ilikestims
Bluelighter
The clock on the wall reads a quarter past midnight...
ROA: Insufflation
Initial Dose: 4 lines, ~1.5 inches
Generally speaking, I am in above-average health. 24-year-old male, roughly 150 pounds. On average I exercise, say, three to four times a week: yoga, weight lifting, cycling, running.
I oscillate between extremes of healthful and unhealthful eating. In the past 3 weeks I have been unhealthful. Fortunately, the prior two months was probably the most healthful period of my life.
I have used meth, off and on, for about four years now. The first couple of years were very sporadic: once or twice a year, never thinking about it once the occasion ended.
A few years ago I became fairly addicted to meth, using, on average, 3-4 times a month for a 4-6 month period. Cessation of the drug led to a number of unpleasant life situations.
Although I have a rich drug history, I am no fool: meth is clearly my unwitting "DOC" and I respect/fear it with aplomb.
Before the calendar turned, I had been meth-free for two years. In the past 10 months, however, it has re-entered my life, my use going from once every 4-8 weeks to about once a month. I have used twice in the past two weeks; before that I was sober for 7 weeks from my last dosage.
This will unequivocally be my last trip for at least another year.
I had no intention of using this beautiful fall evening, but a buddy I recently met -- from Bluelight, of all places -- asks me if I want to pick up. I have been -- let's be honest here -- fiending the past couple of days. Nothing serious, but it's an itch to scratch. I oblige.
Financially, picking up is a squeeze for me at the moment. I have to dip into the credit card I so laboriously pared down by $500 the past six weeks. Shame rids my core; one step forward and two steps back is seemingly the story of my life.
I press on, knowing that this experience is a mark of demarcation; back to my Ps and Qs following. I must learn to love myself and forgive myself, even as I seemingly helplessly observe practicing aversion.
After an hour of deliberation, Manuel's connect comes through.
My newfound buddy is 20 years old with a rich drug history. He talks incessantly, a mile-a-minute, about only one thing: drugs. I empathize; he is deep within the throes of addiction. Yet he is still attractive. Vivacious.
I can tell he has a pure heart. He has chosen a challenging life. Starting drugs so young molds the brain into the status quo of pleasure-seeking. I have no idea if Manuel will be able to overcome his challenges and blossom into ingenuity.
This is only the second time we've met.
After an hour drive to our destination we succeed in copping. Our dealer has obviously been using his own product; his pupils are enlarged and his vocal tone is spastic. He insists on demanding we stay safe.
He hooks it up! A gram for [cens0red].
This is the largest amount I have ever purchased. My use is sporadic, and it has been years since I have flat-out binged on ice; I have learned my lesson. Manuel is short on cash, but I give him half of the rock -- a milky white sculpture -- for personal use.
I do not trust myself.
Prior use has scolded me: I rarely smoke Tina.
My preferred use: before noon, with a night of sleep and a full meal ensconced in my animal matter. My only hard and fast rule is to never stay up more than one day; I have not broken that rule in two or three years. Optimally speaking, I snort a few lines, get obscenely gakked up, and ride out the rush. Within an hour or two, I decide how much more I will partake in, get my fix, and then do not re-dose until the next trip, however many weeks or months in the future, if at all.
This time will be different. For one, this stuff is good, but not quite as good as what my friend had been giving me the past couple of weeks. The friend's shard is crystal clear; very little is needed puts me in my happy place.
Secondly, I am determined to do this trip properly. I have a number of life things I want to handle, and much writing to scribe. My past couple of trips I have had tremendous insight, but wasted hours organizing and masturbating to porn. While immensely pleasurable on shard, it is an enormous time and energy waster, particularly from someone who has slowly but surely all but eliminated porn from his life.
At 8 PM I pull into a shopping center and crunch four lines, two for yours truly and two for Manuel.
This is solid stuff, yet I can't help but observe my tolerance has increased by leaps and bounds. There is no more rush. No matter; I am disappointed, but I expected as much. I have not been eating and exercising in-between my recent dosing; what could I possibly expect? The rush is overrated anyhow. The reason I do not smoke is because the rush begets loss of control; I become a fiend. This way I can control and mask myself and blend in, incognito, with the world at large.
