against going with him, resulting in what some (myself included) may call one of the most heartbreaking endings in modern fiction. In their final conversation, Marianne says, “You should go. I’ll always be here. You know that.” The power of the conversation lies in what it represents psychologically. Connell embodies motion. The acceptance that life can change direction and that people must sometimes follow those changes. Marianne embodies emotional permanence. Her statement is not merely about remaining in a physical place. It reflects the belief that meaningful experiences continue to exist even when circumstances change. For someone with a deeply attached temperament, that line resonates because it articulates a particular philosophy of devotion. The world may move forward, people may leave, circumstances may change, but the meaning of what happened does not simply disappear. 

In a culture that increasingly values novelty and disposability, new drinks, new routines, new relationships, this temperament resists the idea that everything must be replaced. 

It saves the teabag tags. 

It remembers the glass from the first beer. 

It keeps small artefacts of repetition because repetition itself feels meaningful. 

Seen clearly in relationships, the ‘addictive personality’ is not simply a predisposition toward excess. It is a temperament built for devotion.

Featured Image – Toby Dossett

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Perspective

Shower Thoughts vs. Drunk Thoughts: In Vino Veritas or In Shampoo Veritas?

By Robertha Green Gonzalez

We often hear the phrase “in vino veritas” — in wine, there is truth. The idea is pretty seductive, isn’t it? If we drink enough, the barriers of social convention supposedly fall away, leaving us with the raw honesty of our words. But is this really the case? Are the thoughts that surface after a few drinks genuinely revealing, or do we merely use alcohol as a socially sanctioned excuse to voice impulses we would otherwise suppress? 

Consider the other classic venue of unfiltered thought: the shower. Here, with soap running down our arms and nowhere to go, we ruminate freely. Unlike alcohol, which loosens inhibition, the shower provides a kind of safe space, a meditative environment. Many of us even have a specific shower ritual, whether it is lighting candles or indulging in the suppressed dream of eating an orange in the shower to mimic a monkey in the rainforest. The shower provides a sort of liquid courage for the mind rather than the body. And the thoughts that emerge? Often absurd. Occasionally brilliant. Sometimes they touch the deepest emotions we have neglected to name. 

So which is more truthful? 

Drunk thoughts can reveal hidden desires or confessions, yes, but they are also prone to exaggeration, misjudgment, and the occasional lapse in moral compass. I know, for one, that any confession of genuine importance I have tried to make while drunk has led to a slightly messier but much soberer conversation the following morning. A risky confession under the influence may feel like honesty, but it can just as easily serve as a convenient scapegoat for impulses better left unspoken. We cloak these moments in in-vino-veritas to legitimise choices that might otherwise feel reckless. 

Shower thoughts, on the other hand, are well formed, introspective, and strangely intuitive. The mind is free from social constraints, yet it is not clouded by chemical distortions. The bizarre ideas that surface mid lather are often weird at first. Who has not stared at shampoo and thought, ‘If my crack were horizontal as opposed to vertical, would my cheeks clap when I went up the stairs?’ Yet among the absurdities lie occasional moments of profound insight. Here, the mind is raw but refined, emotional but clear. Take, for instance, the fact that we tend to replay conversations or scenarios in the shower. Our imagined responses are always far better articulated, so surely, by that logic, the same goes for the more emotional breakthroughs we make in the shower. 

The difference may be subtle. Alcohol reveals what we feel, but shower time reveals what we think and what we truly feel in tandem. Liquid courage is effective for the body, but perhaps liquid body wash is the more emotionally intuitive elixir, offering a rare clarity that being absolutely hammered simply cannot match.

Featured Image: Ella Wimer

Categories
Creative Writing

Leopold The Russian Bear

By Robertha Green Gonzalez

Leopold was a Russian brown bear. Precisely how he came to inhabit the welfare rooms of the Sergei Rachmaninoff Conservatory remains an enigma, one of those strange realities people come to accept not through understanding, but through quiet resignation. It was said, simply, that he was there and there wasn’t really much one could do about it.

He was not, by nature, an objectionable tenant. Leopold bore himself with a certain melancholy dignity. He did not roar, nor did he disturb. To put it frankly, he wasn’t much of an inconvenience to anyone, unless of course you needed to use the welfare facilities, in which case, to put it rather bluntly, you were stumped.

