Hi. I live in Portland and am a miserable meth user and am trying to quit cold turkey and by myself

[sdaemon]

I tried to say it all in the title but, ye gods, there’s so much more.

I did meth for the very first time on February 1, 2016 around 6:30 pm. It was a Monday. I was on a road trip with a friend, one stop of which was Portland. My head exploded and I tried to fuck *everything.* It was really fun and also really gross. I liked it so much that when I got home to my peaceful, productive life in Vermont, I turned around and moved that life to Portland to pursue meth full time. I told no one. My family didn’t know I’d moved for over two months. That was the first of several severe emotional blows I would deal to my family over the next seven years. Speaking of, it amuses me very much that I’m here, now, announcing my intention to quit this most ridiculous drug on the internet, nearly seven years to the day of when this shitshow started.

It’s been a lot of things, but mostly terrible. I’ve learned a lot, but I can’t recall exactly what. My brain barely works. My beautiful teeth need serious help. My body hurts, I have no energy, and my former hotness melted off me some time last year. I thought I’d always look like the professional ballet instructor and NCAA Division I mid-distance runner that I once was, but such is not the case. I look like an old tweaker hag. I don’t remember how to eat, but that’s okay because there’s nothing I want to eat. I started collecting cats while a tweaker and although I’m down to a more reasonable five, I can barely take care of them and it’s mortifying and shameful. I have zero libido. It wouldn’t matter if I did though, as I would hold in profound contempt anyone who wanted anything to do me in this condition.

I haven’t even quit yet.
I’m high writing this.
24 hours from now I will not be, though. I will very likely be asleep, I hope, my cats will be hungry, my kitchen will smell really bad because it smells kind of bad right now and I’ve zero intention of taking care of that tonight. I’m sure I’ll be anxious about waking up while I’m asleep.

I joined today because I need to know that someone, anyone, even if I don’t know you know, to know that I’m doing this.
I know about bluelight because my former housemate, meth/sex pal, and platonic domestic partner was a fully invested psychonaut and Shulgin acolyte who extracted DMT in the basement of the house I rented for us for three years, and which he accidentally set on fire two and a half years ago. He was on here back then, swapping chemistry trips with others of his ilk.
But that fire… the owners sued my parents for half a million dollars because I’d let my renters’ insurance lapse and *somebody* had to pay for it. They were stupid about it and only got 30k. You know you’re living a weird life when your dad is stoked that he only had to pay out $30,000 to the owners of the house that his daughter’s housemate - a guy he’d never met because I couldn’t take him anywhere because he raised many more questions than he answered - burned down a house that he wasn’t legally allowed to even live in whilst cleaning out mason jars with heptane while high on heroin. I was upstairs taking a bath when he accidentally spilled some heptane on a hot plate he had running for an entirely different project. Heptane autoignites at 444° and hot plates operate at about 500°. WHOOOMP. Basement’s on fire. May 23, 2020 at 1:50 am is when I called 911 on that debacle. I had pants on, but no shirt and no socks. We had nine cats at the time. One, Steven, had been asleep in the basement when the fire started and was trapped down there until firefighters blasted her with the hose. She suddenly appeared in front of me, muzzle black and dripping with mucus, in the arms of a fireman. I held onto her for about 45 minutes while she shouted in confusion without making any attempt to leave my death hug. I didn’t have anywhere to put her except in my car, so that’s where she went until the next day when I took her to the vet. She was okay. The other eight had all hightailed it outside during the commotion, and the memory of their little heads popping up one by one, boop, boop, boop, from amidst my perennials once the firemen and police were gone and the smoke had cleared is forever branded onto my brain. Overwhelming relief mixed with the fear, shame and profound regret of having put them in the same danger over which you are very relieved to find they’ve avoided is irreparably shitty.
My housemate absconded, he fled the scene and walked, barefoot and without his phone, 65 blocks east of where we lived and knocked on a friends door. I saw them drive slowly by a couple of hours into the whole thing as I stood on the porch talking to the detective. A few days later he left the state. We’re still friends, we still talk. He wound up getting sober, and I am very sincerely happy for and proud of him.

But neither can I pretend that I don’t resent it. He’s, like, moderately happy. The only drug I’ve ever done is meth, but that guy… decades-long, raging heroin addiction (i helped him kick multiple times), crackhead, smoker of pathological amounts of meth and DMT.. when he smoked deems, the strangest things happened. It was very often terrifying for me personally. Some part of him that hated my complete guts would come to the fore and glare at menacingly, threaten, and otherwise petrify me. {shudder}
He developed a fully-blown delusion of grandeur around Christmas 2019. It involved the Illuminati, the Knights Templar, the pantheon of Hindu gods, Mary, the Mayan calendar and the Kali Yuga. He was the messianic figure, I was Judas Iscariot. In April of 2020, as we took our habitual evening constitutional about the neighborhood, he told me that he was probably going to die that weekend and be reborn as the mother of Christ. I was to check on him every couple of hours but not, under any circumstance, call an ambulance until the he’d been dead for three days. We got in a very big fight over that. He couldn’t grasp why I wasn’t okay with a) letting him die, and b) being saddled with having a shit explanation to present to the authorities as to why I’d kept the corpse of a person I referred to as my friend in my basement for three days.

It took about 18 months for his brain to return to baseline, but it did and now he has a job and a car and actively engages in his multitude of esoteric, mad-scientist hobbies. I do mean it that I’m happy for him. I sincerely am. His delusions weren’t all the way wrong: he’s got a colossal heart and is fully capable of saving the world. I would not be surprised if he did. I hope he does. He owes me, big time. He owes me about 26k. He also owes my dad 30k. I owe the homeowners 198k, give or take, but there’s no way I’m eating the entirety of that when and if I’m able to pay it back. I was taking a bath. I was the harpy who asked him every day to put shoes on, to put his hair back, to get a locking cabinet for the really dangerous stuff, to clean up the lye from off the floor so the cats didn’t get hurt, etc.
Both of my parents are very successful biochemists; I literally grew up in academic laboratories because I had no childhood because my parents worked all the time. (Boohoo, I know.. but shut up, it really was sad).
Maybe it’s why I traded in both of my hard-earned science degrees to audition for the role of Friendly Tweaker Slut #2 in someone else’s life.

Seriously, though, why would I do that? I’ve been trying to figure it out while still pulling dragon clouds out of my bong and it’s not working. I gotta quit.
After this bowl.
Shit.

If anybody reads this, please ask me how I’m doing in a couple days.

I think I’m trying to confess that despite the overwhelming proof of how unqualified he was to do what he was doing, and despite the equally overwhelming evidence of how inappropriate the whole thing was, I am the responsible party because I’m the one who saw the whole thing coming, and I’m the one who threw my head in the sand. I should be charged. I didn’t give him any details, I let the investigation unfold on its own, but I claimed ethical responsibility for what happened to the arson investigator. He told me that in all his years of doing his job he’d never heard someone in my position say what I’d just said. He beamed at me with actual pride. I still have no idea what there was to be proud of. What I heard was that I live in a city full of selfish, probably semi-illiterate scum bags who don’t know how to take responsibility for themselves. I do, though, but for reasons that I neither understand nor will allow myself to sympathize with when I do, I left my responsibility to be a halfway decent human being stranded on the side of a highway somewhere. As for the natural and unavoidable obligation that every human has to prepare the way for the happiness and fulfillment of their future self, and that’s the only person who really matters in your life if you think about it, I gagged it and bound it’s wrists and tossed it down an embankment. To party and do meth and have sex. I’m such a cool person.

I’m not at all over it. The statute of limitations on his charges will run out before I’m over it.

Quarantine had just started when the fire happened and finding another place to live during that with eight cats in tow (homie took one with him when he fled) and what you might call a REALLY SHITTY reference was incredibly stressful. But I did, and I’m sitting on the couch inside that house.

I sit here most of the time and smoke meth and watch Metalocalypse over and over and over because my brain doesn’t work and Pickles is the only thing that makes me happy. I’m basically retarded.
I’m terrified that I’ve ruined my life and my health, and, as I’ve said, obliterated my future prospects in the process. I’ve been underweight for so long that I haven’t had a period in almost four years. If I dwell on that fact for longer than 30 seconds, I am sorely challenged to resist the urge to hurl myself against a wall.

So, that’s a little about me. Hey, how’s it going. I like cats and philosophy and metal and being really hard on myself. It’s the only form of brutality I can engage in honestly and still cry and snot myself like a bitch at the same time.

 

[negrogesic]

I tried to say it all in the title but, ye gods, there’s so much more.

