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  • Trip Reports Moderator: Cheshire_Kat

Junk Mail, Revisited (Methamphetamine / IV,

FEA 2.0

Ex-Bluelighter
Joined
Mar 17, 2016
Messages
6
Junk mail revisited. Part 1. 6th February 2016

I knew, nearly a decade ago, when I began the process of getting clean, that it was a one way path. It had become clear to me, somewhere along the line, that if I managed to save myself I wouldn’t be able to let it happen again. And, weirdly, that’s been a huge obstacle in terms of getting clean.

Dedicated drug habits are snug. Doesn’t matter if you’re a chain smoker, an alcoholic or an intra-venous heroin addict. They – habits – are comfortable…

Non-smokers often can’t comprehend why smokers smoke. Tobacco has very little recreational value. Certainly not enough to justify lung cancer or emphysema. I suspect that, like me, in the past, people who smoke cigarettes don’t even like the effect of the drug they’re consuming. Because, when you’re addicted your consumption – of whatever it is that you’re addicted to – is compulsive.

Taking methamphetamines, day in / day out, for months (as I have in the past) becomes increasingly expensive and it isn’t even particularly pleasant after the first couple of days.
People don’t inject heroin on a daily basis to treat trauma. I don’t believe that’s what they’re doing, anyway. I think that’s just an excuse. Because, you need a damn good excuse the sort of self-destructive behavior that results – directly and indirectly – from being a heroin addict.
In the end, I think, junkies believe their own bullshit. They convince themselves they don’t have a choice. It’s better, for them, to believe that they have a disease. That way they never have to admit what they’ve done with their lives and/or take any responsibility for their actions.

Addictions – drug habits, particularly – are always there for you. They give you an edge, too. Like bass jumping. I think the logic is: if your life is extreme enough, it is worthwhile. Cocaine is the classic status symbol drug. Like tobacco, I’m convinced that the majority of users don’t like the effects of coke.
People do all sorts of crazy things in an effort to convince themselves, by convincing everyone else, that they’re truly alive. Tattoos, body piercings, extreme sports, sexual exploits, sub-cultures, sexual orientations, political orientations, dancing, extreme racism.

When I see someone covered in tattoos or piercings I always wonder why some people need to mutilate themselves and others don’t. And when people who don’t drink, or use drugs, often have seen me sabotaging my life via drug abuse… I guess they wonder the same thing?

Since making the switch from smoke to vapor, in terms of marijuana consumption, I know that I will never go back to smoking. Looking back, now, it’s like I was a different person. And, looking at that person – the former me – I wonder why I was like that. The same way I might wonder about someone boasting tattoos across half their body or a two dozen facial piercings.

So, if I continue to change, which I will, then – one day – I will look back at myself now and find myself asking the same questions. This, I think, is why it’s so difficult for people with addiction problems to quit their drug of choice. Most people who abuse drugs, I think, are aware on some level that they are caught in a net. And, if they manage to free themselves, they will look back at that time as wasted.

Change, in general, is frightening for the same reasons. Change means death, of course, but – beyond that – it threatens to expose us to ourselves. We are afraid that, if we change too much, we might cease to exist; afraid that our personalities are illusory.

Once we lose ourselves, we fear, there will be nothing to replace us.

This fear of change is highly contagious. We are afraid of others changing, because we might contract it. This is why people who hate their jobs convince other people not to quit their jobs, even if they hate them. Staying at a job you hate because of the security, or your mortgage, is like maintaining an addiction after it stops being even remotely recreational.

People who hate their jobs should be looking for new work as soon as they realize that they’re unsatisfied. And drug users should seek help as soon as they realize that they’ve gone too far. Failing to do this (in both cases) causes self-institutionalization. In the end, after a few decades of procrastination, they will justify not doing anything to save themselves by any means necessary… Even if it means brainwashing themselves and burying their true feelings so deep, that they might never resurface.

Fear, in general, is highly contagious. It is as contagious as joy.

Although we don’t talk about it, I’m sure – deep down – everyone is haunted by their mortality. We use joy as a distraction from our base emotional state, which is fear/anxiety. We do this, I think, because we have no personal foundation for understanding that one day we will all be dead.

The majority of people – in Western countries, at least – avoid thinking about death until they’re dying. And then, it’s too late to benefit from the resolution of these worldly issues.

Death is the most confronting and confusing thing in the life of any human. It’s difficult to determine how aware animals are of their own mortality. But, presumably, death is the most frightening thing for anything capable of comprehending the implications. Having said that, I don’t think it haunts any other species (on this planet) as much as it does humans.

Everything is a give and take. The higher our consciousness, the more we have to fear.
Science is not a very comforting thing. Those who belong to the science of religion – those who believe that science will explain everything there is to be explained – they are members of a very bleak religion. Everything we learn about reality is unsettling.

Not only are we aware that we’re going to die one day, we’re also aware that we’re utterly insignificant in the first place. The combination of these two fears has motivated most of our greatest accomplishments. Doing something significant – before we die – is the most popular solution, as far as death is concerned. Everyone always says that on your deathbed you will regret doing (and not doing) the wrong and right thing, respectively. You audit yourself, on the way out, basically. And, like the Santa Clause census, you end up getting sorted into one of two lists. You either had a worthy life or you didn’t.

But, can life be simplified, like that?

The problem with heaven and hell – with good and bad, in general – is this: why do bad people (or people who live unworthy lives) exist in the first place? Isn’t it a bit arrogant to assume that some of us are significant and others aren’t? I mean, do accomplished men and women have somehow “better” deaths? And, if so, how would they know? We make assumptions about what happens when we die, in a clumsy effort to distract ourselves. We apply logic to death. We convince ourselves that we will be ready for it, as long as we keep ourselves distracted by being more significant than our neighbors.

But, maybe, death is illogical by human standards.

No assumptions should be made about how to somehow avoid the pain of dying. Life should not be lived (or as a solution to) death. After all, what if death is painful for everyone – regardless of whether or not they take their life for granted – and there’s absolutely no way to avoid it?

Is it satisfying, to have lived what society deems a worthwhile life when you’re going to die anyway? How many people die with no regrets? Do the self-made billionaires and acclaimed artists of this world somehow bypass being confronted by their mortality on their deathbeds?

I’m not sure that it’s possible to avoid – coming to terms with our fear of death and insignificance – no matter how hard you try. So, why bother?

Tibetan Buddhism teaches acceptance. Even though death is painful, pain is as illusory as life itself. It is better to accept impermanence, than to fight it. Everything, the Buddha says, is impermanent. And, the modern scientific community agrees. We are in a constant state of flux. Our cells die and get replaced. We die and our children are born. Our species dies out and another species evolves. Our planet becomes uninhabitable, and another becomes inhabitable.

We are the evolutionary descendants of apes, inhabiting a small spherical rock that is spinning around in the middle of an incalculably massive void. Sciences attempts to re-assure us by dissecting and naming everything we can find. But, the universe – it must be said – is too vast to catalogue.

Some people genuinely believe that science will one day explain everything. But, really, with every answer come more questions. So, in a sense, we’re actually going backwards in the long-term. There are more unanswered questions now than there ever have been and – so far – we’ve only attempted to catalogue one planet among trillions. So, those who belong to the church of science, I wonder how long they think it will take us to know everything?

Wanting to have all the answers is another byproduct of fearing change. But, even if we somehow answered every imaginable question, won’t there will be more questions – about things we haven’t seen before – as the universe continues to change? I mean, no matter how much data we collect, we’re not going to stop change. And, I’m not convinced that the most efficient way to answer the big questions is to answer all of the little questions first in the hope that – one day – we might be able to assemble all the little answers into bigger ones.

As far as the science versus religion debate goes, science threatens to destroy the entire planet. People blame religion for the threat of nuclear war, but – really – we are to blame.

We are never satisfied. We complain that we have to wait for things to load on the internet. We always demand more – we demand faster internet / bigger televisions / cheaper petrol / we always want everything to be better than it is – ensuring that the scientific world is sufficiently motivated to develop even more unnecessary technologies at the expense of the planet. And, then we blame them for the environmental consequences of everything we impatiently demanded they develop.