Curiously, Leopold spoke excellent French. How a bear acquired such eloquence is unclear. Rumours abounded. The most persistent of them claimed he had learned the language in the 1970s in order to woo a violinist named Arabella. She, poor soul, never saw his face. She heard only the voice, low and resonant, emanating from behind a half-closed office door. And how could she have known? Leopold

was, if anything, a hopeless romantic though hopeless more in the sense of being ill-fated, or even morally adrift. He delighted not in love itself, but in its illusion.

In stringing Arabella along the path of imagined passion, he seemed to reach the outer edge of some dimly recalled humanity. But love requires flesh, and presence, and truth and Leopold, alas, was still a bear. When Arabella graduated, she vanished

from his life. There wasn’t much Leopold could do about the matter and since, Leopold has seldom spoken French.

I think the last noted occurrence was rather tragic really, as it was used with rather malicious intent – luring a visitor, an oboist if I’m correct into the welfare room and … well truly, no one saw her again, though the sound of her oboe – of the melody Gilles Silvestrini’s Six Etudes Pittoresque is apparently often heard in the quiet of the night.

There was, however, one particular occasion that stands out. Perhaps it even explains why Leopold is still allowed to reside in the welfare rooms at all. It was to do with his fondness for jazz. 

Naturally, jazz wasn’t something regularly heard in the conservatory reality, almost improper. Yet from the room below Leopold’s, it drifted upward now and then—the work of a saxophonist, a quiet prodigy. Lived mostly in major thirds and Chopin études. But jazz, that was where his heart sat. He kept his passion for it hidden, a

secret. Only late at night, when he was certain everyone else had gone home, would he indulge. Quiet at first, then freer, more wild. It was beautiful, really.

Leopold listened. Night after night, he’d sit in the welfare room above, unmoving. He assumed, based on the playing, that it was a “he” down there. He never checked. Leopold didn’t like leaving the welfare room. What mattered was that anyone who tried to interrupt the player, anyone who thought they might barge in or critique or ask politely for the practice room, was met with a rather unpleasant surprise the

following morning. A large, unmistakable one. Left just outside their door. It was, to put it plainly, Russian brown bear shit.

It didn’t take long for word to get around. Soon, no one dared interrupt the saxophonist. And a kind of understanding formed unspoken but very real, that if the bear liked your playing, then no one else had the right to question it. In a place filled with judgement, that kind of endorsement was priceless. Leopold and the saxophonist never actually spoke. Not once. But their silence said enough. A strange sort of friendship. One that didn’t need to be acknowledged to be deeply felt. In some ways, it may have been the thing the saxophonist needed most.

The following year, he quit the conservatory. Went off to play jazz full-time. In an interview, he was asked why. He said, simply, “It was the bear.”

And that was that.

Featured Image: Daniel Diesenreither

Categories
Creative Writing

Frank the Snail

By Robertha Green Gonzalez

The idiom goes: there are plenty of fish in the sea. 

But things were never that simple, because Frank was a snail. 

Not just any snail, either. Frank was a store-bought snail, living in a fish tank in Gary’s flat. Gary was a university dropout whose primary contributions to the world at that point were an overwatered spider plant and a lingering cloud of cheap marijuana smoke. 

Frank believed in love. He tried for love. But love, as a snail, is a difficult thing, prospects being what they are: limited and slippery. Not that Frank had nothing to offer. He was a hard worker, possessed a respectable shell, and came from a fine background. By which I mean he’d been raised in a rather high-end pet shop, the sort with clean glass tanks, with no yellow mould creeping in at the corners. He wasn’t your bargain bin £3.25 snail, oh no. Frank had cost £4.75. As far as he was concerned, he was top dollar. 

The trouble was, the tank was small. Too small. And the other inhabitants, those fish he admired from across the plastic castle, never seemed to stay long. He couldn’t understand it. Each time, he would notice one, admire them, imagine a future of quiet companionship at the bottom of the tank – and then gone. Off to somewhere else, somewhere bigger, somewhere freer. 