I did meth for the very first time on February 1, 2016 around 6:30 pm. It was a Monday. I was on a road trip with a friend, one stop of which was Portland. My head exploded and I tried to fuck *everything.* It was really fun and also really gross. I liked it so much that when I got home to my peaceful, productive life in Vermont, I turned around and moved that life to Portland to pursue meth full time. I told no one. My family didn’t know I’d moved for over two months. That was the first of several severe emotional blows I would deal to my family over the next seven years. Speaking of, it amuses me very much that I’m here, now, announcing my intention to quit this most ridiculous drug on the internet, nearly seven years to the day of when this shitshow started.

It’s been a lot of things, but mostly terrible. I’ve learned a lot, but I can’t recall exactly what. My brain barely works. My beautiful teeth need serious help. My body hurts, I have no energy, and my former hotness melted off me some time last year. I thought I’d always look like the professional ballet instructor and NCAA Division I mid-distance runner that I once was, but such is not the case. I look like an old tweaker hag. I don’t remember how to eat, but that’s okay because there’s nothing I want to eat. I started collecting cats while a tweaker and although I’m down to a more reasonable five, I can barely take care of them and it’s mortifying and shameful. I have zero libido. It wouldn’t matter if I did though, as I would hold in profound contempt anyone who wanted anything to do me in this condition.

I haven’t even quit yet.
I’m high writing this.
24 hours from now I will not be, though. I will very likely be asleep, I hope, my cats will be hungry, my kitchen will smell really bad because it smells kind of bad right now and I’ve zero intention of taking care of that tonight. I’m sure I’ll be anxious about waking up while I’m asleep.

I joined today because I need to know that someone, anyone, even if I don’t know you know, to know that I’m doing this.
I know about bluelight because my former housemate, meth/sex pal, and platonic domestic partner was a fully invested psychonaut and Shulgin acolyte who extracted DMT in the basement of the house I rented for us for three years, and which he accidentally set on fire two and a half years ago. He was on here back then, swapping chemistry trips with others of his ilk.
But that fire… the owners sued my parents for half a million dollars because I’d let my renters’ insurance lapse and *somebody* had to pay for it. They were stupid about it and only got 30k. You know you’re living a weird life when your dad is stoked that he only had to pay out $30,000 to the owners of the house that his daughter’s housemate - a guy he’d never met because I couldn’t take him anywhere because he raised many more questions than he answered - burned down a house that he wasn’t legally allowed to even live in whilst cleaning out mason jars with heptane while high on heroin. I was upstairs taking a bath when he accidentally spilled some heptane on a hot plate he had running for an entirely different project. Heptane autoignites at 444° and hot plates operate at about 500°. WHOOOMP. Basement’s on fire. May 23, 2020 at 1:50 am is when I called 911 on that debacle. I had pants on, but no shirt and no socks. We had nine cats at the time. One, Steven, had been asleep in the basement when the fire started and was trapped down there until firefighters blasted her with the hose. She suddenly appeared in front of me, muzzle black and dripping with mucus, in the arms of a fireman. I held onto her for about 45 minutes while she shouted in confusion without making any attempt to leave my death hug. I didn’t have anywhere to put her except in my car, so that’s where she went until the next day when I took her to the vet. She was okay. The other eight had all hightailed it outside during the commotion, and the memory of their little heads popping up one by one, boop, boop, boop, from amidst my perennials once the firemen and police were gone and the smoke had cleared is forever branded onto my brain. Overwhelming relief mixed with the fear, shame and profound regret of having put them in the same danger over which you are very relieved to find they’ve avoided is irreparably shitty.
My housemate absconded, he fled the scene and walked, barefoot and without his phone, 65 blocks east of where we lived and knocked on a friends door. I saw them drive slowly by a couple of hours into the whole thing as I stood on the porch talking to the detective. A few days later he left the state. We’re still friends, we still talk. He wound up getting sober, and I am very sincerely happy for and proud of him.

But neither can I pretend that I don’t resent it. He’s, like, moderately happy. The only drug I’ve ever done is meth, but that guy… decades-long, raging heroin addiction (i helped him kick multiple times), crackhead, smoker of pathological amounts of meth and DMT.. when he smoked deems, the strangest things happened. It was very often terrifying for me personally. Some part of him that hated my complete guts would come to the fore and glare at menacingly, threaten, and otherwise petrify me. {shudder}
He developed a fully-blown delusion of grandeur around Christmas 2019. It involved the Illuminati, the Knights Templar, the pantheon of Hindu gods, Mary, the Mayan calendar and the Kali Yuga. He was the messianic figure, I was Judas Iscariot. In April of 2020, as we took our habitual evening constitutional about the neighborhood, he told me that he was probably going to die that weekend and be reborn as the mother of Christ. I was to check on him every couple of hours but not, under any circumstance, call an ambulance until the he’d been dead for three days. We got in a very big fight over that. He couldn’t grasp why I wasn’t okay with a) letting him die, and b) being saddled with having a shit explanation to present to the authorities as to why I’d kept the corpse of a person I referred to as my friend in my basement for three days.

It took about 18 months for his brain to return to baseline, but it did and now he has a job and a car and actively engages in his multitude of esoteric, mad-scientist hobbies. I do mean it that I’m happy for him. I sincerely am. His delusions weren’t all the way wrong: he’s got a colossal heart and is fully capable of saving the world. I would not be surprised if he did. I hope he does. He owes me, big time. He owes me about 26k. He also owes my dad 30k. I owe the homeowners 198k, give or take, but there’s no way I’m eating the entirety of that when and if I’m able to pay it back. I was taking a bath. I was the harpy who asked him every day to put shoes on, to put his hair back, to get a locking cabinet for the really dangerous stuff, to clean up the lye from off the floor so the cats didn’t get hurt, etc.
Both of my parents are very successful biochemists; I literally grew up in academic laboratories because I had no childhood because my parents worked all the time. (Boohoo, I know.. but shut up, it really was sad).
Maybe it’s why I traded in both of my hard-earned science degrees to audition for the role of Friendly Tweaker Slut #2 in someone else’s life.

Seriously, though, why would I do that? I’ve been trying to figure it out while still pulling dragon clouds out of my bong and it’s not working. I gotta quit.
After this bowl.
Shit.

If anybody reads this, please ask me how I’m doing in a couple days.

I think I’m trying to confess that despite the overwhelming proof of how unqualified he was to do what he was doing, and despite the equally overwhelming evidence of how inappropriate the whole thing was, I am the responsible party because I’m the one who saw the whole thing coming, and I’m the one who threw my head in the sand. I should be charged. I didn’t give him any details, I let the investigation unfold on its own, but I claimed ethical responsibility for what happened to the arson investigator. He told me that in all his years of doing his job he’d never heard someone in my position say what I’d just said. He beamed at me with actual pride. I still have no idea what there was to be proud of. What I heard was that I live in a city full of selfish, probably semi-illiterate scum bags who don’t know how to take responsibility for themselves. I do, though, but for reasons that I neither understand nor will allow myself to sympathize with when I do, I left my responsibility to be a halfway decent human being stranded on the side of a highway somewhere. As for the natural and unavoidable obligation that every human has to prepare the way for the happiness and fulfillment of their future self, and that’s the only person who really matters in your life if you think about it, I gagged it and bound it’s wrists and tossed it down an embankment. To party and do meth and have sex. I’m such a cool person.

I’m not at all over it. The statute of limitations on his charges will run out before I’m over it.

Quarantine had just started when the fire happened and finding another place to live during that with eight cats in tow (homie took one with him when he fled) and what you might call a REALLY SHITTY reference was incredibly stressful. But I did, and I’m sitting on the couch inside that house.

I sit here most of the time and smoke meth and watch Metalocalypse over and over and over because my brain doesn’t work and Pickles is the only thing that makes me happy. I’m basically retarded.
I’m terrified that I’ve ruined my life and my health, and, as I’ve said, obliterated my future prospects in the process. I’ve been underweight for so long that I haven’t had a period in almost four years. If I dwell on that fact for longer than 30 seconds, I am sorely challenged to resist the urge to hurl myself against a wall.

So, that’s a little about me. Hey, how’s it going. I like cats and philosophy and metal and being really hard on myself. It’s the only form of brutality I can engage in honestly and still cry and snot myself like a bitch at the same time.

Welcome to bluelight!

 

[negrogesic]

I know about bluelight because my former housemate, meth/sex pal, and platonic domestic partner was a fully invested psychonaut and Shulgin acolyte who extracted DMT in the basement of the house I rented for us for three years, and which he accidentally set on fire two and a half years ago. He was on here back then, swapping chemistry trips with others of his ilk.

