Episode Summary:

This confession starts with parents who are addicted to alcohol and cigarettes — and without meaning to, hand their daughter a different drug: caffeine. Because milk and juice are considered “too expensive,” coffee becomes her everyday drink as a small child. By kindergarten, she’s asking for coffee instead of milk at snack time. Through high school and college, coffee transforms from a comfort into a dependency that contributes to a catastrophic stomach ulcer in her early twenties. Even after life‑saving surgery, she rationalizes her caffeine use through pills, fancy coffee drinks, and an office culture built around Starbucks — until a five‑hundred‑dollar monthly latte bill and a collapsing marriage force her to see coffee as what it is for her: an addiction.

What You'll Hear in This Episode

• How financial strain and parental alcoholism led to a household where a toddler was regularly given coffee in place of milk and juice.
• The surreal moment in kindergarten when she asks her teacher for coffee instead of milk and is rushed to the principal’s office for saying so.
• High school years fueled by Dunkin’ Donuts runs and late‑night study pots, culminating in a bedroom percolator gifted by her parents.
• The early adult turning point: her mother’s death at 47 from alcohol and cigarettes, followed by unexplained, excruciating stomach pain that doctors initially misattribute to grief.
• The public collapse at a career fair — vomiting blood and waking up in the ER — and the emergency surgery for a perforated stomach ulcer.
• The social worker who notices that her hands stop shaking only after she secretly drinks a cup of coffee in the hospital, and gently introduces the word “addiction.”
• How she sidesteps post‑surgery caffeine bans by switching to NoDoz pills, later graduating to office Starbucks runs, whipped‑cream‑topped drinks, and “skinny” lattes that destroy her budget.
• The shocking payday realization that she’s spent nearly $500 on coffee in a single month — and the fallout: unpaid bills, a furious husband, nanny cams, lost trust, and ultimately, divorce.

Key Takeaways

• Caffeine addiction can begin in early childhood when coffee is normalized and even celebrated in the home.
• Severe gastrointestinal consequences — including ulcers and perforations — can be directly tied to heavy, long‑term caffeine use, even in otherwise “healthy” young adults.
• Switching from coffee to caffeine pills, or from sugary drinks to “skinny” lattes, doesn’t address the underlying addiction; it just changes its form.
• Financial chaos, secrecy, and relationship breakdowns can all stem from a stimulant habit that nobody takes as seriously as they would alcohol or drugs.
• Recognizing caffeine as an addiction — not a quirky preference — is often the first step toward regaining financial, physical, and relational stability.

Who Should Listen

• Anyone who grew up in a household where coffee was freely given to kids and viewed as harmless.
• People with a history of ulcers, stomach pain, or GI bleeding who also rely heavily on coffee or caffeine pills.
• Office workers who casually run multiple times a day to Starbucks or similar chains and never check their monthly spend.
• Partners of individuals whose caffeine habit seems to be driving financial strain, mood swings, or health issues.
• Listeners wrestling with the idea that “it’s just coffee” might, for them, actually be a serious addictive pattern.

Resources & Links

🌐 Visit us at https://linktr.ee/UnwiredLife

📖 Confessions of a Caffeine Addict by Marina Kushner

📩 Share your own caffeine confession: https://linktr.ee/UnwiredLife

🛒 Live Unwired Merch: LiveUnwired.org

Mentioned in this episode:

Trailer

Caffeine gene. They say addicts are born. There is a simple little gene lurking somewhere in our DNA that gets triggered and bingo, your life changes forever.

They also say addiction runs in families. I learned early on that my parents were alcoholics and heavy smokers. By age 7, I could make the perfect martini.

I could spell Pinot noir before most of my friends could spell their own names. Of course, even with my bartending skills, my parents never let me have even a tiny sip of any of my perfectly mixed potions.

They did, however, unwittingly manage to get me addicted to caffeine. To this day, I wonder which would have been.

I grew up poor, not trailer park and welfare poor, but there were circumstances beyond our control that ate up all our income. Immediately poor.

When I was three, my mother gave birth to a perfect baby boy who promptly contracted spinal meningitis and then within a few months, polio, leaving him a virtual living vegetable. My mother until then had owned a string of yarn shops in Boston and my father was a bookkeeper.

After my brother was born, my mother was never able to work again.

