I’m reading old journal entries from the past six years which is what’s making me super pseudo philosophical…
I hate the way meth makes time pass, steals it from you, makes the minutes go by faster, and the days and months and years, and you don’t realize how damn long it’s been. More than another other drug this shit manages to sneak up on you and pull the wool over your eyes in regards to the seconds you’re losing, the years that have gone by, and the ones ahead. No matter how bad it gets, it keeps going forward. Time is completely uninterested in how you’re spending just in continuation, this rattling cart that is falling apart and everything’s flying off of it, some onto the ground where it gets churned up and destroyed or forgotten, and some of it blown away, but it will keep moving. Often I don’t even remember when things were. It’ll feel like they just happened when they actually happened weeks ago, months ago, years ago. And when I’m using, time fucking speeds away and it feels like I just relapsed yesterday, but then I’ll look at my first entry of “coke binging again” and it was written six months ago. I keep thinking, this relapse is not that bad really it’s been much worse, and maybe it has, but that doesn’t change the fact that another half a year of my life is gone to this shit. I never think of it this way, but I’ve spent over a fourth of my life addicted to this shit, over half my life dealing with this fucking eating disorder, and a fifth of my life in rehabs, treatment centers, and hospitals.
I hate its ability to mask the bad with the good. I have days of being in fucking misery and thinking I can’t do this anymore but I can’t stop doing it, and lying down on the floor and or in bed and crying, thinking how much my life has fallen apart and how much I hate myself for this addiction. And even while at the moment it feels so horrible and like I can never get past that moment, times passes and the next day comes. And for some reason none of what I was thinking the day before seems real, because this next day is a day where I think everything is fine and I just need to keep going, keep doing this for a little bit longer. I hate this shit and I see its evil at moments, but I somehow forget it. I forget it and I keep relapsing, going through these cycles—use coke thinking I can do it recreationally, funds deplete and it’s really just not enough, give in meth and then something happens either physically or in my life that forces me to get clean. Get clean, stay clean for a while, change my life, social circle, everything, then somehow this shit finds me again—new group of people, new dealers often, it’s like I’m somehow fated to be with methamphetamine.
My intentions in using always seem to start out pure and then go so horribly wrong. And as it begins to cut away at me as a person I don’t see it until so much has been cut away I am versions of a person, a skeleton of a person, a fragment. I really don’t know who I am anymore, because none of the things that were so important to me, that I felt defined me, have been able to keep up with meth, have been able to be important enough to battle my ED. So so much has been wasted on all of this, and more just continues to be thrown into the fire.
And none of this is going to mean anything to me in the morning, because this is all just writing in the sand and like the ocean meth just washes it all away.
(sterlie water in vials from the needle exchange!)