Writing style here reminds me of something out of a Russell Banks novel. You're a good writer!

Meth definitely facilitates that (relative to regular dextroamphetamine).

Have you notice any shifts in methamphetamine quality since 2016. I'm not a big meth user but I've noticed a massive shift in quality from 2012 to present.

 

[AutoTripper]

Writing style here reminds me of something out of a Russell Banks novel. You're a good writer!

Meth definitely facilitates that (relative to regular dextroamphetamine).

Have you notice any shifts in methamphetamine quality since 2016. I'm not a big meth user but I've noticed a massive shift in quality from 2012 to present.

Yes I too clocked the sharp clear flowing knitted articulate writing and expression.

My instant thought was about in society often highly intelligent people resorting to extortionate psychoactivity, and in many cases too feeling degeberate, failers, bad about selves.

Just the one incongruity sure is just loose expression by "joined" must mean joined "in" I have to conclude.

 

[sdaemon]

Writing style here reminds me of something out of a Russell Banks novel. You're a good writer!

Meth definitely facilitates that (relative to regular dextroamphetamine).

Have you notice any shifts in methamphetamine quality since 2016. I'm not a big meth user but I've noticed a massive shift in quality from 2012 to present.

Thanks, writing was something I did a lot of before I moved to Portland. I’d done all the coursework for a masters’ in theoretical psychology and had only to write my thesis. Dropped that ball.. twice. They let me try again about two years in, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Too disorganized. I suspect that that has had more of an impact on me than I’m willing to acknowledge.

I didn’t do meth until 2016, so I can’t answer your question with regard to meth in 2012. But I can say that even between then and now, I’ve noticed a definite shift in quality. Sometimes it just doesn’t work and I am genuinely concerned as to what the hell is in it. If it gives me a massive headache, I dump it down the toilet. I’m only willing to submit to the damage if it gets me high.

Most of the change I notice is most clearly seen in the behavior of this city’s homeless population. “Unhinged” is an apt descriptor. It’s literally making people crazy.

 

[Dr.Faust]

@sdaemon It pains me to see someone as intelligent and sophisticated as you in such a dire situation.

I agree 100% with what you write about responsibility.
Such valuable people are very rare and I feel that you are one.

I wish you a lot of strength and success in your withdrawal.
I am in a similar situation where my drugs are the opiates. so unfortunately I can't give you any advice on meth withdrawal.

But in my mind I pray for you and sincerely hope that you make it.

If not, you have to have a plan B. Then seek professional help at a facility.

Warm greetings from Germany.

PS: Please excuse my wiringting style. Mostly i use google-translate.

 

[neversickanymore]

Welcome to BL

Hey you can pull this off. What’s your sleep schedule been looking like?

Stop beating yourself up! Doesn’t do anything good and drives use.

First step is to come up with a strong recovery plan. Then implemented that plan. If you find yourself surrounded by clouds again then you need to adjust the plan so you won’t find yourself in the clouds again.

 

[qwertygina]

I tried to say it all in the title but, ye gods, there’s so much more.

I did meth for the very first time on February 1, 2016 around 6:30 pm. It was a Monday. I was on a road trip with a friend, one stop of which was Portland. My head exploded and I tried to fuck *everything.* It was really fun and also really gross. I liked it so much that when I got home to my peaceful, productive life in Vermont, I turned around and moved that life to Portland to pursue meth full time. I told no one. My family didn’t know I’d moved for over two months. That was the first of several severe emotional blows I would deal to my family over the next seven years. Speaking of, it amuses me very much that I’m here, now, announcing my intention to quit this most ridiculous drug on the internet, nearly seven years to the day of when this shitshow started.

It’s been a lot of things, but mostly terrible. I’ve learned a lot, but I can’t recall exactly what. My brain barely works. My beautiful teeth need serious help. My body hurts, I have no energy, and my former hotness melted off me some time last year. I thought I’d always look like the professional ballet instructor and NCAA Division I mid-distance runner that I once was, but such is not the case. I look like an old tweaker hag. I don’t remember how to eat, but that’s okay because there’s nothing I want to eat. I started collecting cats while a tweaker and although I’m down to a more reasonable five, I can barely take care of them and it’s mortifying and shameful. I have zero libido. It wouldn’t matter if I did though, as I would hold in profound contempt anyone who wanted anything to do me in this condition.

I haven’t even quit yet.
I’m high writing this.
24 hours from now I will not be, though. I will very likely be asleep, I hope, my cats will be hungry, my kitchen will smell really bad because it smells kind of bad right now and I’ve zero intention of taking care of that tonight. I’m sure I’ll be anxious about waking up while I’m asleep.

I joined today because I need to know that someone, anyone, even if I don’t know you know, to know that I’m doing this.
I know about bluelight because my former housemate, meth/sex pal, and platonic domestic partner was a fully invested psychonaut and Shulgin acolyte who extracted DMT in the basement of the house I rented for us for three years, and which he accidentally set on fire two and a half years ago. He was on here back then, swapping chemistry trips with others of his ilk.
But that fire… the owners sued my parents for half a million dollars because I’d let my renters’ insurance lapse and *somebody* had to pay for it. They were stupid about it and only got 30k. You know you’re living a weird life when your dad is stoked that he only had to pay out $30,000 to the owners of the house that his daughter’s housemate - a guy he’d never met because I couldn’t take him anywhere because he raised many more questions than he answered - burned down a house that he wasn’t legally allowed to even live in whilst cleaning out mason jars with heptane while high on heroin. I was upstairs taking a bath when he accidentally spilled some heptane on a hot plate he had running for an entirely different project. Heptane autoignites at 444° and hot plates operate at about 500°. WHOOOMP. Basement’s on fire. May 23, 2020 at 1:50 am is when I called 911 on that debacle. I had pants on, but no shirt and no socks. We had nine cats at the time. One, Steven, had been asleep in the basement when the fire started and was trapped down there until firefighters blasted her with the hose. She suddenly appeared in front of me, muzzle black and dripping with mucus, in the arms of a fireman. I held onto her for about 45 minutes while she shouted in confusion without making any attempt to leave my death hug. I didn’t have anywhere to put her except in my car, so that’s where she went until the next day when I took her to the vet. She was okay. The other eight had all hightailed it outside during the commotion, and the memory of their little heads popping up one by one, boop, boop, boop, from amidst my perennials once the firemen and police were gone and the smoke had cleared is forever branded onto my brain. Overwhelming relief mixed with the fear, shame and profound regret of having put them in the same danger over which you are very relieved to find they’ve avoided is irreparably shitty.
My housemate absconded, he fled the scene and walked, barefoot and without his phone, 65 blocks east of where we lived and knocked on a friends door. I saw them drive slowly by a couple of hours into the whole thing as I stood on the porch talking to the detective. A few days later he left the state. We’re still friends, we still talk. He wound up getting sober, and I am very sincerely happy for and proud of him.

But neither can I pretend that I don’t resent it. He’s, like, moderately happy. The only drug I’ve ever done is meth, but that guy… decades-long, raging heroin addiction (i helped him kick multiple times), crackhead, smoker of pathological amounts of meth and DMT.. when he smoked deems, the strangest things happened. It was very often terrifying for me personally. Some part of him that hated my complete guts would come to the fore and glare at menacingly, threaten, and otherwise petrify me. {shudder}
He developed a fully-blown delusion of grandeur around Christmas 2019. It involved the Illuminati, the Knights Templar, the pantheon of Hindu gods, Mary, the Mayan calendar and the Kali Yuga. He was the messianic figure, I was Judas Iscariot. In April of 2020, as we took our habitual evening constitutional about the neighborhood, he told me that he was probably going to die that weekend and be reborn as the mother of Christ. I was to check on him every couple of hours but not, under any circumstance, call an ambulance until the he’d been dead for three days. We got in a very big fight over that. He couldn’t grasp why I wasn’t okay with a) letting him die, and b) being saddled with having a shit explanation to present to the authorities as to why I’d kept the corpse of a person I referred to as my friend in my basement for three days.

It took about 18 months for his brain to return to baseline, but it did and now he has a job and a car and actively engages in his multitude of esoteric, mad-scientist hobbies. I do mean it that I’m happy for him. I sincerely am. His delusions weren’t all the way wrong: he’s got a colossal heart and is fully capable of saving the world. I would not be surprised if he did. I hope he does. He owes me, big time. He owes me about 26k. He also owes my dad 30k. I owe the homeowners 198k, give or take, but there’s no way I’m eating the entirety of that when and if I’m able to pay it back. I was taking a bath. I was the harpy who asked him every day to put shoes on, to put his hair back, to get a locking cabinet for the really dangerous stuff, to clean up the lye from off the floor so the cats didn’t get hurt, etc.
Both of my parents are very successful biochemists; I literally grew up in academic laboratories because I had no childhood because my parents worked all the time. (Boohoo, I know.. but shut up, it really was sad).
Maybe it’s why I traded in both of my hard-earned science degrees to audition for the role of Friendly Tweaker Slut #2 in someone else’s life.