Without science, nuclear war would be absolutely impossible.

The popular opinion is that religion is the real threat, even though we know we’re destroying the planet on a daily basis and do nothing about it. It’s easy, that way. The religious fundamentalists can blame science for developing the evils of the modern world and the scientific fundamentalists can blame religion for misusing said evils. Nobody takes any personal responsibility. We’re just passing blame.

Who am I to judge anyone – about anything – unless my actions are beyond judgment?

Those historical figures – those great men and women, motivated, presumably by the fear of death – who contributed to the chain of events that resulted in the development of asbestos, napalm or the first nuclear weapon. If they knew the long-term consequences of their actions, would they regret their lives, as the unaccomplished supposedly do? And what if Jesus was a real person – a prophet that struggled to save the world around him – what if he could see all the atrocities committed in his name?

I don’t think it’s possible for humans to save themselves by continuing to develop the thing threatens them the most. The majority of attempts to create sustainable long-term change will probably backfire somewhere down the line in. When Tesla developed the foundation for modern power by experimenting with electricity, how could he have predicted the effect on the environment?

We don’t learn from the past. We convince ourselves, arrogantly, that this time will be different. And, instead of making efforts to minimize our energy consumption (for example), we try to work out ways around it. Rather than limiting the use of electricity and petrol, we try to find less harmful alternatives. That way, we don’t have to make any sacrifices.

The Amish don’t use what they deem to be unnecessary technology. They lead simple, sustainable lives. If the world was entirely occupied by the Amish, there would be no immediate concern about sustainability. And, they don’t use unnecessary technology because it is obvious to them (as it is obvious to all of us) that it is the wrong thing to do.

But, the whole world isn’t going to suddenly become Amish. If one man or woman becomes vegetarian, it doesn’t change the world. Most people are too stubborn – and too afraid of change – to embrace a new lifestyle. So, those who do often get frustrated.

It’s difficult to motivate yourself to make your fair share of sacrifices in this life, if the people around you aren’t willing to sacrifice anything. Maintaining a vegan diet is very difficult (relative to vegetarianism) and it isn’t rewarding when everyone around you keeps eating meat.

Although the universe is impermanent and everything is in a constant state of flux, change can be gradual. Change is constant, but different things change at different rates. Mountains erode slowly. Stars die at an excruciating pace. Some insect species die less than a week after they’re born.

The human race, as a collective, changes gradually. The vegetarian movement is gathering speed, now. But, we have a long way to go – centuries, at least – before we evolve to a point where we stop farming animals for meat. It might take twenty thousand years. Or, it might not happen at all. Hell, our species might not even exist 50 years from now. But, the possibility of failure can be applied to any situation and is a poor justification for inaction… As is comparing yourself to the average person.

We all look back at ancient human slavery and say, “How could that have possibly happened?” We say this, not because slavery was obviously outrageous four thousand years ago. No We say it because everything is obvious in retrospect. And, because it is safe to criticize history. If you judge the decisions of the dead, rather than the living – and acknowledge historical actions as misdeeds – you won’t have to re-evaluate your life in any way, or make any sacrifices.

People who lived in a time were the use of human slaves was commonplace (and didn’t object to it) are lesser, morally, than us. That is what we believe, now. Because it’s easy to see the flaws in others, the further away they are from you. There is no threat of immediate change – or sacrifice – when you someone on the other side of the world who’s been dead for a couple of thousand years.

In our species’ typically arrogant fashion, we remove ourselves from our own history. We refer to our ancestry as barbaric. But one day our descendants will look back say the same thing about us.

The challenge lies in seeing the world as it is, now, not through the convenient lens of history. It is harder to see ourselves, and the people closest to us, than it is to see other people. So, we need to focus on that. Rather than blaming the world – while conveniently removing ourselves from it – we need to try and accept our share of that blame so we can do something about it.

There were people – during periods of human slavery throughout history – who objected. And, gradually, as their numbers grew, things started to change. Eventually, slavery was abolished.

Those men and women who stood by their values, and didn’t get swept away by the momentum of popular opinion, aren’t completely dissimilar to vegetarians.

The consumption of meat produced from factory farmed animals is so widespread in society, that the dark realities surrounding it have become obscured. Just like human slavery, genocide and sexism were in the past. I’m convinced that future people will look back at how we treated animals and feel shame and superiority, like we do about our ancestors.

But supporting unpopular changes in society – like sustainability and veganism – isn’t a rewarding task. Other people don’t like vegetarians talking about the ethicality of factor farming, because being confronted makes it more difficult to continue doing the wrong thing. They’d rather not hear about it. And vegetarians would rather not talk about it, I think. But, they feel they have to.

There is, frequently, no reward for doing the right thing. In fact, doing the right thing often requires sacrifice. And – since we’re ape descendants inhabiting a spherical piece of rock that is spinning around in the middle of an incalculably large void – it’s easy to justify inaction.

Why should we make sacrifices – why should we go without anything in this life – if our time is limited and life is (probably) meaningless? The answer is: because people made sacrifices for us.

When people tell me that they don’t want to have children, I understand if they’re doing it because of the population problem. In fact, I think that’s noble. It is, in itself, a huge sacrifice. But, more than not, it’s a selfish decision. Despite being raised by their parents – and, therefore, despite their existence being a direct result of sacrifice – they don’t want to waste half of their lives building a family.

I’ve heard variations of this statement, from dozens of different people, “Why would I want to bring child into this world?” And, I’m not referring to those few who are genuinely concerned about over-population. I’m talking about self-loathing humans. I’m talking about anti-human humans.

Again, it’s easier that way. If you convince yourself that you belong to a an evil species, it becomes very easy to justify practically anything. If the world is irreparably damaged, then there’s no point doing anything about it. If mankind is doomed, then we might as well enjoy ourselves, right? But, how much can you enjoy life if you have no hope for the future of your own species?

Change is everything.

Change is life. And, change is death.

To be prepared for death, we must embrace change in life.

Junk mail revisited. Part 2. 6th February 2016

I need to stop using intra-venous needles as a method of administration. It’s been 10 months since I’ve injected anything and I had a fair bit of trouble finding a usable vein. There is no reason why I should inject because I’m not consuming enough gear anymore, per dose, to create a substantial rush.

The first injection I did (yesterday) wasn’t too bad, but it was definitely more difficult than it used to be. So, I’m not sure how damaged my veins are, really. But, they are at least somewhat damaged. I’m convinced that I collapsed a section of vein in my right arm, years ago, when I was out of control. I used to try to inject when I was so fucked that I could hardly see straight. My hands, shaking. And my arm would – often – end up with dozens of failed injection sites up and down my veins.

This morning, after staying up all night, I decided (against my better judgment) to have another shot. It was a difficult decision to make. Because, I knew it was the wrong thing to do and I knew that I would end up fucking it up. I was so tired that I struggled to mix it together in the spoon, spilling some crystals onto the table. Anyway, I went outside with the syringe held between my teeth, a roll of toilet paper in one hand and a spray bottle of isopropyl alcohol in the other.

Fear of fucking it up made me impatient, which made me fuck it up even more.
I sat down so the sun was on the crook of my arms, trying to position myself so that I was hidden from nosy neighbors. It felt wrong, doing it outside, even on my own property. I could hear voices from over the fence. The Asian family in the unit next door were gathered outside. And, it wasn’t that I cared if I got caught that made me uneasy. More than that, I felt an overwhelming sense of shame. Doing such a socially unacceptable, illegal and self-destructive thing was bad enough. But, did I have to potentially expose my innocent neighbors to it? If they saw me, with a needle stuck between my teeth, stabbing at my arm, they would – I’m sure – feel unsafe. And why shouldn’t they?

Nobody wants to live next to a junky.