Frank didn’t know why. He only knew that, time after time, the fish he loved refused to stick around. And so he stayed, watching the water ripple, telling himself there were plenty of fish in the sea, even as the truth pressed in on the glass walls around him: 

There was no sea. Only Gary’s tank.

What Frank never understood, what no one ever told him, was that fish love fish. Always have, always will. And no matter how polished his shell, how steadfast his devotion, how utterly sincere his slow, circling affection… he would never be a fish. He would always, always be a £4.75 snail.

Featured Image: João Costa

Categories
Creative Writing

Noa the Wasp and the Fig

By Robertha Green Gonzalez

NOA.

The surrounding walls seemed to breathe; slow, patient, alive. For a moment she thought she was still inside a flower, but flowers didn’t hum like this. Flowers didn’t whisper. “You’re here,” said a voice, soft as ripened fruit. 

“Where is here?” Noa asked. 

“Inside,” said the fig. 

She tested her wings. The space was close; her movements left faint echoes in the sweetness around her. “I don’t remember coming here.” 

“You don’t have to,” murmured the fig. “Arrival is enough.” 

Noa tilted her head. “It’s dark.” 

“Light isn’t always kind,” said the fig. “Some things grow best in shadow.” The wasp tried to smile, for that was what Noa was. A wasp. Though she wasn’t sure if her face could still do that. “It smells like forever.” 

“That’s only ripening,” said the fig. “It feels endless when it begins.” 

She brushed her antennae against the inner wall. It was soft, almost trembling. “I was looking for something,” she said, but couldn’t recall what. A flicker of memory; open sky, the taste of air, a pulse of sun, and then it was gone. 

“You were looking for a place to belong,” the fig said. “And now you’ve found one.” Something inside Noa ached. Not pain exactly, but a slow turning inward, a folding of one thing into another. 

“Is it supposed to feel like this?” 

“Yes,” said the fig. “It’s the way joining feels.” 

She hesitated. “It’s hard to breathe.” 

“Breathe slower. You’re part of something larger now.” 

Noa’s wings brushed the walls again; they no longer sounded like wings. “Am I changing?” she asked. 

The fig’s voice deepened, distant. “As am I.” 

For a while, neither spoke. The warmth thickened, fragrant and heavy. She could feel her body soften, her thoughts growing drowsy, like syrup cooling. 

“I think I’m disappearing,” Noa whispered. 

“You’re becoming,” said the fig. 

“But I’m scared.” 

“I know,” said the fig. “So was I.” 

Her movements slowed. The sweetness pressed closer, gentle, inevitable. She thought she heard other voices, faint and humming, hidden in the fruit’s heart. Maybe they were memories. Maybe they were prayers. 

“Will you remember me?” she asked.

The fig pulsed once, tenderly. “Always. You’re the reason I can bear fruit at all.” The warmth deepened, and the fig closed around her, not as a tomb, but as a cradle. Outside, the world turned quietly toward autumn. Inside, everything that had been Noa drifted into the soft, patient rhythm of the fig; a rhythm that would feed the living, though she would never know it. 

And somewhere, far beyond her last thought, the air was still singing. 

THE FIG. 

And when all was quiet, the fig began to remember. 

It remembered the light that had once entered with her – brief, winged, trembling. It remembered her questions, her fear, the small pulse of her heart against its walls. In the slow language of roots and sap, memory is not a thought but a movement, a sweetness travelling outward. Noa became that sweetness. 

Inside its dark flesh, she was not gone. She was pattern. She was purpose. The fig felt her in every grain of itself, in every seed it now held a thousand small hearts waiting to be carried elsewhere. The fruit ripened not with time but with her. 

Sometimes, when the wind moved through the leaves, the fig imagined it could still hear her; that soft, uncertain voice asking what it meant to belong. It wanted to answer, but it had already spoken all it could: by holding her, by keeping her, by turning what was once fear into nourishment. 

Soon the skin would split, and the world would taste what they had become together. And no one would know her name, or her wings, or how gently she had asked to be remembered. But the sweetness would tell the story, in silence. 

And the fig, in its quiet fullness, would understand at last what death had meant: not ending, but the long patience of being carried forward; alive, inside everything that follows.

Featured Image: Honor Adams