Seriously, though, why would I do that? I’ve been trying to figure it out while still pulling dragon clouds out of my bong and it’s not working. I gotta quit.
After this bowl.
Shit.

If anybody reads this, please ask me how I’m doing in a couple days.

I think I’m trying to confess that despite the overwhelming proof of how unqualified he was to do what he was doing, and despite the equally overwhelming evidence of how inappropriate the whole thing was, I am the responsible party because I’m the one who saw the whole thing coming, and I’m the one who threw my head in the sand. I should be charged. I didn’t give him any details, I let the investigation unfold on its own, but I claimed ethical responsibility for what happened to the arson investigator. He told me that in all his years of doing his job he’d never heard someone in my position say what I’d just said. He beamed at me with actual pride. I still have no idea what there was to be proud of. What I heard was that I live in a city full of selfish, probably semi-illiterate scum bags who don’t know how to take responsibility for themselves. I do, though, but for reasons that I neither understand nor will allow myself to sympathize with when I do, I left my responsibility to be a halfway decent human being stranded on the side of a highway somewhere. As for the natural and unavoidable obligation that every human has to prepare the way for the happiness and fulfillment of their future self, and that’s the only person who really matters in your life if you think about it, I gagged it and bound it’s wrists and tossed it down an embankment. To party and do meth and have sex. I’m such a cool person.

I’m not at all over it. The statute of limitations on his charges will run out before I’m over it.

Quarantine had just started when the fire happened and finding another place to live during that with eight cats in tow (homie took one with him when he fled) and what you might call a REALLY SHITTY reference was incredibly stressful. But I did, and I’m sitting on the couch inside that house.

I sit here most of the time and smoke meth and watch Metalocalypse over and over and over because my brain doesn’t work and Pickles is the only thing that makes me happy. I’m basically retarded.
I’m terrified that I’ve ruined my life and my health, and, as I’ve said, obliterated my future prospects in the process. I’ve been underweight for so long that I haven’t had a period in almost four years. If I dwell on that fact for longer than 30 seconds, I am sorely challenged to resist the urge to hurl myself against a wall.

So, that’s a little about me. Hey, how’s it going. I like cats and philosophy and metal and being really hard on myself. It’s the only form of brutality I can engage in honestly and still cry and snot myself like a bitch at the same time.

Yeah welcome to Bluelight!
Your post made me laugh
Good writer ..

 

[crazyhairman]

Odd , I didn't get clean until 2016. How you doin

 

[GeorgeWashington]

For me I had to go all the way to rock bottom, homeless living on the streets before I was ready to be done. After that, you have to find something that is so important to you that it drives you to do everything you can to not be a fuck up. For a lot of people it’s kids, or your parents, or just someone you want to prove to that you can do better. It takes time and it’s not easy but it can be done if you want it

 

[Rainman1964]

Be strong....Courage!!

V

 

[qwertygina]

Thanks, writing was something I did a lot of before I moved to Portland. I’d done all the coursework for a masters’ in theoretical psychology and had only to write my thesis. Dropped that ball.. twice. They let me try again about two years in, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Too disorganized. I suspect that that has had more of an impact on me than I’m willing to acknowledge.

I didn’t do meth until 2016, so I can’t answer your question with regard to meth in 2012. But I can say that even between then and now, I’ve noticed a definite shift in quality. Sometimes it just doesn’t work and I am genuinely concerned as to what the hell is in it. If it gives me a massive headache, I dump it down the toilet. I’m only willing to submit to the damage if it gets me high.

Most of the change I notice is most clearly seen in the behavior of this city’s homeless population. “Unhinged” is an apt descriptor. It’s literally making people crazy.

I have not researched this so take it as such.

I read that the meth that's being produced doesn't make your heart race, make you sweat profusely etc... so there is no self regulation.
People aren't experiencing the signs of doing too much so they keep doing more. Staying awake far too long.
Long term Lack of sleep is causing them to become unhinged as you said.
(Great word to describe it. I've been looking for the right word.)
It's so disturbing to watch sometimes. My husband and I pass out handwarmers to anybody freezing their bits off outside and we see it over and over . So sad really.

 

[Ds]

Welcome to Bluelight

We have a solid recovery network that is growing over in our https://bluelight.org/xf/forums/health-and-recovery.269/ forums.

Remember, that it's okay to not be okay sometimes. Lord knows we try, and fall. It's how we pick ourselves up and move forward is really what matters. We are going to struggle, hell I fight daily fighting demons in my head that tell me 'hey Drew maybe one won't hurt', and I have to tell that voice to fuck off, because for me to use any mind altering chemicals, I don't GAF whatever it is, I'm a dope feign IV addict, and I know me better than anyone else (just like you know you) , I know when I use, it sets of those cravings, where I'm sorry mom but I'm stealing all of your shit for dope. We aren't bad people, just sick people trying to get better,
It does get better, but does get worse to the longer we use drugs. So that being said, reach out, ask for some help because it's going to be okay.
Hang in there, you fucking got this!

 

[Dr.Faust]

hey man, how are you?

let me hear something from you.

 

[Strangeclouds]

I tried to say it all in the title but, ye gods, there’s so much more.

I did meth for the very first time on February 1, 2016 around 6:30 pm. It was a Monday. I was on a road trip with a friend, one stop of which was Portland. My head exploded and I tried to fuck *everything.* It was really fun and also really gross. I liked it so much that when I got home to my peaceful, productive life in Vermont, I turned around and moved that life to Portland to pursue meth full time. I told no one. My family didn’t know I’d moved for over two months. That was the first of several severe emotional blows I would deal to my family over the next seven years. Speaking of, it amuses me very much that I’m here, now, announcing my intention to quit this most ridiculous drug on the internet, nearly seven years to the day of when this shitshow started.

It’s been a lot of things, but mostly terrible. I’ve learned a lot, but I can’t recall exactly what. My brain barely works. My beautiful teeth need serious help. My body hurts, I have no energy, and my former hotness melted off me some time last year. I thought I’d always look like the professional ballet instructor and NCAA Division I mid-distance runner that I once was, but such is not the case. I look like an old tweaker hag. I don’t remember how to eat, but that’s okay because there’s nothing I want to eat. I started collecting cats while a tweaker and although I’m down to a more reasonable five, I can barely take care of them and it’s mortifying and shameful. I have zero libido. It wouldn’t matter if I did though, as I would hold in profound contempt anyone who wanted anything to do me in this condition.

I haven’t even quit yet.
I’m high writing this.
24 hours from now I will not be, though. I will very likely be asleep, I hope, my cats will be hungry, my kitchen will smell really bad because it smells kind of bad right now and I’ve zero intention of taking care of that tonight. I’m sure I’ll be anxious about waking up while I’m asleep.

I joined today because I need to know that someone, anyone, even if I don’t know you know, to know that I’m doing this.
I know about bluelight because my former housemate, meth/sex pal, and platonic domestic partner was a fully invested psychonaut and Shulgin acolyte who extracted DMT in the basement of the house I rented for us for three years, and which he accidentally set on fire two and a half years ago. He was on here back then, swapping chemistry trips with others of his ilk.
But that fire… the owners sued my parents for half a million dollars because I’d let my renters’ insurance lapse and *somebody* had to pay for it. They were stupid about it and only got 30k. You know you’re living a weird life when your dad is stoked that he only had to pay out $30,000 to the owners of the house that his daughter’s housemate - a guy he’d never met because I couldn’t take him anywhere because he raised many more questions than he answered - burned down a house that he wasn’t legally allowed to even live in whilst cleaning out mason jars with heptane while high on heroin. I was upstairs taking a bath when he accidentally spilled some heptane on a hot plate he had running for an entirely different project. Heptane autoignites at 444° and hot plates operate at about 500°. WHOOOMP. Basement’s on fire. May 23, 2020 at 1:50 am is when I called 911 on that debacle. I had pants on, but no shirt and no socks. We had nine cats at the time. One, Steven, had been asleep in the basement when the fire started and was trapped down there until firefighters blasted her with the hose. She suddenly appeared in front of me, muzzle black and dripping with mucus, in the arms of a fireman. I held onto her for about 45 minutes while she shouted in confusion without making any attempt to leave my death hug. I didn’t have anywhere to put her except in my car, so that’s where she went until the next day when I took her to the vet. She was okay. The other eight had all hightailed it outside during the commotion, and the memory of their little heads popping up one by one, boop, boop, boop, from amidst my perennials once the firemen and police were gone and the smoke had cleared is forever branded onto my brain. Overwhelming relief mixed with the fear, shame and profound regret of having put them in the same danger over which you are very relieved to find they’ve avoided is irreparably shitty.
My housemate absconded, he fled the scene and walked, barefoot and without his phone, 65 blocks east of where we lived and knocked on a friends door. I saw them drive slowly by a couple of hours into the whole thing as I stood on the porch talking to the detective. A few days later he left the state. We’re still friends, we still talk. He wound up getting sober, and I am very sincerely happy for and proud of him.