It’s funny, because I used to sit in the middle of my back yard, at my old house – out in the open, making no effort to disguise myself – and inject drugs three or four times a day. And, I don’t remember it ever occurring to me that I was doing something wrong. My attitude, back then, was “Why should I have to hide?” When I started writing this document, during the onset of this epic binge, I was a very inconsiderate and unhappy person. I didn’t care about the consequences of my actions. But, now I do.

The first vein I entered with the needle, drew blood, but I shifted the tip of the needle slightly (on account fatigue and the shakes) and – try as I might – I couldn’t manage to get it back into the correct position. So I had to withdraw, with blood in the chamber, and try another site.

29 gauge needles tend to clog up pretty quickly after they’ve had blood travel through them. So, once you register a vein and fuck it up, you have a limited amount of time before the needle is unusable. This always makes me panic. Because I know that I’m most likely going to lose the shot.

I give up earlier than I would have in the past, returning inside after about ten failed attempts to salvage my shot. During two attempts, I drew the plunger in when the needle tip was pressed against the side of a vein and then pulled it out without releasing the pressure. There are small hard lumps, now, underneath those injection sites. While nowhere near my very worst intra-venous disasters, I still think I did a little bit of damage this morning. The crook of my right arm hurts, near one of the lumps.

So, I went back inside, frustrated, and put the cap back on the needle leaving it in the fridge so I can inject it anally (or eat it) on another date. Then, I drank some water (to improve circulation) and started making another shot. This always happens when I fuck up a shot. I’m stubborn. I don’t give up, until I either succeed or – after dozens more unsuccessful attempts – I admit defeat.

I was afraid this time, though. More afraid than usual. So, I decided that I would take my time and be super careful. But, I was too scattered to think of something I could use as a tourniquet. So, I wandered around the house, in a daze. As if hoping to find a medical tourniquet lying on the floor somewhere. It took me about five minutes to finally decided on a long-sleeved shirt.

I went back outside with my supplies (toilet paper, isopropyl alcohol, my makeshift tourniquet, and a fresh needle between my teeth), reseating myself in the same position as earlier. And, feeling the same sense of shame. I sprayed some disinfectant on my fingers and the crooks of my arms, wiping them dry with the toilet paper, and wrapped the sleeve of my brown and white shirt above the crook of my right arm. I bite down onto the end of the sleeve and pull it taut, applying pressure periodically in order to pump the veins up to four times their normal size.

After seriously considering doing it above the painful lump, I chose the vein that isn’t hurting. I take my time, so that I don’t fuck it up again. I re-check at least five times that my intended vein is bulging sufficiently and that I know exactly where it is. Then, I push the needle tip into my arm, loosen the tourniquet with my teeth a little, and – very carefully – attempt to register the vein.

I get blood, but I’m not securely inside the vein. So, trying to keep calm, I twist the needle clockwise slightly. The register improves, but it still isn’t properly inside the vein. When I pull back on the plunger I get blood, but a little bubble appears along with it.

If I don’t inject it, I know I’m probably going to lose it (like the last shot), so I decide to inject slowly. I can tell from the register that the needle tip is partly inside the vein and, also, partly pressed against the side of it. But, that’s okay. If I push slowly, it will dribble past the block and into the vein.

I am extra careful doing this, because I don’t want to damage myself any more than I have already. With every five units, I pull back gently on the plunger to ensure that there is still blood flow. The shot takes a couple of minutes to deliver. Pushing a little bit in, then pulling more blood into the chamber, and so on and so forth until there’s only a couple of units left. I feel the rush build up, slowly, as more units of methamphetamine water find their way into my blood stream. By the time I remove the needle from the crook of my arm, I am fully awake again and buzzing with energy.

I tear another bit of toilet paper and press it into the injection site, applying pressure, and wander back inside. My fiancé is asleep on the couch. When she wakes up, I tell her I’ve got to stop using needles. We’re supposed to see the new Tarantino film with some friends today, but I tell her I can’t do it. Because I’m too fucked up. Because I haven’t slept. Because of my relapse.

She is understandably disappointed. We’re supposed to be trying to get pregnant in five months. That’s the plan. We detox for six months and then we start trying to conceive. And, here I am, up to my old tricks again. Gambling with the health of our unborn children. Being selfish. Again, I am ashamed. Injecting drugs isn’t something I can tolerate any more. My conscience has caught up with me.

I find it difficult to talk to her, or look her in the eyes for more than a couple of seconds at a time. I’ve disappointed her, and bailed on social commitments, way too many times. There is no excuse for this sort of behavior, any more. I’m not the same trouble person I was. I’ve changed.

I realize, as I’m writing this, that I’m no longer a junky.

A junky has utter disregard for their own wellbeing, and the wellbeing of those around them. And, I can’t do that anymore. I care about my neighbors. And, more importantly, I care about myself. Despite relapsing yesterday, I think my time as a junky – that self-destructive nightmare - is now over.

This is the second time I’ve had any methamphetamines for about two years. Last time I bought half a gram and it lasted me over six weeks. This time I got a bit less (four points), and I had a quarter of it (including a bit that I gave away) in a bit over 12 hours. But, I’m not having any more for a while.

I’m not going to inject any more. It’s too messy, now that I’ve damaged the veins in the crooks of my arms. It’s not worth it, any more. There are (relatively) hassle-free, stress-free alternatives that don’t result in lumps forming along my veins. All this blood and pain and stress, I can do without it… And, I don’t have a tolerance. So, I don’t need to maximize bioavailability anyway.

The only reason I still use intra-venous drugs is because I’m used to doing it that way. It comes back to fearing change. We are so afraid of change that we continue to make the same mistakes over and over again, before trying something different.

My brothers smoke cigarettes and have done so, without much of a break, for nearly twenty years. And, I worry about their health. But, I should focus on myself rather than distracting myself with other people’s problems. Who am I – really – to criticize the consumption of tobacco when I continue to do this to myself? Is intra-venous recreational drug use even comparable to smoking tobacco? Are they in the same league? Both of them are needless acts of self-destruction, but at least cigarettes take decades to kill you…. Whereas, injecting unfiltered junk into your veins can kill you immediately.

If I never got clean, I’m pretty sure I’d be in a horrible physical state right now. I might have died, the way I was going. So, if I’m going to quit smoking tobacco – for health reasons – it doesn’t make any sense to continue injecting drugs into damaged veins.

I’ve been meaning to get my kidneys and liver tested for some time. It’s quite possible that I damaged one of my organs during with methamphetamine abuse. I keep putting it off, I think, because I’m afraid to know the extent of the damage. And, I’m afraid of the opposite: that I’ll have an excuse to start using again if it turns out that I don’t have any detectable kidney / liver / heart damage.

I want to get my veins checked, with an ultra-sound machine, also.

My ex-wife was sectioned after jumping out the second story window of my parent’s house and shattering her vertebrae on the concrete below. One of the staff at the institution she ended up in told me that they found evidence of vascular damage from intra-venous drug use. And, she only used needles about five or ten times in comparison to hundreds (for me). So, I figure I have significant damage. But, I don’t know how significant. Could restricted blood-flow and/or the formation of clots, resulting from damage to my vascular walls, increase my chance of a stroke / heart-attack?

I need to know how much damage I’ve done to myself, and if there’s anything I can do to repair it. If I don’t get my veins tested, I’m going to keep worrying about them. And, I’m sure I worry too much. Although I’ve been irresponsible with needles, there are far worse intra-venous users than me. Some people inject drugs every day, without fail, for decades, and still live to a reasonable age. But, then, they probably don’t stab the hell out of their veins like I have. Or, maybe they do. I don’t know. Some users inject drugs into their femoral vein. Others inject into their eyeballs or the tiny veins on their penis. But, do these lunatics live past middle-age? I can’t imagine how it must feel to have damaged veins all over your body. At least, I never strayed from the crooks of my arms.
From what I’ve read, it can be extremely dangerous if you fuck up an injection in your neck, your genitals or your legs. But, relative to that, I don’t know how safe / dangerous it is to fuck up the biggest veins in your arms. When I get older, will I have circulatory problems? Is that the extent of the damage?

