Why Artists Turn to Drugs

The dream starts brightly: a song, a stage, a legacy. For countless artists, it’s a fire that burns hot until it doesn’t. Take Josh not his real name, but a true soul who’s been there. Fresh from university with a Bachelor’s degree in Industrial and Fine Art, he didn’t settle for a cubicle. “I wanted to create everything,” he says, his voice steady but heavy with memory. “The music, the videos, the designs, I’d be the whole machine.” As a songwriter and producer, he plunged into the industry, hunting for the hit that would make his name. But the climb was slow, and the years bled into each other as he sold beats for pennies and stacked unreleased songs that gathered dust.

By the age of 30, Josh had little to show but a few indie tracks and a growing ache from time lost. Then COVID hit, silencing the world and his hustle. Gigs vanished, pitched songs stayed shelved, and depression crept in like a shadow. “I was fighting wars that weren’t mine,” he says, “caught in industry politics, losing allies over things I couldn’t fix.” Drugs slipped in quietly not as inspiration, but as a way to mute the regrets piling up. “I should’ve taken that job after school,” he admits. “It would’ve kept me fed while I figured this out.”

Josh’s story isn’t unique, it’s a refrain echoed across the creative world, from bedroom studios to sold-out arenas. In Uganda, whispers circulate about Geosteady, the Afrobeat star behind “Owooma” and “Tokendeeza.” claiming he’s in rehab hint at a battle with addiction. It’s unconfirmed, just speculation, but it fits the pattern of an artist under pressure, teetering on the edge. Whether true or not, it raises a lingering question: Why do so many artists turn to drugs?

The answers aren’t simple, but they’re rooted in the crucible of the creative life. The pressure to produce is relentless, each track becomes a gamble on relevance, and every year without a win is a weight on the soul. For Josh, it was the grind of waiting for a break that never came. Research supports this; the Journal of Substance Abuse Treatment links high-stress creative fields to substance use as a coping tool. The National Institute on Drug Abuse adds that mental health struggles like the depression and anxiety Josh faced double the odds of reaching for a fix.

The culture plays a part as well. Music scenes can feel like a nonstop party, where drugs are as common as the beat drops. “It’s just there,” Josh says. “You don’t always choose it, it chooses you.” And then there’s the myth of the “tortured artist,” suffering for art’s sake. Society consumes this notion, think Hendrix, Winehouse turning pain into legend. But Josh shakes his head. “It’s not art, it’s survival. You’re not creating better; you’re just hurting less.”

For Josh, the spiral may have looked like depression feeding substance use, a diagnosis too common among artists. The instability of the gig economy, the emotional toll of rejection, and the quiet despair of “what if” nudged him toward escape. Alcohol could have been the start; harder substances, a deeper dive. Recovery meant stepping back. “I got a job and it was nothing fancy, just steady,” he says. “I wrote on my terms. Therapy helped when I could get it.” Not every artist has that lifeline; access to support varies, and in places like Uganda, resources can be scarce.

This story isn’t new, but it’s human. It’s Josh, staring down a decade of “what ifs.” It’s the whispered rumors of a star like Geosteady, whether true or not. It’s the push and pull of creation and collapse, played out in studios and souls worldwide. “I wish I’d known it didn’t have to be all or nothing,” Josh reflects, holding a quiet hope for those still in the fray. For every artist teetering on the edge, the prayer is that the music doesn’t fade to silence but rises again, stronger.