But neither can I pretend that I don’t resent it. He’s, like, moderately happy. The only drug I’ve ever done is meth, but that guy… decades-long, raging heroin addiction (i helped him kick multiple times), crackhead, smoker of pathological amounts of meth and DMT.. when he smoked deems, the strangest things happened. It was very often terrifying for me personally. Some part of him that hated my complete guts would come to the fore and glare at menacingly, threaten, and otherwise petrify me. {shudder}
He developed a fully-blown delusion of grandeur around Christmas 2019. It involved the Illuminati, the Knights Templar, the pantheon of Hindu gods, Mary, the Mayan calendar and the Kali Yuga. He was the messianic figure, I was Judas Iscariot. In April of 2020, as we took our habitual evening constitutional about the neighborhood, he told me that he was probably going to die that weekend and be reborn as the mother of Christ. I was to check on him every couple of hours but not, under any circumstance, call an ambulance until the he’d been dead for three days. We got in a very big fight over that. He couldn’t grasp why I wasn’t okay with a) letting him die, and b) being saddled with having a shit explanation to present to the authorities as to why I’d kept the corpse of a person I referred to as my friend in my basement for three days.

It took about 18 months for his brain to return to baseline, but it did and now he has a job and a car and actively engages in his multitude of esoteric, mad-scientist hobbies. I do mean it that I’m happy for him. I sincerely am. His delusions weren’t all the way wrong: he’s got a colossal heart and is fully capable of saving the world. I would not be surprised if he did. I hope he does. He owes me, big time. He owes me about 26k. He also owes my dad 30k. I owe the homeowners 198k, give or take, but there’s no way I’m eating the entirety of that when and if I’m able to pay it back. I was taking a bath. I was the harpy who asked him every day to put shoes on, to put his hair back, to get a locking cabinet for the really dangerous stuff, to clean up the lye from off the floor so the cats didn’t get hurt, etc.
Both of my parents are very successful biochemists; I literally grew up in academic laboratories because I had no childhood because my parents worked all the time. (Boohoo, I know.. but shut up, it really was sad).
Maybe it’s why I traded in both of my hard-earned science degrees to audition for the role of Friendly Tweaker Slut #2 in someone else’s life.

Seriously, though, why would I do that? I’ve been trying to figure it out while still pulling dragon clouds out of my bong and it’s not working. I gotta quit.
After this bowl.
Shit.

If anybody reads this, please ask me how I’m doing in a couple days.

I think I’m trying to confess that despite the overwhelming proof of how unqualified he was to do what he was doing, and despite the equally overwhelming evidence of how inappropriate the whole thing was, I am the responsible party because I’m the one who saw the whole thing coming, and I’m the one who threw my head in the sand. I should be charged. I didn’t give him any details, I let the investigation unfold on its own, but I claimed ethical responsibility for what happened to the arson investigator. He told me that in all his years of doing his job he’d never heard someone in my position say what I’d just said. He beamed at me with actual pride. I still have no idea what there was to be proud of. What I heard was that I live in a city full of selfish, probably semi-illiterate scum bags who don’t know how to take responsibility for themselves. I do, though, but for reasons that I neither understand nor will allow myself to sympathize with when I do, I left my responsibility to be a halfway decent human being stranded on the side of a highway somewhere. As for the natural and unavoidable obligation that every human has to prepare the way for the happiness and fulfillment of their future self, and that’s the only person who really matters in your life if you think about it, I gagged it and bound it’s wrists and tossed it down an embankment. To party and do meth and have sex. I’m such a cool person.

I’m not at all over it. The statute of limitations on his charges will run out before I’m over it.

Quarantine had just started when the fire happened and finding another place to live during that with eight cats in tow (homie took one with him when he fled) and what you might call a REALLY SHITTY reference was incredibly stressful. But I did, and I’m sitting on the couch inside that house.

I sit here most of the time and smoke meth and watch Metalocalypse over and over and over because my brain doesn’t work and Pickles is the only thing that makes me happy. I’m basically retarded.
I’m terrified that I’ve ruined my life and my health, and, as I’ve said, obliterated my future prospects in the process. I’ve been underweight for so long that I haven’t had a period in almost four years. If I dwell on that fact for longer than 30 seconds, I am sorely challenged to resist the urge to hurl myself against a wall.

So, that’s a little about me. Hey, how’s it going. I like cats and philosophy and metal and being really hard on myself. It’s the only form of brutality I can engage in honestly and still cry and snot myself like a bitch at the same time.

Hey i hope you are doing alright. I usually only end up on this site when im googling stuff about meth but i started checking out posts and realized that the community here is actually pretty great and alot of this stuff is relatable.

Especially when i came across your story....wow. I really felt that shit. I definently relate and in alot of ways my story is very similar to what you've been going through.
You said that you up and moved to Portland basically chasing the ever so glamorous drug scene? I'm guessing the one here in Oregon, and yeah there's definitely no shortage of meth around here it's like the plague. I'm just a few hours from P-town and unfortunately it's not any better down here.

I started doing meth at 19 and haven't really stopped since then. I've went weeks without it and there's probably been 3 or 4 months where i wasnt using but for the past few years ive been hitting the pipe damn near everyday.
I'm 30 now. I moved out of my hometown because i was just selling dope 24/7 and didnt want to get caught up and got tired of being surrounded by tweakers and seeing most of the homies i grew up with turning into heroin junkies or losing them altogether because of od's.

I even started shooting up when my girlfriend at the time had decided to just disappear with her ex for like 4 days and then showed back up just to break up with me and then leave again.

Then a year or 2 after that i proceeded to get into a relationship with someone very close to me that I'd known for a long time and i became very emotionally invested in that relationship. It's crazy to think about how everything seemed great and finally found "the one" and yet somehow i managed to lose her because of my drug use.
She's engaged now. To a girl that's like 10 years older than her.

So after moving away, instead of being a full time dope dealer with a hole in my heart and a circle of friends/family that i either lost touch with or only hear from if it's about drugs...
Now I'm just a dope buyer, in a little boring ass redneck town where the only people i know are the 3 people i get my shit from, hiding out in my room all the time watching rick and morty reruns smoking dope and playing guitar, living with my girlfriend who has a gambling problem so bad that were always broke and cant afford to get our own place so were stuck living with her mom.

I'm depressed as fuck and stressed most of the time. I barely sleep, with or without meth. I'm probably like 20 pounds less than what i normally weigh right now. I'm pretty much the only one in the house that has any teeth left, and they're not in great shape. I feel like a loser and like any aspirations i had in life are pretty much out the window now. Hardly anything really makes me happy anymore, my lifestyle hasn't changed a whole lot over the years except its just been getting more and more boring and unexciting. I'm still stuck on sex drugs and rock n roll (metal in my case) but really i just feel more stuck than anything.

I'm not sure if you were looking for any advice or some input on your situation but i can tell that you feel very strongly about things that you've been going through and what your life's become and just by the way you analyze all of it.
You remember the exact date and time that you first did meth. I find that incredible. Because it's a monumental moment in your lifetime right? Like that's when everything changed.
I've thrown away alot, made irreversible decisions and mistakes, had moments where being high as fuck resulted in things going differently or worse than they should've.

You probably never should have left Vermont. But you know what, that's alright. Whether you like it or not, it did shape you. What I've learned is that there really are no wrong paths in life, there's just different paths. That's kind of an optimist way of looking at it.

If you feel like you're just fucking up and downward spiraling, or you feel lost, or you feel like you arent gonna be able to get your shit together....you gotta remind yourself that being sober was perfectly fine before you ever even experienced getting high.

You could try getting help like going to treatment and all that but its not for everyone. I have no idea what the success rate is like, but i know in my case it's just a matter of being ready to quit. I know that i need to quit or at least it would be in my best interest to quit, but its just not gonna happen until im ready.