Junk isn’t a part of my life any more. I don’t have room for it.

Saying goodbye to junk includes damage control.

People keep smoking cigarettes because – a lot of the time, anyway – they think it’s too late to stop. After a couple of decades, they become convinced they are past the point of no return. The cancer, in their mind, has started to develop silently in the blackened lining of their lungs. It’s difficult to stop anything if you’ve been doing it for too long. But, particularly self-destructive things. Because, in order to motivate yourself to get better, you need to believe that it isn’t too late.

I think the government has gone slightly overboard with the warnings on cigarette packets. Some smokers, I’m sure, become even more convinced (via all those horrific photos) that they’re most likely sick already. And, similarly, the dangers of intra-venous drug use are so exaggerated by fictional stereotypes and drug-war campaigns, that junkies become convinced that they have done themselves more damage than they actually have. Society tells us that using a needle recreationally, even just once, is the point of no return. People who have never had IV drug use in their life seem to believe that intra-venous heroin and methamphetamine users are totally dysfunctional. That is the stereotype.

If you use needles, you’re a scumbag. Everybody hates junkies. Junkies are the scum of the earth. But, really, there are lots of highly functional intra-venous drug users that maintain high paid positions in various industries. They just do it in secret. They hide. They inject between their toes.

Anti-drug propaganda that exaggerates the dangers of intra-venous drug use have the same effect on some people that I believe the pictures of diseased organs on cigarette packets have on others.
Society is so quick to label junkies scum. Junkies don’t have equal rights. It’s socially acceptable to mock them – in as cruel a manner as you see fit – because (like rapists) they’re perceived as sub-human. And, this applies to all illegal drug users, to some extent. Drinking alcohol is socially acceptable. No. Drinking alcohol is beyond socially acceptable. It is Australian. And, it’s a totally normal and reasonable thing to do. Even though it is more neurotoxic and carcinogenic than some illicit substances.

A lot of people, in society, believe alcoholism is a disease and is separate from other addictions. While it is not socially approved to be an alcoholic, there is more empathy. As if, somehow, becoming addicted to alcohol is not the alcoholic’s fault but having a heroin or a meth habit is.

I have hated myself, in the past, for being a junkie. I was too ashamed to reach out to my family. This shame and this self-loathing gave me reason to use more. I was, in part, self-medicating as a result of society’s perception of my self-medication. This is a horrible loop that junkies get stuck in. They perceive themselves as burdens on the world around them, especially if they’ve made efforts to get clean and repeatedly relapsed… Because, the world isn’t patient. Society will write you off as a lost cause, if you’re (statistically) beyond the point of no return. And, in turn, you start believing it too.

It is impossible to accomplish something like getting clean, if you don’t believe that it’s possible.
The methadone program is the perfect example of society giving up on drug addicts. The government will feed you opiates (that are supposedly intended to wean you off opiates) and they will feed this drug to you indefinitely. Nobody will encourage you to gradually reduce your dose. They won’t try to help you. They’ll just put you in this legal opiate limbo. It’s just like incurably schizophrenic patients being heavily sedated their entire lives. It’s easier to just sweep the difficult types under their respective pharmaceutical rugs. It is too difficult to cure a schizophrenic, so they don’t even bother trying. Similarly, heroin addicts and child sex offenders are treated as incurable.

The system doesn’t determine – on an individual basis – whether or not methadone makes sense. They just prescribe it, on the spot, assuming you test positive for opiates.

I was only on heroin (regularly) for three weeks when I was put on the methadone program. My decision to seek help resulted in another – much more sustainable – addiction. Instead of going to score smack on the streets for $300 a gram like I used to, the government suggested I take a cheap, readily available legal alternative. And, naively, I trusted them. Nobody mentioned that methadone is actually harder to kick than heroin. They failed to point out that, statistically, it is an ineffective method of getting clean. Most people, they could have said, stay on it for years. So, keep that in mind.

Quitting methadone was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It terrifies me to think that, if things had gone differently, I might have ended up like all those other poor souls. Forever lost to that horrible program. I could have become permanently dependent on opiates. I certainly became more dependent on methadone than I ever was with heroin. Because, again, like the cigarette packet warnings, they exaggerate how difficult it is to kick. So, you end up believing that it’s unachievable.

I was terrified of withdrawals, after everything society had taught me about the first shot (of meth / heroin) being the point of no return. And all the overly dramatic depictions of opiate withdrawal in film and television didn’t help, either. Fictional addicts look like they’re giving birth when they’re kicking a heroin habit. So real-life users are convinced, before they have their first shot, that they won’t be able to quit once they start. Or, if they do, it will be a living nightmare.

Cigarette smokers have this, too, I think. They build up how horrible withdrawals will be in their head, rather than just attempting to quit. And the longer they smoke, the more horrible and impossible that image becomes. Until, eventually, it is too terrifying to even consider.

The world convinces addicts that addictions are more difficult to break than they actually are. This demotivates people with addiction problems. If we’re going to misrepresent and exaggerate the dangers of drugs, we should downplay how difficult it is to quit smoking tobacco rather than fear-mongering. That way, at least, people might believe they can do it.

Long-term smokers are convinced that they’re probably sick already and that attempting to quit, at such a late stage, is probably going to be worse than cancer anyway. Junkies also believe they are sick. Thousands of people with chronic addiction problems in this country have been brain-washed into believing that they cannot repair themselves, without enduring unimaginable pain. But, I don’t believe that’s true. I think most people on the methadone program – no matter how long they’ve been on it – are capable of getting clean. And most alcoholics are treatable, too, in my opinion.

Alcoholics Anonymous, brain-washes people with drinking problems into thinking that they’re condition is irreparable. If you’re an alcoholic, according to AA, you will never be able to drink in moderation. Your compulsive consumption of alcohol cannot be altered. You have to accept that. And, you have to avoid drinking alcohol for the rest of your life. But, the bizarre thing is, they diagnose you immediately. If you go to an AA meeting and you’ve been drinking heavily for a year, they’ll tell you you’re an alcoholic. And, they’ll do a damn good job of convincing if you don’t agree straight away.

Alcoholism is a symptom, not a disease. And, so is drug addiction. People who drink and do drugs are, often, in pain. People aren’t born alcoholics. Kids don’t compulsively consume alcohol. And, most of the AA members that shared their stories with me admitted that they became alcoholics at some point in their lives. Yet, there’s no effort to determine what happened. They are just labeled alcoholics, and told that they will always be alcoholics and that there’s nothing they can do about it.

For the past fifteen or so years, general medical practitioners have been prescribing anti-depressant medication to anyone who asks for them. Because, again, it’s easier to just sweep problems under the rug. Like the government, the public health system doesn’t care if you’re depressed. They don’t bother checking up on you. They don’t monitor your medication, and whether or not it’s working. They just give you a prescription and shoo you out the door. You cannot trust that they’re offering you the right advice. Because, they don’t care. They don’t care about you, and they don’t care about your mental health. Public doctors cannot be trusted. And, neither can the government.
In order to be saved from chronic addiction or depression, you need to save yourself. It is our personal responsibility to resolve our own psychological issues. Mental health specialists can only do as much as you allow them to. And, most of the time, they’re not even willing to do that.

If you’re depressed, medicating yourself isn’t the solution. The depression is a symptom of something else. Just like all chronic addiction problems. There are reasons people get depressed and there are reasons others abuse drugs. Methadone and anti-depressants only treat the symptom.

Chronic pain is an indication that something is wrong. It is a message from the body to the brain, intended to inform your conscious mind that there is a problem. If you take pain killers, instead of attempting to diagnose what is causing the pain, it will only get worse. This applies to self-medicating, also. Miserable people drink alcohol to get them through the day. Then, in the morning, they wake up miserable again. Self-medicating long-term (while neglecting the underlying condition) will lead to the development of more problems. And, you’ll end up self-medicating for them too.

