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.
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.