And apparently every penny that my father brought home was used for some kind of therapy, medication and ultimately plenty of medication for my parents, liquor. This was the beginning of the end for them. I remember suddenly learning that I could no longer have huge glasses of milk or juice.

They were now reserved for cocktails. Money was tight and the family needed to cut back on non necessities.

Apparently they didn't think it was necessary for a toddler to have juice and milk. They had no problem in giving me coffee, however, that's when it started. I came to love weekend mornings.

I would get up early to watch cartoons and wait for my father to emerge from the bedroom to give me breakfast. My father always explained to me that mother likes to sleep late in the mornings because she probably had too much the night before.

As I witnessed my parents growing alcohol addiction, little did I know that my own addiction was just beginning. At the ripe old age of four, my dear parents found it quite acceptable to give me coffee and tea, and lots of it.

They were cheap, certainly cheaper than gallons of milk and juice. On cold winter mornings, I looked forward to having coffee with my dad. He even showed me how to make it all by myself.

This also entailed showing me how to turn on the burners on the gas stove, which apparently no one considered as a problem. When my father returned to work on Monday mornings, I was left to my own devices.

My mother unfailingly stayed in bed until about noon and I was left to tend to my little brother who was learning to crawl and walk. I would make my coffee just like dad had taught me. And I would put some in my brother's bottle too.

Because until my mother got up to breastfeed him, there was no other choice. Even my mother learned to take advantage of my new coffee brewing skills. Now when she awoke, she no longer demanded only a vodka and juice.

She now wanted coffee to go along with it. I would sometimes sit on the bed with her as we shared our coffee. Soon it was time for me to start kindergarten.

My father explained to me, you know how mother doesn't like getting up in the morning. You'll need to feed and dress yourself and get to school on time. I did. My first day of school was indeed a learning experience.

What I remember vividly was a snack time. Ms. Smith carefully walked through the room, neatly placing one cookie and a carton of milk in front of each of us.

As each child tore into his cart and I sat there hesitating. Ms. Smith asked if I felt all right. I assured her I was fine. But I promptly asked if I might have a cup of coffee instead of the milk.

Because I wasn't allowed to drink milk. To this day, I remember the exact expression on her face as she rushed me to the principal's office.

As I sat in front of Mrs. Fyne, the school principal, I was asked to confirm my request for coffee. I said, yes, please. I even offered to show her how to make it, just in case that was the cause of the delay in having my request granted.

I immediately noticed that Mrs. Fyne had the same look on her face as Ms. Smith. There ensued a short telephone conversation with my mother, whereupon I was led back to my schoolroom to enjoy my milk and cookie.

My mornings at home, however, did not change. I either made my coffee or went without. Until the age of about 16, coffee was nothing more than a beverage of choice.

I never once felt that I needed it. Although I did realize that I couldn't function in the morning until my coffee kicked in.

During my junior year, a new Dunkin Donuts was built right across from the high school. At lunch, my friends and I frequently snuck over there.

At first they would order sodas, but they quickly learned the benefits of coffee once I showed them how to drink it and we became regulars there. I was beginning to truly understand the wonderful benefits of coffee. Until the age of 16 or so, I drank it solely because I enjoyed the taste.

Or so I believed. I started to realize that coffee helped me to wake up Stay awake, function and even think.

Studying was so much easier with a pot of coffee next to me. For Christmas in my junior year, my parents gave me an electric percolator to keep in my bedroom.

In the spring of my first year in college, my mother died. The alcohol and the cigarettes finally got her. She died Fairly young, at 47. She knew she would.

She would tell me my only pleasures are smoking and drinking. No one wanted to take those pleasures away. Soon after she died, I began to experience severe stomach pains.

They were devastating, gut wrenching pains. I would spend days in bed. The school doctor insisted that I was grieving over my mother. The nurse thought they might be menstrual cramps.

I still had my coffee. No matter how sick I became, I needed the caffeine boost to help me through the nauseous haze that I would find myself in for days at a time.

At home, my father was at a loss what to do for me, as he had his own problems to deal with. Once he lost my mother, he plunged himself even deeper into the comforts of bottles of Jack Daniels and ultimately lost his job.

He was quickly being swallowed by depression. He became irretrievably lost in his own misery. I spent most of my spare time trying to comfort him, ignoring my own illness.

One day, we had a career fair at school. I was feeling fine and had been fine for a few weeks.