Junk ruins people’s lives and it is also a treatment for ruined lives. Methadone and alcohol, too. If you keep feeding it, substance abuse is cyclical and never-ending. And, to some extent, at least, it will go way if you stop feeding it. Cigarettes are cyclical too, particularly because nicotine dependency is heavily weighted towards addiction rather than recreational effect (of which there is very little). Since cigarettes do not inebriate like other recreational drugs, the compulsion to consume them is not necessarily symptomatic of some underlying core issue. On the contrary, the compulsion to consume them exists because you consumed them in the first place. Cigarette addiction, relative to drug and alcohol dependency, is illusory. People don’t self-medicate with tobacco. It serves no function. Once you’ve overcome withdrawals, and flushed every last trace out of your system, you won’t need it any more. Whereas, heroin and alcohol are different. One man might have one drink while another man can’t stop until they pass out. AA explains this, vaguely, as alcoholism (whatever that means). The latter, “alcoholic” individual, drinks excessively to treat anxiety or depression. Or, maybe, to aide in the repression of a trauma. In the context of chronic addicts, alcohol is, essentially, an anti-depressant.

Junk mail revisited. Part 3. 6th February 2016

So, I did it again somehow. I managed to convince myself to do one more shot, and it was an absolute disaster. I couldn’t get the first syringe to register after drawing some blood and losing the vein again. I kept persisting, though, incapable of accepting defeat. Stabbing, stabbing, stabbing at my veins.

I hadn’t slept or eaten anything and it had been almost 12 hours since my last shot. So, I wasn’t thinking clearly. After around fifty failed attempts, I decided to make another shot and try again with a smaller gauge needle (the last remaining unused syringe was a 29 gauge).

“I won’t do much damage with a smaller needle,” I thought to myself. And, thankfully, the shot was successful after less than a dozen attempts. But, now, my arms look totally fucked. They hurt a bit, too. There are a couple more lumps as well as two extremely dark purple marks on a vein In the crook of my left arm. I think that vein might have collapsed temporarily. Need to get Vitamin E cream and some Hirudoid. And, I need to get my veins checked out properly to determine how much damage I’ve done.

Depending on the severity of the damage, I may get vascular surgery. There is a permanently collapsed vein in my right arm, I think. Either that or it has shrunk to an unusable size. I can’t find it any more. Haven’t been able to for at least five years. So, I assume it has collapsed. And, if so, I will probably develop chronic circulatory problems in that arm. I looked up the implications of this and – as I suspected – restricted blood flow in an arm increases the chance of heart attack / stroke / etc.

I think I kept going, stabbing myself repeatedly in the crooks of my arms, because I didn’t want to believe that I’d damaged them as much as I have. But, then, I’m not actually sure it was the veins that made it impossible to register. It wasn’t damaged veins. It was me. My hands were shaky. I couldn’t see perfectly. I was sleep-deprived, hungry, stoned and coming down – heavily – from my last shot. So, the fact that I couldn’t register a vein doesn’t mean that they’re all unusable. I’m sure they’re (more than) a little damaged, but the main reason was: I was in no state to do an intravenous injection.

If I ever inject anything in the future, I can’t do it when I’m high and/or drunk. I need to have meth in the morning, too, so that I can sleep at the end of the day. Having meth at night means I stay up until the morning. And, then, if I don’t have another shot, I need to go to sleep during the day.

Meth is much more effective if you sleep and eat between each dose, anyway. It is a waste of money to redose repeatedly. By the third shot, it doesn’t even get me high. It just compensates for the lack of food and sleep, and brings me back to normal.

I need to get a medical tourniquet. Using the sleeve of a long-sleeved shirt – or a leather belt – as a tourniquet is messy. It puts too much pressure on the veins and makes registering more complicated than it needs to be. Holding a tourniquet in your teeth, while you inject yourself in the crook of your arm, is somewhat difficult sober. Doing it fucked up is a recipe for disaster.

I need to get a referral to a vascular specialist and see what they think about the state of my veins. I just inspected them, thoroughly, and I’m no longer convinced any of my major veins have collapsed. The one with the two purple marks on it on my left arm seems to be okay, somehow. I can trace the vein, under the skin, up towards my shoulder. And, strangely, the one in my right arm either never disappeared or has come back (which is possible). It’s not as large as it used to be, but it is there. So, I’m probably freaking out over nothing. But, either way, I’m not going to be able to relax about my arms until I get an ultrasound and a professional diagnosis.

In the past three months, I’ve had minor surgery and a lot of minor dental work done (I went to the dentist once over the course of a decade). I’m fixing myself up, piece by piece. It’s costing me about $400 a month, after insurance, but it’s worth it. And so is getting vascular surgery, no matter how much it costs. If I have any significant sections of major veins that have collapsed, I need to get them fixed.

Like cigarette smokers, I have convinced myself that I am beyond the point of no return. My veins are so fucked, I figure, that there’s no point in taking care of them anymore. This is, in part, how I justify continuing to use needles. Yet, the opposite is also true. Sometimes my denial of the damage that I probably have caused my veins is used to justify doing another shot.

When I have trouble registering veins in both arms, I get scared and I desperately need to prove that my arms aren’t totally fucked, by completing a successful shot. So, I keep going. And, as I continue to fail, due to my shaking hands and scattered brain, the fear increases along with my desperation. The longer it takes me to register successfully, the more stressed (and, therefore, sloppy) I become.

The only place I could register the 29 gauge was below a lump that formed less than 24 hours prior. I absolutely shouldn’t have injected it there, but I did get a sense of relief (however illogical) when I was finally successful. Even though, at the exact same moment, I instantly regretted mutilating myself.

It’s all very confusing. Are my veins damaged? Is it all in my head? If they are damaged, how bad are they? And, most importantly, why do I keep injecting this drug when I can consume it in a much safer and less frustrating way? But – whatever is going on – I need to do something about it.

Having my veins scanned and diagnosed should fix this horrible loop. In the meantime, I can’t allow myself to use needles. The condition that my veins are in, it might be unadvisable to ever use intravenous drugs again. I might be one shot away from collapsing a vein, for real. And, it’s not worth taking the risk. If I get an ultrasound, I will feel better about the whole situation.

Injecting methamphetamine directly into your bloodstream is very dangerous. Much more so than injecting heroin. And, I’ve gotten to a point where I think I might have done myself some serious damage. I’m going to get an ECG, too, and a full series of kidney / liver function tests.

I think the odds are that I’m blowing it up in my head. I mean, surely a lot of IV drug users are way more careless than I am. People share needles, re-use needles, and – I’m sure – it’s pretty common for junkies to redose when they’re high. I can’t be the only one. And then there’s the femoral veins and the small veins between your toes that a lot of people use. I’ve never used a vein other than the crooks of my arms. And, those are the safest veins to use. Plus, I always use clean sharp needles. And, I apply Hirudoid cream. So, logically, I can’t have done that much damage relative to the average IV meth user. But, I guess that’s not a very re-assuring thought. (What’s the life expectancy of an IV meth user?)

I can’t allow the veins in my arms to threaten my longevity. Old people have bad circulation, generally. So, if I don’t repair whatever damage I’ve done, assuming I have done significant damage, I will – most likely – develop chronic circulation problems when I’m sixty / seventy.

There is no hurry. I’m not going to die of vascular complications in the next fifteen years or anything. If I need surgery, it will be very expensive. But, I can always postpone it. For now, I just need to know what’s going on with my body. Using intravenous drugs can be pretty traumatic, psychologically. I’ve had hundreds of injection-themed nightmares over the years. And, I worry all the time – during my waking life – about the state of my veins.
I used to worry about my teeth, too, until a month or so ago when I decided to do something about them.. For five years I’ve been convinced that they were all rotted beyond repair and that I’d have to pay somewhere in the vicinity of fifty thousand dollars to replace / cap them all. Turns out, they weren’t too bad. I had three cracks in my teeth and six cavities. After all that senseless worrying it only cost about five hundred dollars, after insurance, to fix them. The same thing might be true for my veins. Although, I suspect that it’s going to be more expensive since vascular reconstruction is a type of laser / micro-surgery. It will probably be more like a thousand, after insurance. Then again, maybe I don’t need surgery. Maybe I’m totally fine and this is all in my head. Either way. it is time to find out.

