That’s the thing about meth, you see. There’s no such thing as a casual user. It all starts off with just “one hit”. But the one turns into two, to three, to four, and so on. It just doesn’t stop. Soon enough your thoughts are clouded with that crystal rock that seems to make everything so much more bearable. Not long after that you’re selling your belongings just for another hit, another save, another buzz. But the buzz dies so fast. One hour and you’re scrummaging around looking for any drop you missed, any left over powder in your little baggy, any residue you could still burn in that pipe. You see all the crackheads amongst the scene, the ones who stay up for days on end, with rotting teeth and a map of acne sprawled throughout their ghostly face. Flashbacks of photos you were forced to view at school of before and after portraits of meth addicts fog your dopamine-desperate brain. “Meth, not even once” they say. Tiny bugs crawl under your skin and you’re convinced you’re not crazy, but boy, you are, now. Come downs are the worst. It’s Tuesday afternoon and all you can do is hide in your bedroom with the lights off in your own dark dungeon. You only get up to eat or go toilet. Social interaction of any form will drive you up the wall and you feel like you could stab someone for getting in your way. Eventually you’re stealing money from your mothers wallet, even selling that beautiful ring she got you for your eighteenth birthday party. Oh how she thinks you’re innocent. Oh no, her talented and young lovely daughter would never touch that shit, she believes. But she doesn’t know, no one knows, only the other junkies who are walking that same one-lane road as you are. Weight drops off so easily that you wonder when your bones will start intruding through your skin, as if to say “You’re killing me with this poison”. Your heart beats so fast it feels like it’s going to jump right out of your chest so your entire body collapses on your bed. You’re wearing a mask of soberness. And you do fool them at first. But it’s not long until people become skeptical. Your boss starts to wonder where all this sudden energy is coming from, and how some days you are on top of the world, and on others, you’re right on the bottom; sinking. “Surely, she’s not on that crap” your boss thinks to himself as he sees you scrubbing the counter thirty or so times as if the dirt just won’t vanish from the surface. Your mother starts to wonder why you’re hiding under baggy clothes and have purple circles underneath your eyes all the time. She packs you lunch, a nice chicken sandwich with mayo and cheese (your favourite). But you just can’t eat it when you’re high. Food is nothing compared to the dopamine you’re ingesting through meth. But you try to eat, I mean, you know it’s been two days, maybe three. But the lettuce gets stuck in your teeth and it feels like every swallow is a trigger to vomit. So you feed it to the dog, hoping your mother won’t notice the smell on his breath and his sudden preference for chicken from the supermarket over his usual dog food. You remember how your father was once an addict, in fact, you remember how most of your family were addicts. Some still alive, most dead. And the ones that aren’t, still feel the temptation flowing through their veins. Or they relapse, over, and over again. You used to think you were addicted to marijuana and Marlborough’s, but you had no idea what was about to come. You start to isolate yourself from your loved ones, especially your friends, as you fear they can see straight through you. You wonder in immense paranoia if they can sense the meth all over you. Well, they probably can. It’s portraying itself on your entire body now, and even in your personality. You’re not the same person anymore. You become agitated, frustrated, nervous and twitchy. “It’s just anxiety” you tell them. But really it’s withdrawal. An old friend sees you walking the streets at five in the morning with nothing but a singlet on and a hair full of abandoned dreads and the sickly smell of sweat drenching your body (although it’s mid-winter and the road is icy). “What are you doing?” they ask, so confused and concerned. “Not much, just enjoying the moon” you yell back, while staring off at the bright half-circle in the sky with your pinprick pupils. “Let me take you home” they say, as they begin to grab your hand and force you into their car. “No!” you yell back, running back down the dark alley with all the speed and power you could only ever obtain under the influence. You feel invincible. Oh what a delusion this is. You are not invincible, you are a drug addict, and you haven’t even realised it yet. It’s only when the supply is out and your drug dealer hasn’t contacted you in a while that you start to consider yourself an addict. How did I get here? You ask yourself. One minute you were trying meth out for the first time, the second you’re hitting it like it’s the source of your survival. But it’s not. It’s the source of your likely death, your likely downfall, your likely spiral into a heavy unstoppable addiction that you’ll probably never recover from.
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