I was looking forward to this event because I wanted to be a writer and I knew there would be publishing houses at the fair. As I approached one of the tables, I was suddenly struck with a horrendous pain which caused me to double over and drop my books.

My friend Julie tried to grab my arm. I promptly vomited blood all over her, the floor, my books, and me. The last thought I had before passing out was, oh, no, these are my new shoes.

I woke up in the emergency room. It's so noisy. I remember telling a nurse hovering near my head.

Without any explanation of my condition or kind words to assure me all would be fine, she blurted out, honey, we need to find your father so he can consent to surgery or you're going to die. I pictured my father sitting at his usual spot at the kitchen table with a glass and a bottle of Jack Daniels before slipping into oblivion.

One more time, I whispered, mostly to myself, well, I guess I'm going to die. The next time I woke up, I was having a tube removed from my throat and someone was softly slapping my cheek, saying, you made it.

The operation is over. I quickly assessed my situation. I heard I felt nauseous and my head was pounding. Thankfully, I fell back to sleep.

It wasn't until the following day that I learned that no one could locate my father in time and surgery was performed without parental consent to save my life before I bled to death. Apparently, I'd had an untreated stomach ulcer that perforated. In other words, my stomach had a hole in it.

Assuming I had some issues at home to deal with, they had a social worker come in to visit me. After she introduced herself as Ms. Blair, she asked if there was anything she could get for me. I wanted coffee. I wanted my comfort food.

I was never given warm, freshly baked homemade cookies or fried chicken or mashed potatoes and gravy to help me through a bad day. My mother never cooked much, so I never learned to equate food with feeling better.

I never learned that losing myself in a half gallon of ice cream could cure just about anything. I did, however, learn that a warm cup of coffee always offered whatever solace I was craving.

There was something cosy and comforting in just holding the cup and letting the steaming aroma clear my senses. I told Ms. Blair, they won't let me have anything. Can you find me some coffee?

All she said was, wow, Usually by now everyone's looking for a sandwich. You just want a cup of coffee.

I don't know how she pulled it off, but she quickly returned with a paper cup full of coffee with cream and sugar, just as I had asked. As she reached over to hand it to me, she noticed my hands were shaking very badly.

She said nothing as she watched me drain the cup of every drop it held. After we chatted about school and about my home life, she commented that my hands had stopped shaking.

She looked a bit concerned and then asked me how long I'd been drinking coffee. I said, all my life. Her immediate response was, I think you are addicted to caffeine. That's most probably what caused your stomach to rupture.

Addicted? I was offended. I didn't use drugs. I didn't even drink alcohol. How can anyone get addicted to coffee? It's just coffee.

After another week, I was sent home with a strict diet that prohibited caffeine products. I knew that I was very sick, but there was a limit to the number of sacrifices that I was about to make.

It was bad enough that I had to limit myself to bland, soft foods for a few months. When our common sense fails us, however, Mother Nature usually steps in.

It seemed that every time I took even a few sips of coffee or even Pepsi, I would get violently Ill. It didn't take long to realize maybe I really shouldn't drink coffee. I did have some problems when I tried to cut back, though.

Headaches, shaking, cold sweats, and bouts of nausea. I was already sick enough without needing to deal with how much worse I felt sans caffeine.

A friend of mine pointed out that a no dose tablet has the same amount of caffeine as a cup of coffee. When it became unbearable, I would just pop a pill, reminding myself that I was no addict. I had lived like this for years.

No matter where I went, I had a bottle of Tums and a bottle of no doughs. No matter what, I always needed at least my morning coffee fix. I was worthless, not even human. Before I had a cup of coffee, I couldn't think.

I could barely move. Two marriages, two children, and several jobs later, I managed to find the perfect job that combined writing and editing, and I was thrilled.

I had worked hard to reach this lifelong goal. A convenient supply of coffee was an added perk, so to speak. I was working in a building with its own Starbucks on the first floor.

I quickly learned that almost everyone in my office took multiple coffee breaks every day. And we even employed a coffee boy whose sole raison d' etre was to make hourly runs to Starbucks to satisfy the entire staff's caffeine cravings.

I was thrilled to be working with people just like me to make it even more convenient. Our Starbucks charges would just be deducted from our paychecks, so the coffee boy didn't have to carry too much cash. I started simple.

I was still painfully aware that too much coffee just plain hurt.