We rail another two lines. Manuel is primarily a smoker, and I am surprised to see he is impressed at the gradual come up from insufflation. He is not as "fiendy" as I have assumed.
I avoid the temptation to get preachy on his preferred ROA; I only mentally note to myself that what comes up must come down, and pat myself on the back for being willing to trade a potential rush for long-term "sustainability," if one dare use this word with such an insidious drug.
I promptly drive home, hoping to return before 9 in order to buy fruits and vegetables. I will be juicing throughout my trip, further balancing the intense euphoria (and subsequent comedown) and ensuring my body has vital nutrients to protect my vitals.
The drive is pleasant; classical music is our exposition, and Manuel has much to say. I empathetically listen. I enjoy listening almost as much as a grand ole soliloquy, and I actively prod him for context and demonstrate I actually do give a shit about his company. I am warmed that his narrative finally branches from his previous one-track mind of drug use.
Like myself, Manuel comes from alcoholic parents. One of my recent epiphanies was delivered by a former AA member. Despite having a close relationship with God, I have always been supremely skeptical of AA; Judeo-Christian philosophy triggers a subconscious defense mechanism.
Yet I was pleasantly surprised: Steve, the friend in question, said that children of alcoholics tend to have similar patterns in relating with others. Most poignantly, they tend to be terrified of abandonment. We -- see the defense mechanism in work? "They" is so impersonal, yet I am referring to myself! -- also tend to "have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility," resulting in personal shame at their attempted perfectionism and people-pleasing.
One of my golden rules is to be brutally honest and aware of myself, working diligently to untie the knots of subconscious patterns rooted in negativity and self-hatred. As I bring them to awareness, I gain the capability of owning my own reactions, becoming an "actor" rather than a "reactor."
Yet these discoveries are often quite painful; my psyche is impeccable at lying to self and practicing aversion. The discovery of this new pattern, however, grants me wisdom and inspiration: I now better understand my own actions, and the otherwise perplexing behaviors of those close to me, Manuel included.
I hesitate; does that sound divisive? It is the opposite: I feel bonded.
Manuel discusses his ex-girlfriend, and as he finishes his narrative, I opine that I feel it is not the girl that he misses, but what the girl brought out of him: Manuel's best self, the optimistic, motivated go-getter that does not need to use in order to attain purpose.
Unconditional love.
After a quick run to the store and a pit stop at the gas station to fill up my mother's Toyota Salara, I pull onto Manuel's block and bid him adieu around 9:30. He is grateful for my kindness, and I am equally pleased at being able to show him unconditional love.
Expediting the timeline a bit, I assemble the juicer, prepare the fruits and vegetables, and am left with about 60-80 ounces of fresh juice. I am partial to beets, grapefruit, apples, kale, and cilantro; anything else is gravy.
Guzzling about 30 ounces, I take another 30 ounces with me as my companion for the night and refrigerate the rest. Consuming some spirulina and preparing apple cider vinegar in my agua, I resign myself to mitigating the deleterious effects of methamphetamine as best as I can.
There is nothing I enjoy more on meth than good conversation. During my most recent depressive phase, I have distanced myself from all but one of my friends; I call B and we riff for about thirty minutes.
B is currently deep in practicing the Venusian arts and much of our discussion revolves around evolutionary seduction. I am deeply impressed with how far B has come in such a short time. He brings his own effervescent optimism to the opposite sex, yet is able to maintain his integrity in his pursuit of the carnal.
He offers me some sage advice, prodding me about one of my own preconceived notions. In the past I have expressed dissatisfaction on men having to bear the brunt of initiation. While I have increasingly come to grips with this expectation, B is in the process of owning it!
Much obliged.
I am extremely careful to behave as normally as possible. I do not talk too fast or too much; the only thing out of the ordinary is the fact that I am up so late. While I wish I felt like I could be honest about my use, there is shame attached; in many ways my friends look up to me, and I hate to disappoint them. There are a couple of friends I can divulge such matters to, but neither B or J fit the bill.
J is walking home from work and we thankfully chat for a good hour or so. J has been one of my best friends for about four years now, but recently I have kept him at arm's length. I apologize for my lapse in judgment, share my recent epiphany and otherwise listen most ardently as he brings me up to speed on his new (first!) girlfriend and various slacklining adventures.