There are five physical things that I need to fix up, having emerged from heavy long-term drug use. I’ve already had the cyst on my tailbone removed, the skin where the sun don’t shine snipped off. Plus, I’m more than halfway through fixing my teeth. Beyond that, all I need to do is correct my posture (this is going to be the most difficult and have the longest duration) and repair my veins, if necessary. Plus, as I said earlier, a full medical including ECG and liver / kidney function test.

I’m determined to resolve all of my medical concerns. These stresses that I’ve been accumulating over the years are unnecessary. I need to be proactive about my health, rather than worrying about it and doing nothing. In the past three months, I’ve already made an enormous amount of progress. And, honestly, I’m absolutely terrified of vascular surgery. But, if it needs to be done, it needs to be done. Actions have consequences. And, I’ll be getting off easy – as far as I’m concerned – if all I have to put up with is another surgical procedure that costs around a grand.
It’s a miracle that I managed to emerge from meth, relatively unscathed. And, another miracle, that I managed to quit meth and heroin and get my life back on track. So, although the image of my veins having splints inserted into them is less desirable than having a catheter inserted in my penis every day for a month, vascular surgery is the worst case scenario. And, it – the worst case scenario – could have been a lot worse. I’ve injected spilt gear (mixed with water) from the floor of a tent. And, I’ve spent weeks straight on a steady diet of meth and alcohol, without much food, sleep or water.

So, I’m not bitter about the possibility of vascular reconstructive surgery. I don’t consider it an injustice. On the contrary. I’m grateful that I’m still alive. I’m not sure I deserve the second chance I’ve been given. Nor am I certain I deserve my fiancé, who arrived – just in the nick of time – to give me something to live for again. In fact, I suspect that I deserve much less. But, I don’t take it for granted. While I’m grateful that fortune hasn’t been crueler to me, I feel guilty for being saved from myself when there are so many equally deserving people that continue to suffer alone.

I owe fate. That’s the way I see it. I can’t squander the chance that I’ve been given to turn my life around. To do so, would be an insult to those less fortunate. And, from a selfish perspective, the only way to appease the guilt I mentioned – and convince myself that I deserve this – is to be strong. I’ve come so far, from the drug-addled creature I once was. I owe it to my family, my fiancé, and my unborn children to never again allow myself to drift back into the deep end of the drug world.

My parents haven’t been perfect, in terms of their approach to my drug and alcohol problems over the years. But, I imagine it’s pretty difficult to watch your child grow up into a junky and disappear out of your life for a couple of years. Every time I put a needle in my arm, I am killing whatever still remains of the sweet innocent boy my parents raised me to be. It is inexcusably selfish to trade my health or my relationship with my parents for a recreational high.

I used to think I should be free, in this life, to do whatever I want. Even if it’s self-destructive. But, the more I think about it, the more childish that seems. We are not free, to do whatever we want. There are financial constraints limiting us to what we can afford. Then there are all the ethical / legal boundaries in society, preventing us getting an unfair advantage or from harming others.

I realize that it is not a selfish act to become a junky. Something motivated me to put a needle in my arm back in high school. Most of the students at my school wouldn’t have even considered it for a second. Whereas, I didn’t even hesitate. It seemed like a good idea, at the time. Because, I guess, I was extremely anxious and unstable. And I’d already discovered by that point that a drug habit can fill whatever hole you want it to (more or less). So, of course, I don’t blame myself for how things turned out. At the time, it was beyond my control. But, now it isn’t. And, I have some repair work to do.

People who are destined to develop chronic dependency problems are victims of fate, in my opinion. They are free to abuse drugs or do whatever they want. Some people are destined to become prostitutes or thieves, and – again – they are free to do so. But, actions have consequences.

When I was younger I had a collection of axes to grind with the world. My “Fuck you. Life is short. And, I’m going to die someday,” attitude entitled me to behave however I wanted. It outraged me – beyond words – that the government, the media, my family members and various other people tried to impose their will upon me. I was a very angry self-righteous person. The life I was expected to live wasn’t good enough for me. So, I rejected it. And I lived an self-centered indulgent lifestyle. I abused drugs, because I could and how-dare-anybody-tell-me-otherwise. But, like I said, actions have consequences. About seven years ago (I remember it very clearly) I realized that my lifestyle was hurting other people. I realized that I’d opted for drugs, over a relationship with my family. And, furthermore, prior to said revelation, I had always blamed my family.

My – now sixty something year old – mother, for example. I genuinely thought that she chose not to have a relationship with her son because of her zero-tolerance attitude towards drug use. But, again, that’s childish. She’s from a different generation. She was born in Scotland. And, she’s very stubborn. It was considerably more difficult (read: impossible), I realize now, for her to accept my drug use than it would have been for me to stop using drugs. There was no decision for her to make. In retrospect, I was the only one with a choice. And, I chose drugs over her.
Her steadfast anti-drug attitude helped me get clean, in the end, anyway. In the end, I couldn’t bear to look her in the eyes while I continued to maintain my increasingly depraved lifestyle. I spent a lot of time and effort trying to convince myself that drug use had been a positive (or at least not negative) aspect of my life. But, I was just trying to justify my self-destructive indulgent behavior through self-deception. Because, even though the drugs were clearly doing me harm, I didn’t want to give them up.

It was childish, and selfish, of me to think that I should be able to do whatever I want. That’s not what adult life is about. Part of growing up, I think, is accepting the fact that you have to sacrifice some of your freedoms. That’s just my opinion, though. You don’t have to sacrifice anything, if you don’t want to. You can just say, “Fuck you world,” like I did, and do whatever you want. You are free to break the law, but you might end up in jail. You are free to be emotionally abusive to your sister, too. But there is a difference between what you can do freely and what you should do freely.

If you rob a convenience store, you run the risk of getting arrested. And, if you take a stance against your mother – as I did when I was young and stupid – divorcing yourself from her in the name of drugs. Then, you will be without a mother. And, one day, you will most likely regret it.

Drugs are, largely, pretty destructive. That’s not a fact. It’s an observation. The vast majority of people I know who smoke marijuana are heavily dependent users. Marijuana use is so commonplace, like alcohol, that it’s seen as harmless. And it is one of the least problematic mainstream drugs. But, it’s not harmless. I’ve seen people waste their lives away beside a bong. Hell, I’ve done it. I’ve spent years smoking myself into a stupor every day. And, all the while, I ‘d argue – until I turned blue in the face – that I didn’t have a problem with weed. Somehow, the majority of stoners manage to convince themselves that weed isn’t a drug and that it’s totally harmless.
People who smoke marijuana aren’t the most functional people in the world. More than half the people I know who still smoke bongs, rarely clean them. Glass bongs end up turning black with layers of bacteria-infested tarry sludge. Yet, people still use them. It baffles me how often seemingly clean and functioning adults don’t clean their bongs. They clean their plates and their cups, and they expect kitchenware to be kept clean in other people’s houses. You wouldn’t eat from a dirty plate, if you were a guest somewhere. Yet, It’s okay normal to shove your mouth into a foul-smelling biohazardous bong?

Marijuana depletes so much of your motivation (if you consume it on a daily basis) that – for the average stoner – spending 30 minutes per week cleaning your bong is out of the question. A lot of stoners I’ve known over the years only clean their bong when they absolutely have to. Like, if it starts making them sick or if it stinks out the entire house. This is what weed does when you consume it every day. It demotivates you to such an extent, that you do the absolute bare minimum.

There are exceptions, of course. Some stoners are highly-functional, and there have been countless artists and musicians who have been inspired by weed. Don’t get me wrong. I like marijuana. But, I don’t want to consume it every day any more. Last month I had twenty one (out of thirty one) days sober. No weed. No alcohol. No drugs. No caffeine. No red meat. And, it was a better month than one spent stoned. But, having said that, I don’t think I’ll ever completely stop consuming marijuana.