I had learned to control my intake only because of the resulting pain, not to control the actual addiction, a term that I still refused to use to describe my love of coffee. I would order small drinks with lots of frappe, frothy stuff topped with whipped cream with a little coffee.

My stomach tolerated these drinks quite well. But in two weeks my skirts got too tight and no matter how happy my tummy might have been, I had to find other alternatives.

One day I ran downstairs by myself to ask what I could have that was light on the coffee and super light on the fat and calories. I learned about skinny vanilla lattes with no sugar syrup. Bring it on. These babies were 75% milk.

I could have my coffee and make up for all the lost calcium from my childhood years. I had discovered a long sought after nirvana of the highest order. Or so I thought.

On pay day that month, I immediately tried to pay my cell phone bill. Online as I always did.

However, instead of the usual confirmation page thanking me, I got an error message saying we cannot complete this transaction. I opened my pay envelope which included my deposit slip from Direct Deposit.

I was shocked to see the tiny amount that was deposited and upon further inspection, I was doubly shocked to see what my Starbucks withdrawals had been for the month. It never once occurred to me to start financially tracking my grand latte consumption. I was more concerned with watching my caffeine intake.

My bill for that month was close to $500, even though that did include some food along with my daily supply of lattes. I was now in a position where I couldn't pay my cell phone bill, my car insurance or my daughter's school tuition.

I would need to confess to my husband that evening and ask for money. During dinner, I tried as best I could to put a light hearted spin on this little shortcoming of mine.

Not at all amused, my husband grabbed my arm and roughly shook me. He said that he would not allow me to ruin our family and our excellent credit rating because of my addiction. His words stung.

There was that word addiction again. For Pete's sake, I told him, it's coffee. I'm not doing drugs and I'm not spending my paycheck on liquor like my parents did. It's coffee.

And I screamed at one point. At this point, my 16 year old daughter walked in and got an earful. Always siding with me. She announced, oh chill dad.

Rhonda's mom got caught doing meth. Mom's addicted to what? Lattes? Geez. My husband was in computer sales.

His accounts and his commissions had dwindled dramatically over the previous few months thanks to the dot com bubble bursting and I had unwittingly become the breadwinner. He was forced to withdraw funds from his 401k to pick up this lack.

He then made me quit my job because even though I hadn't realized it, I had indeed had a major relapse and couldn't be trusted anywhere near a coffee supplier. I started doing freelance writing and editing and began working from home.

He installed nanny cams all over the house to make sure that I was drinking acceptable potions, non caffeinated cola, decaf coffee, herbal teas, juice.

He took my car keys away and one day when I decided that I needed some fresh air and tried to go for a simple walk around the block, his friend, a police officer, pulled up to ask where I was going. One rainy day while I was still under my husband's imposed house arrest, my adorable daughter tried sneaking me an espresso once.

She placed it on my desk in front of me. My husband's booming voice came through the speaker system. Step away from the coffee. She laughed. I cried.

It took a year for my husband to trust me again, but it was never the same. He said it was worse than me having another man. He said that he could fight another man. He could at least try to win me back.

He could even blame himself for my perceived need to have an affair. But he didn't know how to contend with lattes and mocha frappuccinos.

He didn't know how someone could spend an entire paycheck on an addiction and not pay other bills. He couldn't understand. We divorced, but remained close friends and live only blocks from each other.

One day, a few months after the divorce, we needed to get together to discuss the sale of some investment property we owned. He sent me a text message and asked if we could grab some coffee so he could show me some papers. I had to giggle.

I answered him and said, perhaps we should meet at a bar and have a few drinks like normal people. We did. I couldn't help thinking, jeez, it's just coffee. It's not easy. I thought it would be. I kept saying, it's just coffee.

However, I'm all too aware that the side effects are worse than occasional stomach pains and indigestion.

A simple cup of coffee at three and a half had spiralled me into a lifelong addiction that caused serious financial problems, loss of a job, and the loss of a husband. Denial is no longer an issue that I deal with. I am an addict. I live like an addict because I have no choice. You can spot us right away.

We are the ones placing our orders with the baristas who ask us, would you like an extra shot in that? We need to close our eyes, gain composure, count to 10, and calmly reply, no, thank you.

Last Christmas, my daughter asked me for a Starbucks gift card. I wish I could find that little gene in her head and turn it off before it gets out of control. All I can do is watch and pray.