J is particularly articulate -- he's a hell of a writer! -- and insight flows whenever we converse. This time he touches on Eckhart Tolle -- oh how reluctant he is to share his spiritual side! -- and I am floored as he elucidates on what Tolle has to say about time and the present moment.
As a yoga instructor and frequent meditator, I am intimately familiar with the breath, the present, and time, but predominantly only as intellectual constructs. I am still struggling to assimilate the concepts into my emotional body, into my day-to-day reality. J makes clear that all my thoughts of intuition I have been grappling with are signs to strike into action!
As J says, when you are thinking about doing something, do it immediately. B and J are good friends as well, and B shared with me J's thoughts on life: you can either accept life with vigor, or take a step or two into oblivion.
Oblivion.
Meth is quite like oblivion. It is borrowing time, an unsustainable generator of psychic harmony that demands a great price for its short-term hedonism. Yet it is simply a tool; it is up to me to utilize it.
In the past few years I have weaned myself off of drug use; it is my intention to be 100 percent drug free. I succeed for various swaths of time, but unpredictably I fall off the wagon and lapse into old patterns. I lose perspective and am unsure what I am carrying on for. Yet, as heinous as this may sound, meth has, in the past 10 months or so, clarified my purpose and shone light on my weaknesses.
Knowledge is power. It has helped trigger knowledge; it is up to sober me to utilize it. It is like loaning from the future; assuredly I would have discovered such perceived insight at my own pace while sober, but I could not resist taking a shortcut. The danger is that if you loan one too many times, you go through your own personal Hell in order to regain sanity and the temerity to put into action our hopes and dreams.
This is why I must scribe. This is not just a high talking. I am learning to love myself and shedding old thought patterns. The process is unpredictable, ridden with potholes. I must continue on.
I have been thinking of suicide recently, but I admit I would never go through with it. It is selfish and cowardly; furthermore it would solve nothing, for I strongly suspect I would only be forced to return to learn my lessons.
The veracity hidden in my thoughts of suicide are just fantasies of oblivion. Absolving personal responsibility, which is truly impossible.
The truth of it is that I am deathly afraid of success. I always suspected this, but now I am sure of it. The awareness of the truth is valuable, but how do I move beyond such paralyzing ear?
The older I get, the more I realize preconceptions and mores must be dismissed. Everyone is so tremendously unique; everyone's narrative, purpose and perception is full of breadth and depth. There truly are no rules; we create them on the fly, one experience auto-correcting in a tete-a-tete with intent.
Waking Life.
When I think about my "purpose" in life -- we create our own purpose! -- I am attracted to my strengths, my passions. What am I good at, even if I'm not particularly enamored with said skill?
Communicating and connecting with others. I am genuinely interested in helping others, in hearing others, in learning what makes everyone tick. As I continue down this intent, I gradually become more accepting in jumping through aforementioned mores, the hurdles I have so often disdained. It is the cost of doing business.
I am so blessed. God has heard my recent prayers. I know I have the strength to overcome this dependence. I am not a victim.
Shortly after midnight I reluctantly re-dose. I truly do not need a gram, or even half a gram, of ice; the unpleasant effects (and long-term consequences) increase exponentially!
Yet a part of me welcomes it: I seek the structure of being "forced" back into my healthful routine.
That is one reason why I am such an extremist. I strive balance, and I try to be vigiliant, aware of my limits. When I cross them, as I am undoubtedly doing with this experience, I gain the motivation to work twice as hard to repair and mitigate the damage.
Let's be real: the above paragraph is rationalization. I do not "need" to re-dose; it is not wisdom-seeking but animalistic greed. Forgive me. First I must forgive myself.
Three lines, about two inches. I am again wired, but not overly so.
My mother's room is just a few feet from my own, so I take care not to get caught tweaking. I assemble a playlist of YouTube videos -- competitive tournament sets from a fighting game whose community I participate in -- and minimize my typing.
Unfortunately it is not feasible to write out all the things I wish to, not without alerting my mother I am abnormal. During a trip a few weeks ago she questioned whether I went to sleep. She would never confront me on such a thing, but she is no dummy; I need not worry her further.