I’m just saying that isn’t harmless. Stoners need to acknowledge that for their own sake.
Drugs aren’t evil. But they are very addictive. And, ideally, no recreational drug should be consumed on a daily basis. It’s very difficult not to become dependent on marijuana or alcohol (or any mind-altering drug) if you don’t take regular breaks. Drugs aren’t bad. But, drug dependency is.

I know this guy that smokes so much he can hardly open his eyes. Every time I see him, he looks like he just woke up. And, he doesn’t realize he’s abusing weed. Even though he recognizes other people who behaved in pretty much exactly the same way as abusing heroin.

Another friend of mine always owes people money for weed (and other things). He buys stuff on credit and works a full-time job so that he can catch up with the debt that he accumulated the month before. He’s always at least a month behind himself. And, he’s not that unusual. I’ve been in a similar situation before, with weed. Desperately scrounging together enough money to score single grams for fear of withdrawals. Telling myself every day that I’m going to quit tomorrow.

The behavior of stoners isn’t much different to the behavior of any addict. It is society’s perception of marijuana as harmless that confuses marijuana users into believing that it is harmless and not recognizing warning signs that would be clear if they resulted from any other drug.

The decriminalization of marijuana in the United States (and elsewhere) has only served to re-enforce the idea that it is not habit forming and problematic like all other substances. They should, really, have decriminalized psilocybin mushrooms first. Because, the potential for abuse is practically non-existent (and because they grow out of the ground all over the world).

Marijuana is closer to heroin, in some ways, than it is to psilocybin. And, personally, having had problems with it for many years, it frustrates me to see weed being embraced by the US media as not only a positive thing, but (practically) a god-send. I mean, I get that people have been waiting a long time for it to be decriminalized. But, the uninitiated should be informed that it is a highly addictive drug.

If you spend a couple of years smoking every day, it’s harder to quit than a couple of months of shooting meth every day. I’m not sure that inexperienced users taking advantage of loopholes in the United States are aware of how addictive it can be (for some users) and how it can, otherwise, negatively affect their lives. I don’t think I’ve encountered any drug user (including former drug users) who agree with me about this. It’s a bit creepy, like a Twilight Zone episode or something. I don’t understand why everyone believes that weed is harmless when you can observe the harm everywhere.

At least meth users and heroin addicts are, generally, aware of the realities of what they’re consuming. Even if they’re stuck and they don’t do anything about it. At least, they can do something. Because, unlike most stoners, they are somewhat aware of the implications of their actions.

If you abuse cigarettes for four decades, it’s widely understood that you will probably develop heart disease, some kind of cancer or emphysema. Alcohol is neurotoxic, It makes you sick the next morning. And, if abused, can cause cancer and cirrhosis. And weed is – what – harmless? Just because it’s relatively harmless? If so, we shouldn’t worry about spider bites because spiders aren’t lions.

Depending on the quality and strain, marijuana can be a very intense, confusing and unpleasant drug. And, observably, it is a drug of dependence. People try to argue that it’s not addictive. It’s only addictive because of the tobacco, they say. This is nonsense. Marijuana is highly addictive. I’d say there are probably more people helplessly addicted to weed than any other illegal drug in the world. Or, at least, the Western world. (I’m not sure about the distribution of drug use in most non-English speaking countries.) And, I’m not making a ridiculous statement, like marijuana is more addictive than heroin.

There are more people addicted to marijuana than heroin, in part, because heroin scares people away and marijuana is perceived as harmless. But, there are a bunch of contributing factors. It’s also much cheaper and the tolerance is manageable, relative to meth / heroin / etc. And, of course, marijuana – unlike most other drugs – is not potentially life threatening. I get all that.

But, the point remains, for whatever reason, it is – by far – the most widespread illegal drug in the world. And in the Western world, there appear to be more regular users (from my observations) than casual users. Or, at least, the regular users consume far more than the casuals.

Most people will never try heroin, for fear of getting addicted. But, personally, I’ve been addicted to marijuana far longer than I was addicted to opiates. And, I found it easier to quit opiates. The perception that marijuana is safe and harmless, combined with the health benefits (and lack of health risks), the low cost, and it’s worldwide social acceptability (relative to heroin et all) means that people aren’t even remotely afraid to try marijuana.

I was ready to quit heroin, before I even tried it, because I’d heard so much about how addictive it is. I was prepared, somewhat. Whereas, with marijuana, I wasn’t prepared. I started smoking when I was a teenager, thinking that it was harmless. And, as a result, I ended up spending many years addicted to it before I realized that I was a drug addict.

Stereotypical bong heads and stereotypical crack heads have a few things in common. They both smoke (their respective drug of choice) out of disgusting glass devices or homemade alternatives. Neither of them have remarkable personal hygiene standards. And, when the prospect of sobriety lingers it’s ugly head, they become quite desperate. Although stoners are unlikely to offer random people blowjobs for five dollars a-piece, so they can afford to get some bud.

Marijuana is more addictive than alcohol, I think. Most people who consume alcohol, don’t consume it heavily on a daily basis. I was a raging alcoholic for a couple of years, but – throughout most of my life – I have been more addicted to and dependent on marijuana than alcohol.

Alcoholics take up a very small portion of people who consume alcohol. Whereas, from my observations, dedicated stoners outnumber casual users (at least in terms of how much they consume).

A large percentage of people that I’ve known when they’ve first encountered marijuana, have become addicted to it. I warn people, now, not to get stoned every day. Because, before they know it, they’ll develop a habit. But, nobody listens to me. And, then, about half the time, they get addicted.

So, yeah, my point was – originally – that drugs are pretty destructive. Not in and of themselves, of course. Marijuana is just a plant. It’s not evil, nor is it bad. It depends on how it is used. I’m just saying that a considerable portion of marijuana users that I’ve observed throughout my life have problems with weed in a similar fashion to those who abuse other drugs.

Guns aren’t dangerous without someone to operate them, either. This is an argument often made by gun enthusiasts. But it isn’t based on particularly sound logic. Because, kitchen knives aren’t dangerous (unless you use them to stab someone) yet more people get murdered by guns than cutlery. Statistically, guns are clearly more dangerous than kitchen knives. And that’s my point about drugs.

Drug abuse and drug use are separate things. There’s a responsible way to use guns and there’s a responsible way to approach drug use. But, practically, are there more drug users than drug abusers in the world? Or, in the context of gun control, are there more people using guns in responsible ways? Hopefully, you’ll agree – whoever you are – that the answer to both questions is pretty obvious.

Junk mail revisited. Part 4. 7th February 2016

I managed to get a bit of sleep, eat a pizza, and treat the crooks of my arms with Vitamin E Cream and Hirudoid. When I started preparing my next dose, I was in the middle of a long argument with my fiancé about gender inequality. My arms looked a little better, when I woke up this morning, but – still – it was the (perhaps) the most damage I’d ever done in such a short period of time.

Short sleeved shirts were, now, out of the question. The crooks of both arms, in the space of only 24 hours, had become as fucked up as they normally would after a couple of weeks. But, after calming myself down, and thinking about the history of my needle use, I came to the conclusion that whatever damage I’ve already done is probably manageable.

I’ve never had an abscess, or any kind of infection, from injecting. Although my experiences have been somewhat horrific, there are far worse cases. Some people, I’ve heard, end up having to have their limbs amputated. And, my biggest worry is whether or not I’ve collapsed a short section of vein. So, although this situation is far from ideal, things could be much worse.

I inspected my veins more thoroughly than I ever have, to try and work out if I’d lost part of the basilic in my left arm. But – as best I could tell, with all the lumps and bruises distracting me – the vein was still functioning. And, weirdly, I also managed to find the collapsed cephalic in my right arm. Rather than collapsing permanently five years ago, it must have collapsed temporarily. At least, I think it’s the same vein. It’s considerably smaller than I remember it, so it might just be minor vein that has inflated to compensate for the cephalic. I’m not an expert on these things. So, whatever it is, it’s off limits. Collapsing a section of your cephalic vein is bad enough. I can’t lose the replacement, too.

