High enough to spend the last two hours composing a single sentence--humble, perfect, devastating--that translates into written word the full and true nature of the amphetamine high. It employs one extended metaphor, whose imagery is lush and whose comparisons are unconventional and wise. It is smartly edited, descriptive yet concise, with colons, semicolons, commas, and em dashes precisely where needed and nowhere else. It is brief, it is moving, and it is gone because my browser mistook the backspace key for the page back command. Rest in peace, brave sentence, who dared to eff the ineffable. You were too good for this world.
I'm coming down now from 60mg of Adderall, which isn't a whole lot in the grand scheme of things (especially compared to the two-point meth shots I was once accustomed to), but after four months stim-free it was surprisingly enough for this former IV meth addict to get pretty damn tweaked. Even plugged the comeup was a slow creep (but again, I'm used to slamming) but at its peak I was rocked by waves of euphoria and dopamine tingles sweeping my face and neck. Lasted a while too. But of course I had to go and fixate on something stupid for three hours and blow most of my high with nothing to show for it--and even if Bluelight hadn't eaten my post, I'd have, what? A paragraph-sized sentence whose point was made in the first five words, and the rest is ego. I still even remember the one decent line-- "...when the euphoria stagelights grow dim, and real takes off its costume...." Nope, sounded better high. It's pretty trite and introduces an entirely new set of imagery from the overall waves as water/electricity thing I was going for. I guess it's the process of writing that counts...
It's been 7 hours since I dosed the first 30mg and I feel pretty cracked out. Pupils dilated, tremor in my hand, belly too achy from hunger to eat, eyes getting tired but too wired from the l-amp to sleep. And I get dropped sometime next week so I don't want to risk taking a benzo. I just popped stomach meds and a bunch of propranolol, though, and I've got seroquel to help knock me out, and I'm gonna eat this delicious apple or die trying.
And I'm still pretty talkative, obviously. Maybe writing isn't the spiritual experience it was high--though I'm glad the perfectionism's passed, it's fucking frustrating to spend half an hour rearranging the same dozen words or stare into space for ten minutes casting about for exactly the word I need only to realize it doesn't exist--but it's still a fine outlet for my need to converse. Even though no one's writing back. Or even reading, I'm sure. My phone is dead and my friends think I'm sober (which I am 98% of the time) and my roommates are asleep and there's nothing I really want to do but I don't want to go to sleep either. Part of that's procrastination, but I'm also clinging to my lingering speediness and deluding myself into thinking I'm still euphoric-high. I almost never get high anymore, so when I do, I never want it to end. It's not that I hate sobriety; honestly, I have more fun, get more satisfaction, and feel more love and connection to the world when I'm living clean. It's just that, with time, I forget exactly what "high" feels like--and if my reminder is even a tenth as fun and good and novel as that very first high I fell in love with, it is very, very difficult to let it go again. That fact alone is a fair argument for (my personal, I can't speak for others' experiences) total abstinence; why tantalize myself with tastes of my old addiction when I know they will never sate, only whet my appetite? On the other hand, maybe they will be enough; I've never even tried to be content with less. Or maybe I have to learn that, as long as I carry that mindset of addiction, nothing in life will ever be enough. All I know for certain now is that I've got one more dose of this little Adderall gift, and I won't seek out more.
...and that I've finally come down (god, SO much easier than meth), and that it is late as fuck.