Maybe you're not fully ready to quit but you genuinely do want to quit. You might finally reach a point where you've gotten as much satisfaction as you think you're ever gonna get from continuing to do meth and you could be content with the idea of calling it quits. Thats kinda where I'm at with it currently. I feel like I'm just wasting away at this point so I'm alright with the idea of getting clean.
Staying clean is a whole other struggle though. And im no stranger to that so i already know that a clean and sober rest of my life is going to call for some serious commitment.

My advice to you:
While you're sitting there smoking meth and thinking "this is my last bowl i gotta be done after this" just remember the day and what your intentions were like.

..and if at any point after that day you ever find yourself sitting there smoking meth once again thinking "this is my last bowl i gotta be done after this"

Then, you will have a clearer understanding of how serious the problem is. Probably gonna take alot more than just good intentions and a day's worth of sleep.

 

[qwertygina]

I tried to say it all in the title but, ye gods, there’s so much more.

I did meth for the very first time on February 1, 2016 around 6:30 pm. It was a Monday. I was on a road trip with a friend, one stop of which was Portland. My head exploded and I tried to fuck *everything.* It was really fun and also really gross. I liked it so much that when I got home to my peaceful, productive life in Vermont, I turned around and moved that life to Portland to pursue meth full time. I told no one. My family didn’t know I’d moved for over two months. That was the first of several severe emotional blows I would deal to my family over the next seven years. Speaking of, it amuses me very much that I’m here, now, announcing my intention to quit this most ridiculous drug on the internet, nearly seven years to the day of when this shitshow started.

It’s been a lot of things, but mostly terrible. I’ve learned a lot, but I can’t recall exactly what. My brain barely works. My beautiful teeth need serious help. My body hurts, I have no energy, and my former hotness melted off me some time last year. I thought I’d always look like the professional ballet instructor and NCAA Division I mid-distance runner that I once was, but such is not the case. I look like an old tweaker hag. I don’t remember how to eat, but that’s okay because there’s nothing I want to eat. I started collecting cats while a tweaker and although I’m down to a more reasonable five, I can barely take care of them and it’s mortifying and shameful. I have zero libido. It wouldn’t matter if I did though, as I would hold in profound contempt anyone who wanted anything to do me in this condition.

I haven’t even quit yet.
I’m high writing this.
24 hours from now I will not be, though. I will very likely be asleep, I hope, my cats will be hungry, my kitchen will smell really bad because it smells kind of bad right now and I’ve zero intention of taking care of that tonight. I’m sure I’ll be anxious about waking up while I’m asleep.

I joined today because I need to know that someone, anyone, even if I don’t know you know, to know that I’m doing this.
I know about bluelight because my former housemate, meth/sex pal, and platonic domestic partner was a fully invested psychonaut and Shulgin acolyte who extracted DMT in the basement of the house I rented for us for three years, and which he accidentally set on fire two and a half years ago. He was on here back then, swapping chemistry trips with others of his ilk.
But that fire… the owners sued my parents for half a million dollars because I’d let my renters’ insurance lapse and *somebody* had to pay for it. They were stupid about it and only got 30k. You know you’re living a weird life when your dad is stoked that he only had to pay out $30,000 to the owners of the house that his daughter’s housemate - a guy he’d never met because I couldn’t take him anywhere because he raised many more questions than he answered - burned down a house that he wasn’t legally allowed to even live in whilst cleaning out mason jars with heptane while high on heroin. I was upstairs taking a bath when he accidentally spilled some heptane on a hot plate he had running for an entirely different project. Heptane autoignites at 444° and hot plates operate at about 500°. WHOOOMP. Basement’s on fire. May 23, 2020 at 1:50 am is when I called 911 on that debacle. I had pants on, but no shirt and no socks. We had nine cats at the time. One, Steven, had been asleep in the basement when the fire started and was trapped down there until firefighters blasted her with the hose. She suddenly appeared in front of me, muzzle black and dripping with mucus, in the arms of a fireman. I held onto her for about 45 minutes while she shouted in confusion without making any attempt to leave my death hug. I didn’t have anywhere to put her except in my car, so that’s where she went until the next day when I took her to the vet. She was okay. The other eight had all hightailed it outside during the commotion, and the memory of their little heads popping up one by one, boop, boop, boop, from amidst my perennials once the firemen and police were gone and the smoke had cleared is forever branded onto my brain. Overwhelming relief mixed with the fear, shame and profound regret of having put them in the same danger over which you are very relieved to find they’ve avoided is irreparably shitty.
My housemate absconded, he fled the scene and walked, barefoot and without his phone, 65 blocks east of where we lived and knocked on a friends door. I saw them drive slowly by a couple of hours into the whole thing as I stood on the porch talking to the detective. A few days later he left the state. We’re still friends, we still talk. He wound up getting sober, and I am very sincerely happy for and proud of him.

But neither can I pretend that I don’t resent it. He’s, like, moderately happy. The only drug I’ve ever done is meth, but that guy… decades-long, raging heroin addiction (i helped him kick multiple times), crackhead, smoker of pathological amounts of meth and DMT.. when he smoked deems, the strangest things happened. It was very often terrifying for me personally. Some part of him that hated my complete guts would come to the fore and glare at menacingly, threaten, and otherwise petrify me. {shudder}
He developed a fully-blown delusion of grandeur around Christmas 2019. It involved the Illuminati, the Knights Templar, the pantheon of Hindu gods, Mary, the Mayan calendar and the Kali Yuga. He was the messianic figure, I was Judas Iscariot. In April of 2020, as we took our habitual evening constitutional about the neighborhood, he told me that he was probably going to die that weekend and be reborn as the mother of Christ. I was to check on him every couple of hours but not, under any circumstance, call an ambulance until the he’d been dead for three days. We got in a very big fight over that. He couldn’t grasp why I wasn’t okay with a) letting him die, and b) being saddled with having a shit explanation to present to the authorities as to why I’d kept the corpse of a person I referred to as my friend in my basement for three days.

It took about 18 months for his brain to return to baseline, but it did and now he has a job and a car and actively engages in his multitude of esoteric, mad-scientist hobbies. I do mean it that I’m happy for him. I sincerely am. His delusions weren’t all the way wrong: he’s got a colossal heart and is fully capable of saving the world. I would not be surprised if he did. I hope he does. He owes me, big time. He owes me about 26k. He also owes my dad 30k. I owe the homeowners 198k, give or take, but there’s no way I’m eating the entirety of that when and if I’m able to pay it back. I was taking a bath. I was the harpy who asked him every day to put shoes on, to put his hair back, to get a locking cabinet for the really dangerous stuff, to clean up the lye from off the floor so the cats didn’t get hurt, etc.
Both of my parents are very successful biochemists; I literally grew up in academic laboratories because I had no childhood because my parents worked all the time. (Boohoo, I know.. but shut up, it really was sad).
Maybe it’s why I traded in both of my hard-earned science degrees to audition for the role of Friendly Tweaker Slut #2 in someone else’s life.

Seriously, though, why would I do that? I’ve been trying to figure it out while still pulling dragon clouds out of my bong and it’s not working. I gotta quit.
After this bowl.
Shit.

If anybody reads this, please ask me how I’m doing in a couple days.

I think I’m trying to confess that despite the overwhelming proof of how unqualified he was to do what he was doing, and despite the equally overwhelming evidence of how inappropriate the whole thing was, I am the responsible party because I’m the one who saw the whole thing coming, and I’m the one who threw my head in the sand. I should be charged. I didn’t give him any details, I let the investigation unfold on its own, but I claimed ethical responsibility for what happened to the arson investigator. He told me that in all his years of doing his job he’d never heard someone in my position say what I’d just said. He beamed at me with actual pride. I still have no idea what there was to be proud of. What I heard was that I live in a city full of selfish, probably semi-illiterate scum bags who don’t know how to take responsibility for themselves. I do, though, but for reasons that I neither understand nor will allow myself to sympathize with when I do, I left my responsibility to be a halfway decent human being stranded on the side of a highway somewhere. As for the natural and unavoidable obligation that every human has to prepare the way for the happiness and fulfillment of their future self, and that’s the only person who really matters in your life if you think about it, I gagged it and bound it’s wrists and tossed it down an embankment. To party and do meth and have sex. I’m such a cool person.

I’m not at all over it. The statute of limitations on his charges will run out before I’m over it.

Quarantine had just started when the fire happened and finding another place to live during that with eight cats in tow (homie took one with him when he fled) and what you might call a REALLY SHITTY reference was incredibly stressful. But I did, and I’m sitting on the couch inside that house.

