high-functioning opioid addicts in visual media.

“You never get a happy ending, ’cause there’s always more show.” — BoJack Horseman, “Free Churro” (Season 5, Episode 6)

In the shrine of television eulogies, Free Churro stands as the central deity — elegant, unforgettable, and the one whose eyes you meet when you’re praying through your most desperate moments. As impressive as the 26-minute monologue is in capturing the grief of losing a parent with whom one has a complicated relationship, I can’t help but see Free Churro as the quiet threshold — the last episode of Season 5 before BoJack slips into a harrowing addiction to prescription opioids. After being prescribed painkillers to manage the pain from an on-set injury, BoJack discovers they do far more than numb his body — they quiet the deeper, older aches he’s carried for years.

The aforementioned quote isn’t just a clever line BoJack delivers at his mother’s funeral — it distills the central torment of his character: the compulsive need to perform. In Free Churro, the entire eulogy is just another monologue in a life defined by rehearsed emotion. The line itself first appears when BoJack’s mother coldly urges him to perform regardless of how he feels inside — a lesson he later passes down to his young co-star Sarah Lynn. The cycle of performance-for-survival proves to be detrimental to Sarah Lynn, in similar ways as it is to BoJack. In his desperate attempt to keep the facade of his life intact, BoJack turns to substances — from alcohol to opioids. Throughout the series, he seeks ways to numb his pain, embracing a hedonistic lifestyle that allows him to escape, all while maintaining the outward appearance of a successful actor. In today’s world, his addiction is a response to the societal structures of neoliberal capitalism — where success is measured by constant productivity, personal branding, and the relentless performance of happiness, valuing his output over his humanity.

While BoJack Horseman offers us a rare window into the inner life of a high-functioning addict, most such stories remain sealed off in real life. We’re not afforded the luxury of hearing their eulogies, nor witnessing the slow, precise unraveling behind the scenes. What makes BoJack’s addiction so believable — and so quietly devastating — is the way it hides in plain sight. His descent doesn’t explode, it hums along, uninterrupted by collapse. And that’s the tragedy — in a neoliberal framework that worships output, the addict who continues to produce is never asked if they’re okay. As they don’t blow their social or economic capital on their suffering, it’s allowed to persist — in fact, they only lose when they confront their addictions. When pain adapts itself to a performance, it becomes even harder to destigmatize, let alone treat.

Contrasting BoJack Horseman’s critical take on the invisibility of high-functioning addicts is Pulp Fiction’s Mia Wallace — not an opioid user by design, but a cocaine addict who accidentally overdoses on heroin. Before her near-death moment, she’s seen sharing moments of genuine, almost philosophical conversation with Vincent Vega, her husband’s associate. The audience isn’t repelled by her addiction — instead, it adds to her mystery and allure. Within the world of Pulp Fiction and its viewers, Mia Wallace’s cocaine addiction lives as a part of her aesthetic persona within a world that commodifies her addiction — as a result, she is romanticized and glamorized. Every Halloween, people dress up in her iconic outfit: the sleek bob, the blood-red lipstick, the cigarette in hand, wearing her addiction as a costume. This fanbase can largely be explained by the well-known halo effect, a cognitive bias in which people overlook flaws or misgivings when someone possesses other widely admired and positive traits. Filmmakers and actors often capitalize on the halo effect when portraying opioid addicts, crafting flawed yet relatable characters that align with audiences’ compensatory beliefs — the idea that personal shortcomings are offset by talent, charm, or success.

While Mia Wallace’s addiction is aestheticized into a cinematic enigma, Dr. Gregory House from House, M.D. brings forth yet another portrayal of a high-functioning addict. House’s Vicodin addiction is framed as an inevitable side effect of his brilliance as a diagnostician, rather than a deeply personal struggle — unlike in BoJack Horseman, where addiction is treated with far more emotional gravity. Personally, I’m more drawn to House, M.D. for its accurate portrayal of opioid withdrawal — from Dr. House breaking his own fingers to trigger an endorphin release, to the relentless vomiting and nausea that underscore the severity of his dependence. Many believe that House, M.D. offers a realistic portrayal of a high-functioning opioid addict, but this perception is largely shaped by the rise of the eccentric genius trope in contemporary media. A similar portrayal of an opioid addict is BBC’s Sherlock. As unrealistic as the portrayal may be, shows like House, M.D. or films like Pulp Fiction can still offer a sense of validation or morale boost to recovering opioid addicts, who see brilliant or wealthy characters grappling with the same struggles they’ve faced.

However, not all portrayals of opioid addiction offer viewers comfort or a happy ending. Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream follows four characters, each haunted by their dependencies — heroin, amphetamines, and, most tragically, their dreams. The film presents a raw, unflinching narrative of the typical descent into addiction, particularly for those from working-class backgrounds. In stark contrast to the “high-functioning opioid addict” trope, Requiem for a Dream showcases how these characters’ stories culminate in degradation, highlighting how economic status can exacerbate the depths of addiction. What’s considered glamorous or sophisticated for the wealthy could be degrading and devastating for the poor.

While Requiem for a Dream offers a grim, and at times accurate, portrayal of the consequences of opioid addiction, it doesn’t capture the full spectrum of hard drug use in real life. Media portrayals that focus on opioid addicts as deadbeat parents or the homeless only reinforce a harmful social stigma surrounding drug use. In reality, many individuals can use substances responsibly, whether for recreation or self-medication, without falling into the destructive cycle often depicted on screen. It’s important to approach those with addictive personalities with empathy, offering support and assistance whenever possible. At the same time, the invisibility of high-functioning opioid addicts is a serious issue, one that deserves far more attention than it currently receives.

The real-world opioid crisis is far from simple, and can affect anyone, from adults struggling with chronic pain who turn to prescription opioids, to teenagers experimenting with pills they find at home, to a child who accidentally takes their parent’s medication.

According to the CDC, while overall drug overdose deaths showed some signs of decline in 2023, it remains the leading cause of death among Americans aged 18-44 (CDC, 2025). The data shows that while there has been a slight reduction in deaths, opioid misuse continues to devastate lives. What’s often left out of such statistics is the role economic factors play in addiction. The working class bears a disproportionate burden, not only due to limited access to proper care and resources but also because addiction is often viewed through a narrow, moralistic lens — particularly when the user is from a lower socio-economic class. As the WHO highlights, in 2022, approx. 60 million people engaged in non-medical opioid use, and there were 450,000 deaths as a result of opioids — making it crucial for those with opioid dependencies to undergo appropriate treatment and care (WHO, 2025).

It’s important to keep the discussion on opioid addiction alive, particularly focusing on opioid use within marginalized or otherwise disadvantaged communities, while also keeping an eye on high-functioning opioid users. The idea that drug use must inevitably lead to ruin overlooks how access to resources, support systems, and the ability to maintain a balanced approach to consumption can play key roles in preventing addiction from spiraling out of control, while also giving little hope to those who suffer from opioid abuse. This distinction — between responsible use and addiction — must be recognized if we are to fully understand the complexities of the opioid crisis.