Meth Was the Love of My Life.
Drugs are the devil. But even at their worst, no drug was ever more wicked than shooting meth.
Alcohol and crack were the most destructive. Opiates were too lovely to ruin by falling in love.
The loss of control is evident with other drugs. Not meth, not necessarily. At least that’s how I saw it. It’s psychological warfare, and it f*cks with you in ways other drugs just don’t.
It’s evil, and it’s wonderful. Wonderful ends. Evil doesn’t.
I’d gone from a being a university student living in my own 4-bedroom, 2-bathroom dorm (meaning it was the spring and summer session, and I got lucky, but still…) to being homeless, to finally pulling my sh*t together and moving in with my old crack-dealer (who really was an anything-dealer) — all within three months.
And I believed my little lies.
I believed I was okay.
Time flashed by.
Drunk voices yelling.
Did you get clean rigs?
Hours. Days. Months.
What time is it?
Our group was a grotesque circus ring. All of us, addicts. Different poison, same purpose. The music was loud and vibrated along the walls. Drunk people would be yelling somewhere in the old walk-up, and my bed went from a broken box spring, to a broken box spring with a deflated air mattress.
For one whole summer, I did nothing but party and debase myself. Meth was the love of my life. I was shooting 30-packs by the end of the summer, when everything imploded. I did everything I never let myself do sober. I stole. I walked around the city at 3 am, binning for treasure with Mephistopheles, getting amped up on bad behavior.
A friend of a friend would always luck out with a new laptop, or brand new brand-name watches. But other than a cool vintage record player, some brand-name purses and a few iPhones, most nights brought in things like colorful neon yardsticks, and a grey hoodie I still have.
I loved that summer.
For a brief but shining moment, I felt like the star of my own life. I felt like somebody, and I’d forgotten that feeling. I knew everyone. I could hook you up with anything you needed. I stopped having a heart for a bit.
I didn’t really love it there. I couldn’t. But I really f*cking did a bit too.
By the end of the summer, we unknowingly dropped salts. Shit hit the fan. We clawed at each other’s throats. I threw Mephistopheles out with a note that I remember was supposed to be offensive. It wasn’t.
My psychosis was so bad, I ran away from Broadway to live with the ex-boyfriend who used to beat me like he was making morning coffee.
More. Meth. Please.
It’s not until you’re sitting in your new boyfriend’s bedroom another year later — cradling your arms, so full of pain and rage and bitterness and track marks — that you realize you’re not in control anymore. Maybe you never were. Maybe it was just the exhaustion, but not really. It was clarity.
I didn’t see it coming, and when it did, I didn’t notice it. It was voodoo. I thought I was in control, but it distorted everything. I was a frog in boiling water. Now I know why they call meth a b*tch. It really is a f*cking b*tch.
But by then it’s too late.
You love her.
Helana Rosales is currently writing a collection of personal essays on mental illness, addiction (and sobriety), and relationships. Find her at HIITSH.