I sit here most of the time and smoke meth and watch Metalocalypse over and over and over because my brain doesn’t work and Pickles is the only thing that makes me happy. I’m basically retarded.
I’m terrified that I’ve ruined my life and my health, and, as I’ve said, obliterated my future prospects in the process. I’ve been underweight for so long that I haven’t had a period in almost four years. If I dwell on that fact for longer than 30 seconds, I am sorely challenged to resist the urge to hurl myself against a wall.

So, that’s a little about me. Hey, how’s it going. I like cats and philosophy and metal and being really hard on myself. It’s the only form of brutality I can engage in honestly and still cry and snot myself like a bitch at the same time.

Heeeyyyy!
How are you doing???
Would love to hear more of your story if you're around .
I hope you're well. Let us know ...

 

[Miss_Pyrose]

Wow, epic and heartwrenching and courageous stories here. Thanks for sharing.
Im at a point in life on crossroad- one branch to probably 10 year meth use or come up w/ some recovery plan.
I hate the word recovery. ‘Im adorable but not recoverable’ have been one of my mantras late couple years.
But addiction speciliast asked- ‘Don’t you want to go back to normal?’ ‘Your adhd is a brain disease, its not chicken or egg question of ADHD-ANX’. I dont remeber when last time normal was. I don’t think I have brain disease. But I do want to make a rap song in honor of her called ‘B*tch I got holes in my brain(and heartbroken).’

 

[GeorgeWashington]

Wow, epic and heartwrenching and courageous stories here. Thanks for sharing.
Im at a point in life on crossroad- one branch to probably 10 year meth use or come up w/ some recovery plan.
I hate the word recovery. ‘Im adorable but not recoverable’ have been one of my mantras late couple years.
But addiction speciliast asked- ‘Don’t you want to go back to normal?’ ‘Your adhd is a brain disease, its not chicken or egg question of ADHD-ANX’. I dont remeber when last time normal was. I don’t think I have brain disease. But I do want to make a rap song in honor of her called ‘B*tch I got holes in my brain(and heartbroken).’

I think part of that is your mind playing tricks on you. Convincing you that the dope makes you special or, makes up part of who you are. Without it you would just be another random. And it’s partly true, but only because if you quit the dope, you probably have some hard years ahead of you…I did. I guess it comes down to this old equation; you get out what you put in.

 

[keseyhitchens]

I tried to say it all in the title but, ye gods, there’s so much more.

I did meth for the very first time on February 1, 2016 around 6:30 pm. It was a Monday. I was on a road trip with a friend, one stop of which was Portland. My head exploded and I tried to fuck *everything.* It was really fun and also really gross. I liked it so much that when I got home to my peaceful, productive life in Vermont, I turned around and moved that life to Portland to pursue meth full time. I told no one. My family didn’t know I’d moved for over two months. That was the first of several severe emotional blows I would deal to my family over the next seven years. Speaking of, it amuses me very much that I’m here, now, announcing my intention to quit this most ridiculous drug on the internet, nearly seven years to the day of when this shitshow started.

It’s been a lot of things, but mostly terrible. I’ve learned a lot, but I can’t recall exactly what. My brain barely works. My beautiful teeth need serious help. My body hurts, I have no energy, and my former hotness melted off me some time last year. I thought I’d always look like the professional ballet instructor and NCAA Division I mid-distance runner that I once was, but such is not the case. I look like an old tweaker hag. I don’t remember how to eat, but that’s okay because there’s nothing I want to eat. I started collecting cats while a tweaker and although I’m down to a more reasonable five, I can barely take care of them and it’s mortifying and shameful. I have zero libido. It wouldn’t matter if I did though, as I would hold in profound contempt anyone who wanted anything to do me in this condition.

I haven’t even quit yet.
I’m high writing this.
24 hours from now I will not be, though. I will very likely be asleep, I hope, my cats will be hungry, my kitchen will smell really bad because it smells kind of bad right now and I’ve zero intention of taking care of that tonight. I’m sure I’ll be anxious about waking up while I’m asleep.

I joined today because I need to know that someone, anyone, even if I don’t know you know, to know that I’m doing this.
I know about bluelight because my former housemate, meth/sex pal, and platonic domestic partner was a fully invested psychonaut and Shulgin acolyte who extracted DMT in the basement of the house I rented for us for three years, and which he accidentally set on fire two and a half years ago. He was on here back then, swapping chemistry trips with others of his ilk.
But that fire… the owners sued my parents for half a million dollars because I’d let my renters’ insurance lapse and *somebody* had to pay for it. They were stupid about it and only got 30k. You know you’re living a weird life when your dad is stoked that he only had to pay out $30,000 to the owners of the house that his daughter’s housemate - a guy he’d never met because I couldn’t take him anywhere because he raised many more questions than he answered - burned down a house that he wasn’t legally allowed to even live in whilst cleaning out mason jars with heptane while high on heroin. I was upstairs taking a bath when he accidentally spilled some heptane on a hot plate he had running for an entirely different project. Heptane autoignites at 444° and hot plates operate at about 500°. WHOOOMP. Basement’s on fire. May 23, 2020 at 1:50 am is when I called 911 on that debacle. I had pants on, but no shirt and no socks. We had nine cats at the time. One, Steven, had been asleep in the basement when the fire started and was trapped down there until firefighters blasted her with the hose. She suddenly appeared in front of me, muzzle black and dripping with mucus, in the arms of a fireman. I held onto her for about 45 minutes while she shouted in confusion without making any attempt to leave my death hug. I didn’t have anywhere to put her except in my car, so that’s where she went until the next day when I took her to the vet. She was okay. The other eight had all hightailed it outside during the commotion, and the memory of their little heads popping up one by one, boop, boop, boop, from amidst my perennials once the firemen and police were gone and the smoke had cleared is forever branded onto my brain. Overwhelming relief mixed with the fear, shame and profound regret of having put them in the same danger over which you are very relieved to find they’ve avoided is irreparably shitty.
My housemate absconded, he fled the scene and walked, barefoot and without his phone, 65 blocks east of where we lived and knocked on a friends door. I saw them drive slowly by a couple of hours into the whole thing as I stood on the porch talking to the detective. A few days later he left the state. We’re still friends, we still talk. He wound up getting sober, and I am very sincerely happy for and proud of him.

But neither can I pretend that I don’t resent it. He’s, like, moderately happy. The only drug I’ve ever done is meth, but that guy… decades-long, raging heroin addiction (i helped him kick multiple times), crackhead, smoker of pathological amounts of meth and DMT.. when he smoked deems, the strangest things happened. It was very often terrifying for me personally. Some part of him that hated my complete guts would come to the fore and glare at menacingly, threaten, and otherwise petrify me. {shudder}
He developed a fully-blown delusion of grandeur around Christmas 2019. It involved the Illuminati, the Knights Templar, the pantheon of Hindu gods, Mary, the Mayan calendar and the Kali Yuga. He was the messianic figure, I was Judas Iscariot. In April of 2020, as we took our habitual evening constitutional about the neighborhood, he told me that he was probably going to die that weekend and be reborn as the mother of Christ. I was to check on him every couple of hours but not, under any circumstance, call an ambulance until the he’d been dead for three days. We got in a very big fight over that. He couldn’t grasp why I wasn’t okay with a) letting him die, and b) being saddled with having a shit explanation to present to the authorities as to why I’d kept the corpse of a person I referred to as my friend in my basement for three days.

It took about 18 months for his brain to return to baseline, but it did and now he has a job and a car and actively engages in his multitude of esoteric, mad-scientist hobbies. I do mean it that I’m happy for him. I sincerely am. His delusions weren’t all the way wrong: he’s got a colossal heart and is fully capable of saving the world. I would not be surprised if he did. I hope he does. He owes me, big time. He owes me about 26k. He also owes my dad 30k. I owe the homeowners 198k, give or take, but there’s no way I’m eating the entirety of that when and if I’m able to pay it back. I was taking a bath. I was the harpy who asked him every day to put shoes on, to put his hair back, to get a locking cabinet for the really dangerous stuff, to clean up the lye from off the floor so the cats didn’t get hurt, etc.
Both of my parents are very successful biochemists; I literally grew up in academic laboratories because I had no childhood because my parents worked all the time. (Boohoo, I know.. but shut up, it really was sad).
Maybe it’s why I traded in both of my hard-earned science degrees to audition for the role of Friendly Tweaker Slut #2 in someone else’s life.

Seriously, though, why would I do that? I’ve been trying to figure it out while still pulling dragon clouds out of my bong and it’s not working. I gotta quit.
After this bowl.
Shit.

If anybody reads this, please ask me how I’m doing in a couple days.