When I get an ultra-sound of the crooks of my arms, hopefully they’ll be able to confirm whether or not I – actually – have any permanently collapsed veins. It’s possible, after all this time worrying about the long-term implications of my circulatory problems, that I don’t have any. Still, my veins are fucked and I’m not going to use them again for at least a month. Not until I’ve had them looked at by a specialist, and they’ve had (more than enough) time to heal.
Anyway, back to my relapse.

One of the syringes had a clot in it, blocking the needle, so I pulled the plunger out of the back and sucked the contents out with the other one. Then, after cutting off the needle with a heavy duty pair of scissors, I went into the bedroom and shoved it up my ass (with the aid of some lubricant). But, it’d gotten reclogged somewhere along the line (probably when I sucked in another clot out of the other syringe) so I had to pull the plunger – again – and suck it into another used needle.

As the plunger came out of the clogged syringe, all my gear / blood mix spilt onto the table. So, I had to suck it up through a piece of cotton as best I could. Whatever was left over, I licked off the stained wood surface of my dining table. Then, I returned to the bedroom, dropped my pants, made my corn hole sufficiently slippery again, and shoved the needle up inside me as far as it would go.

The effects, from plugging what remained of my two failed shots from yesterday (approximately 0.03 grams each) took about fifteen minutes to kick in properly. But, I could feel the initial effects immediately. In less than a minute, I transitioned from drunk / stoned to fully lucid.

When I returned to the lounge, I had no interest in continuing the argument. In my drunken state, it had frustrated me to no end. And, now, it was nothing. So, I apologized to her for being upset and things quickly returned to normal. Or as normal as they can be when you’re me, I guess.

I rolled another joint (my second, in half an hour) and made my way outside to smoke, greedily finished drinking my last long neck of beer as I puffed away. She came out – my fiancé – to hang some washing out on the line, and we talked about this and that.

Not for a second did I think, in my fucked up state, to help her. I just sat there, drinking beer and smoking marijuana. By the time I realized I should give her a hand (when she pointed it out) there were only four socks left in the basket. But, I pegged them up anyway.

About an hour later, I decided the effects of my anal dose were insufficient and I made a decision to chase the crystals that I’d spilt on the table the day before. So, I flattened out a wedge of aluminum foil (about six inches by two inches) and folded it into shape.

I’m not great at chasing, so I lost a bit of smoke, but I managed to boost my dose enough to satisfy my expectations. But, I have to say, it’s disappointing in comparison to intra-venous administration. I guess that’s why I’ve never really been a fan of smoking.

Smoking, in general, is my least favorite way to consume drugs. Not only is it a waste of product, it’s dirty. The high is less clean. Less pure. Whether or not you’re smoking marijuana, heroin or meth. Combustion, I think, compromises the integrity of the product. You get high from the drug, and you get high from the smoke itself (which, when you’re smoking meth, is highly toxic).

Injecting, a quarter of a point (0.025 grams) of this gear lasted me about twelve hours. But, I doubt – now – whether or not the three quarters of a point I just consumed will keep me satisfied for eight. And, I’m not nearly as high as was either.

This can’t be explained by tolerance, alone. Although (presumably) my meth tolerance has increased from zero to something-other-than-zero, it shouldn’t have increased enough to make any significant impact on the quality of my high. So, it must be the route of administration.

Switching from (occasional) intra-venous meth user to (occasional) inter-anal meth user is going to be more difficult than I thought. The rush I feel when I inject – even from shooting a measly quarter point – is much greater than the rush I got today from smoking and plugging combined.

I prefer my meth buzz to be stronger and shorter-lasting than the effects of plugging or eating, but I – since I’ve fucked up my veins and my teeth – there is no sensible alternative. Not until I get the all clear from a vascular specialist, anyway. If I don’t get the all clear, I’m going to have to stop injecting.

Really, I should stop using drugs intravenously regardless of whether or not I’ve already done significant damage. But, I’ve dealt with enough addiction problems to know that it’s good to have a contingency plan. That way, if I relapse again at some point – which I probably will – it will be a controlled relapse. So, whenever I quit anything, I give myself a little leeway.

Currently, with meth, my limit is half a gram per year. And, it’s working for me so far.

Giving myself this allowance means I end up using less than I would have otherwise. Because, when the cravings kick in, they aren’t as excruciating as they could be. The last couple of months, for example, my cravings have been getting out of hand. But, I’ve been able to keep them at bay (for as long as possible, anyway) by thinking about my allowance. It needs an adjustment, though.

It’s better to spread out my yearly allowance across the year, rather than using it all up at once. That way – if I can’t resist using needles – I won’t cause any more significant damage to my veins. And, I won’t have enough time to develop a tolerance either. So, the extra expense of buying individual points, rather than half grams, will get cancelled out (to some extent, anyway).

If I only buy one point every three months, or so, I won’t get sleep-deprived or malnourished as a result of binging for a week straight. A point is a reasonable amount to last one or two days which keeps the mini-relapses that I’m allowing myself a bit less dangerous.

Tomorrow I’m going to start another three week period of sobriety. So, I’m going to interrupt this relapse and save the two and a quarter points I have left until next month. Then – at the end of that month – I’m going to start my three month sperm detox so that all the drugs and toxins I’ve been consuming over the years are well and truly out of my system by the time we start trying to conceive. And, it might take me six months (or even a year) to successfully get my fiancé pregnant.

So, I’m going to be sober – and healthy – for a long time.

This relapse was my last chance to use methamphetamines before having children. It’s quite possible that I won’t revisit my crystal friend again for over a year, this time. But, that’s okay. I’ve never had a reason to be completely sober for a long period of time, in the past. So, I’ve had to force myself to get clean. And, that’s a hard thing to do if you don’t really want to do it. But, this is different.

I would spend years sober to ensure the health of my future children, if I had to. If I didn’t, and my child ended up with some sort of disability, I would never forgive myself. Frankly, it baffles me how people try to get sober when they’re smoking cigarettes or drinking alcohol, or taking drugs.

This guy I know, him and his girlfriend are trying to get pregnant again after their last pregnancy miscarried. But, for some unknown reason, they both continue to smoke marijuana (mixed with tobacco) and drink alcohol, on a regular basis. Their plan is to stop when they get pregnant, again, like they did last time. And, I’ve tried telling him how long sperm takes to develop. But, he doesn’t listen.

I guess, when I was more dependent on drugs, it would have been difficult for me to detox sufficiently – and stay clean – while attempting to conceive. So, it’s not my place to judge. Although his baby-rearing strategy still baffles me, to some extent, so do large sections of my own life.

People are strange, I guess. And, shit happens.

Hopefully his kid will turn out fine.

It’s around midnight, now, and my last opportunity to indulge in anything for the next three weeks is upon me. So, I roll a big joint. Half a gram of marijuana and one entire cigarette. My fiancé comes with me, but she doesn’t smoke with me. We talk random nonsense.

I can’t finish the joint. So, I put the rest of it out onto the ground and throw it in the bin. No sense keeping it around for three weeks. I can always get some more. It is not as precious to me, as it once was. And, it was pretty cheap anyway. So, I don’t care if I waste a bit.

We have sex three times. And, by the time we’re done I’m pretty tired. It’s three o’clock in the morning now. But, I’m not going to be able to get to sleep just yet.

I try to watch some porn. But my balls hurt when my dick gets hard. So, I have to stop. I’ve been sitting down too much over the past couple of days. The scar from my tailbone surgery is really tender, now. The adrenaline-like effects of meth caused me to masturbate too much and have sex too much and sit down for way too long. I’m still recovering from the surgery. So, I hope I haven’t fucked it up.

I’m going to attempt to go to sleep, now. It’s only half past three. But, the meth is wearing off (already!) and I feel like shit. I haven’t had much to eat the past forty eight hours and I’m developing a bit of a headache. Even if I can’t sleep, I’m going to lie down in the darkness and unwind.
 
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