The counselor had to physically restrain me in the remediation room in 5th grade.

"Calm down, Ryan," she said. "It's just a video game."

When I was in elementary school, I gave one of my friends, who I'll call Chris, information to my account to MapleStory, a high-profile MMORPG in the past 15 years. He told me that he could give me more gold and more levels in my MapleStory account, and I foolishly believed him: my account password was changed the next day, and I lost access to the account.

At the time, I was really young, fully unable to control my temper, and simply a very different person that I'm now ashamed of being. I lashed out at Chris at the playground frequently, threatening to make his life miserable and beat him up, while Chris denied ever changing the information to my account. The tension rose so much to capture the attention of multiple classmates, and we were called to the counselor's office in an attempt to resolve the issue.

I bounced back on MapleStory with different accounts and characters, but that's not the point. The game eventually changed enough to be less fun, and with age and rapid maturity, I gave up on it.

It was clear that MapleStory was my first addiction. In retrospect, it showed that I was an addict at heart, and I have used that knowledge for both caution and drive. I have been far more grounded ever since I found my faith.

My consuming anger at Chris over a stupid video game was not okay. And although I was just a child, and the fact that I have completely let go of a grudge that seems so trivial now, I now thank Chris for teaching me more about myself during my younger years, and I also want to thank Chris for showing me how far I've come, developed, and become molded into the image of God from the volatile, angry, and extremely immature child I was.

Above all, though, I want to thank Chris for showing me the underside of my nature, for showing me that I'm an addict.

Over the course of many years, my life revolved around online video games like MapleStory or console games, with me losing sleep and devoting whole days on weekends to playing video games. My identity revolved around my success in video games and my ability to accomplish all the things I neglected in real life, and there was no one to blame for that but myself.

"Gaming disorder" was recently recognized by the WHO to be included in the International Classification of Diseases. I know the thought is wrong, but I am reticent to put video game addictions on the same tier as alcoholism or opioid addictions. The level of damage inflicted upon entire families and communities by video games hasn't reached the level of alcohol or opioids.

But I have also gone through phases throughout college where to socialize effectively and to be an accepted member of society at parties, I had to have, one, two, or several drinks. Addiction is defined scientifically by the American Society of Medicine as "an individual pathologically pursuing reward and/or relief by substance use or other behaviors." On an emotional and sometimes even physical level, addiction is the illusion that you need something to survive.

There's deep emptiness behind every addiction: the appeal behind MapleStory, to me, was always the Massively Multiplayer Online (MMO) part, the part that allowed me to socialize with strangers and unite into collective causes to complete quests and defeat monsters. These online connections, albeit not with people I ever met in real life, transcended the connections I made on the playground, as my abrasive, rude, and overly competitive self made it difficult to make lasting friends. As I got older, this same need to socialize matured itself to clinging to communities around a common cause, such as my cross country teams, newspaper staff, or community at work. Occasionally, it would be the one-too-many drinks at a party.

Recently, I accompanied a good friend to a few Narcotics Anonymous meetings, and I was in awe of the openness and resilience of every person who sat and shared in those meetings. What became a pattern, to me, was that for everyone, there were things behind their addictions, deep issues that manifested themselves in using as a band-aid solution.

Chris showed me that I'm an addict, but for the 12 years since, I have realized that there were deep issues behind those addictions, like childhood trauma, a lack of a spiritual foundation, and the absence of meaningful social connections.

Thank you, Chris, for showing me I'm an addict.