I think I’m trying to confess that despite the overwhelming proof of how unqualified he was to do what he was doing, and despite the equally overwhelming evidence of how inappropriate the whole thing was, I am the responsible party because I’m the one who saw the whole thing coming, and I’m the one who threw my head in the sand. I should be charged. I didn’t give him any details, I let the investigation unfold on its own, but I claimed ethical responsibility for what happened to the arson investigator. He told me that in all his years of doing his job he’d never heard someone in my position say what I’d just said. He beamed at me with actual pride. I still have no idea what there was to be proud of. What I heard was that I live in a city full of selfish, probably semi-illiterate scum bags who don’t know how to take responsibility for themselves. I do, though, but for reasons that I neither understand nor will allow myself to sympathize with when I do, I left my responsibility to be a halfway decent human being stranded on the side of a highway somewhere. As for the natural and unavoidable obligation that every human has to prepare the way for the happiness and fulfillment of their future self, and that’s the only person who really matters in your life if you think about it, I gagged it and bound it’s wrists and tossed it down an embankment. To party and do meth and have sex. I’m such a cool person.

I’m not at all over it. The statute of limitations on his charges will run out before I’m over it.

Quarantine had just started when the fire happened and finding another place to live during that with eight cats in tow (homie took one with him when he fled) and what you might call a REALLY SHITTY reference was incredibly stressful. But I did, and I’m sitting on the couch inside that house.

I sit here most of the time and smoke meth and watch Metalocalypse over and over and over because my brain doesn’t work and Pickles is the only thing that makes me happy. I’m basically retarded.
I’m terrified that I’ve ruined my life and my health, and, as I’ve said, obliterated my future prospects in the process. I’ve been underweight for so long that I haven’t had a period in almost four years. If I dwell on that fact for longer than 30 seconds, I am sorely challenged to resist the urge to hurl myself against a wall.

So, that’s a little about me. Hey, how’s it going. I like cats and philosophy and metal and being really hard on myself. It’s the only form of brutality I can engage in honestly and still cry and snot myself like a bitch at the same time.

Is there a reason you wont go to rehab and sober living. There are some good places out there man.

 

[Howhiareyou]

Thanks, writing was something I did a lot of before I moved to Portland. I’d done all the coursework for a masters’ in theoretical psychology and had only to write my thesis. Dropped that ball.. twice. They let me try again about two years in, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Too disorganized. I suspect that that has had more of an impact on me than I’m willing to acknowledge.

I didn’t do meth until 2016, so I can’t answer your question with regard to meth in 2012. But I can say that even between then and now, I’ve noticed a definite shift in quality. Sometimes it just doesn’t work and I am genuinely concerned as to what the hell is in it. If it gives me a massive headache, I dump it down the toilet. I’m only willing to submit to the damage if it gets me high.

Most of the change I notice is most clearly seen in the behavior of this city’s homeless population. “Unhinged” is an apt descriptor. It’s literally making people crazy.

I'm puzzled. Your well-written introduction made a big impact upon many people based on the number and quality of replies. One more interesting post from you and now, over one year later, nothing. I'm sure your intelligence and ability to communicate didn't abrubtly vanish. I almost feel selfish in wanting to know how you are doing today, April 2, 2024.

I have no profoundity to dispel here. I have a few semi-relevant thoughts and experiences, not even organized in my sidetracked and detoured skull. Not all these thoughts are directly related to your plight but I need to express them anyway. Perhaps that's self-centered, but I comfort myself with the thought that you've not communicated here in over 12 months, so is it really selfish of me to write about myself in a response to a post from you that has nothing to do with me specifically? I have a brain blessed with the ability to analyze, reanalyze, preanalyze, overanalyze and underanalyze in the final analysis. Example: During a brief era where court and other circumstances combined to the point that I was temporarily trying to get clean temporarily so I could permanently eradicate some issues that would then allow me to permanently stop trying to be temporarily clean (I succeeded, by the way, and am happy in life and particularly happy not to be temporarily clean), I made a trip to the grocery store, intent on buying a box of cereal. Simple enought task - to 99.6% of human beings. I am not one of those 99.6% people, however. I stood in the cereal aisle for about 15 minutes, focused on 2 boxes of cereal as I considered the benefits and detriments of each cereal. Again, there were only two contenders for my intended purchase. But after running a cost-benefit analysis in my head before meandering to esoteric considerations, I realized the final score for each box of cereal was equal. Even after ascribing differering weight to different categories, each box of cereal was tied with the other in my mental Olympics. I left the store without either box of cereal and went home, congratulating my mind on taking a simple task and making it a Herculean effort that could not be achieved, resulting in me going hungry the next morning as my cupboard contained zero boxes of cereal.

People often say "well, everybody's crazy" and "nobody is normal". That's not what I experience. I encounter an overwhelming majority of people on a daily basis who seem very similar to each other, doing predictable things, having predictable conversations littered with cliche after cliche ("well, you know Oregon, if you don't like the weather, just wait 5 minutes and it'll change" followed by forced chuckles from people who were about to say the same thing). I don't think everybody's crazy and I do think there are far too many normal people populating this planet. I am happy to be not normal. Credit to Seal for asking simply but brilliantly: "In a world full of people, only some want to fly, am I crazy?"

My obscure point relevant to sdaemon is - well, what the hell is my point? I'm torn after reading your two posts here. I hope you have succeeded in your quest to quit meth, if that's really what will fix your life and make you whole, healthy and happy again. But there's also a selfish part of me - possibly delusional, possibly illusional, but possibly realistic - that hopes you have found a way to continue to do meth while also doing other things in life that combine to help you climb to contentment. Admittedly, that's a very selfish thought on my part because I have in my mind this scatteshot thought that if you are still in Portland and still doing meth, I might meet you somewhere sometime soon. I'd be very interested in learning more about you and your cats. I'm not being facetious - in general, I like cats infinitely more than I like people. And most poeple that I like are people who like cats, dogs or both (yes, there are some of us who like cats AND dogs).

Brief random thoughts on some points raised by you and others: 1. difference in quality of meth over the years: I can speak only from my experience, which seems to be MUCH different than most people. I have noticed a difference in taste for sure, but I have not noticed a decline in quality as it relates to my high. In fact, I experience a much better, smoother high with virtually zero comedown over the past 10 years. Prior to that, in the "cat piss' and "peanut butter" eras, I achieved some highs on par with Mt. Everest but almost every time those highs were followed by crushing comedowns and all the attendant feelings of despair, hopelessness, etc. Now, I routinely am as high as an astronaut and then at some point I'm "level"/not high anymore, as in I was high for several hours, then I'm not high. It's like I'm driving in one direction, and now the car has stopped, turned left or right and I proceed with contentment through that part of the day that requires me to interact for profit with the Surface Dwellers and Mouth Breathers. I sympathize with all those people who bemoan the lack of purity these days, athough I have yet to encounter anyone who actually has performed or seen a purity test performed with actual, tangible results showing the purtiy today is much less than 10, 15 or 20 years ago. In fact, I have read from a variety of sources who have done such tests that the average purity of street-level meth is much higher in recent years. True or not, that aligns with my experiences of a better high. Not only a better high, but a much less expensive high. People sometimes wax nostalgic about the old school meth and how much better it was, etc. Again, to each their own, but do I wish meth today was like meth in the early 2000s? $110 for a t? $200 for a ball? $700 for an ounce if you had a regular connect, otherwise $900 an ounce? Or do I prefer today's situation: (I don't actually know the cost of a t or a ball, really, but I hear $30-40 for a T and $50-70 for a ball is common. I pretty much experience ounces in the $180-200 range. So I prefer an ounce at 200 as opposed to an ounce at 900 - I get as high on today's 200 ounce as I did on 20 years ago 900 ounce, and I don't comedown. I'm high and happy most of the time, and even when i'm not high and am forced to spend several hours continuosly communicating with the civilians and citizens, I am able to be pleasant and reasonably sincere.

I have other thoughts pertaining to sdaemon and things you wrote, but right now I feel i have been self-indulgent to the point that I'm tempted to not post this at all. That means I need to stop writing now and hit send because I like what I have written but don't need to elaborate at this time. I do hope the best for you now and in the future, whether that's clean or high. Just know that there are those of us - even in Portland - who are high, reasonably employed, not hustling or scheming or stealing or burining down their girlfriend's basement, etc. Oh, and reasonably happy as well as contributing to society while still not being normal.

It's why we battle, it's why we travel
It's why the mascot thinks that I'm an asshole
We made the team without puttin' on a uniform
Smart went nuts and rode a unicorn through the storm
Smart went crazy, but where did you go?