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Letters from Crystal Meth Users

  • Feb

    Admissions of a Life Addict

    It hurts to write. Part of me wants to hide and hover in the dark corners of my mind; to lie to you; to me; to everyone, and say that I'm doing just fine. Emptiness is nothing; it's the loneliness that stings. I blame myself because I realize I was looking for an addiction all along. I always seemed to find the anodynes to nurture that romanticized state of being tragic. That special place of darkness where all the tortured artists, musicians and writers breathed.

    I felt beautiful at first and it didn't matter what you thought of me. I was untouchable, inspired, above all trivial human needs like hunger or sleep. I painted feverishly into the mechanical night and into the pale white sterile morning. I had found my new secret best friend. Then I began to slip. I found myself becoming indifferent to the people around me. I didn't need anyone. I would be starting college in the fall and as long as there was speed I would leave everyone behind.

    Then my grandmother died and my best friend read my journal. We did crystal together on weekends. Her boyfriend was my dealer. She read my journal to everyone and told people I was crazy because I wrote how crystal had given her an eating disorder and how I had met one too. I suppose there is something dreadfully painful about truth amidst lies. Yet writing has been the only way for me to make sense of anything in my life. I never meant to hurt her and I know she meant to hurt me but it's not her fault. She is just as lost as me. It's funny how humans process the herd mentality.

    I was cast out from my meth friends then. This was a blessing I did not realize at the time. So I moved to the city determined to start a new path. I put all my attention into art school, and kept myself busy at all times. I watched as my once frail figure expanded into thickness. Inside there was a part of me that secretly missed speed. I cared what everyone thought of me. I disgusted myself. I asked my mother if I could see a psychiatrist since I have been struggling with ADHD since I was very young. I remember sitting in the doctor's office. He was writing me a prescription for Adderall and then asked if I had ever had any problems with meth or coke. I could have said yes, I should have said yes but something inside me had already decided before I walked into his office. "No, I like my pot but that's about it." What a lie, a blatant lie, for I had made it my mission at 15 to experience every drug known to man and so far had accomplished this twisted goal with the exception of peyote and a couple other obscure things.

    I got my prescription and went on my way. Pharmaceuticals speed, paid for by my insurance. How could it get any better than this? I never took it properly. I meant to but from day one I always had to have just one more pill to get me motivated then another and another until I was a machine and two weeks short on my supply.

    When Christmas rolled around I decided to splurge on some meth after 6 months clean and got ripped off with a stingy bag from my ex-dealer. I won't waste the space going over every little slip that brought me to this point only that after a few more splurges I decided to take one big jump and fly to Las Vegas and get an ounce. I flew there by myself 21 years old to meet a friend of a friend in the city of sin. I was there for nine days and got so high I thought I'd lost my mind. I met a guy and got addicted to him just like I seem to get addicted to everything in life. Aha, that's what I am, an addict of life. I had been going through guys like lines since left for school. None of them meant anything and I liked it that way.

    I ended up missing my flight and had to reschedule. My suit case was stolen by some tweekers I partied with in my hotel and a heroin addict prostitute who just kind of showed up like a shadow. I felt insane all alone on a planet of neon lights and slot machines. The guy came to get me and we pretended to need each other while trying to hurt each other because we were so unraveled it made since to get tangled and knotted into each other.

    Then I left for home with a nickel in my pocket. My mother called to make sure I was okay, alive. She asked if I had gotten a drug problem or into some sort of trouble. I told her it was just my damn ADD and I was a scatterbrain. She knew deep down I know, but she couldn't prove it. I did so much speed in Vegas I had little left when I got home. I had gone through it so hastily, rail after rail, bowl after bowl. I had now slipped from recreational dabbling weekend trysts to everyday rituals just to function. I tried to conserve but a week past and I was out.

    I can't even begin to describe the exhaustion and depression I have brought on myself from drug abuse. I am three days clean and it feels like an eternity. Every time a twinge of discomfort or uneasiness bestowed me I had a shard cure ready. Yet now it hurts from every corner of my being and I can't hide. I don't know whether I am dying or being born and I suppose now I should have plenty of inspiration for my paintings but it's too real. I'm not a religious person but when I was a little girl up to a couple years ago I used to pray to God and beg him to forgive me and to comfort me when I was lost. I used to promise to be good. Then I would feel this peace within me unlike any other, warmth inside like love. I would change and I'd move forward. I got into college, got writing published, and amazing things would happen. But somewhere along the line I'd slip again. How many times can one promise to change, without ever fully changing? I'm so tired of letting everyone down, tired of breaking my promises, just so tired.

    I am 21 years old and will have an uphill battle to face for the rest of my life. Sometimes I wonder who I would be if I had turned down that first line, or realized that like every human being I deserve to be loved. I preferred to be a machine rather than a person because I wanted control. Everything I thought I found in speed was the things I lost, because I have traded them in for a quick high. I hope God forgives me. I hope I can forgive me one day too.


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