I create drafts, present trip report included. Then I study.
I have been apart of this community since my senior year in high school. I am an accomplished competitor, substantially above average but not quite great. Southern California is the most competitive region in the world for this fighting game, too.
I have a love-hate relationship with the hobby, but after taking a substantial break for most of the year, I have gained a dramatically advanced understanding and am incensed to improve. It is a form of martial arts; yoga is a spiritual martial art and this game is modern martial art as well. I obsess over the psychological patterns, the ripples of momentum and the tipping points in triggering your own, or ending someone else's.
My favorite part about competing in this game is the stress. It taxes all of my resources to remain calm under tremendous stress. The technical demand in the metagame is tremendous; under tournament pressure everyone makes mistakes. The key is not to get shook; to remain centered, confident and free. Creative. Unattached.
Since I have been competing for as long as I have been meditating and practicing yoga, I have been privy to the tremendous psychological growth afforded me, demonstrated in the game. I am no longer as obsessed about the game as I once was, yet that has somehow made me much better.
Play styles are so interesting. Everyone has their own, and it tells you so much about someone's character, more than conversing via the clumsy medium of language ever could. There is much more left unsaid in our waking life; one can sense it only through the periphery, the morass of context, of vibration.
Congratulations if you have bared with my numerous diatribes. Expediting the experience again -- I lost myself in watching tournament matches -- it is now approaching noon. I re-dosed again at 10 AM, with four similar-sized lines. Re-dosing isn't doing anything other than prolonging my motivation, interest and focus.
How will the rest of my trip pan out? I intend on writing a letter to three individuals: myself; my mother; my boss. I will not send them until I re-read them sober. Want to ensure I am genuine, yes, but also efficient, the anti-thesis of this current trip report.
Epilogue:
As emphasized throughout the trip report, I will re-double my efforts towards sobriety in the weeks and months following this experience. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results, then I must change my concrete plan of action.
At the top of my priority list is purchasing a book, Personal Power Through Awareness, that is replete with self-loving mantras to reprogram my battered subconscious. Months ago I read the book but rationalized my way out of practicing the mantras; too cheesy, I too hard-headed. Yet I must humble myself and recite: I have enough psychological studying to know it will make a tremendously powerful impact on my life.
You only rise as far as your thoughts.
I also intend to begin a juice fast, likely beginning Monday. I am going to eat solid food as I recover from this trip, likely a cavalcade of peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I will also resume my prior practices of regular journaling, exercise, reading, rationed Internet time (no more than four hours a day, which is plenty).
Most importantly, I will set in motion the process to begin teaching yoga at the studio. I have just five hours to go before I am Yoga Alliance certified. But I tell you, I'm afraid of success! I created a slight, trumped it up, and utilized it as an excuse to not finish. I am ashamed of that behavior, too, but I must come to grips with it. No one is going to be as hard on me as myself.
Yoga is my rock. Through it I remain balanced and cultivate equanimity. The downside, though, is that it stirs and unravels a great many epiphanies, bringing awareness to heretofore unconscious processes. Empowering, yes, but every day requires me to challenge my fears. The brain abhors change; it gesticulates wildly as it tricks you into repetitions of the status quo.
There are decades of behavior currently under the knife. It is only normal for me to experience a number of ups and downs. But I have a tremendous support system of family and friends, I possess concrete gifts and aspirations, and I continue to cultivate unconditional love and humility before God, the incredibly beneficent Cosmos.
I hope this trip report gave you insight into one man's experience with a potent chemical. I'll see you in Sober Living!
ROA: Insufflation
Initial Dose: 4 lines, ~1.5 inches
Generally speaking, I am in above-average health. 24-year-old male, roughly 150 pounds. On average I exercise, say, three to four times a week: yoga, weight lifting, cycling, running.
I oscillate between extremes of healthful and unhealthful eating. In the past 3 weeks I have been unhealthful. Fortunately, the prior two months was probably the most healthful period of my life.
I have used meth, off and on, for about four years now. The first couple of years were very sporadic: once or twice a year, never thinking about it once the occasion ended.
A few years ago I became fairly addicted to meth, using, on average, 3-4 times a month for a 4-6 month period. Cessation of the drug led to a number of unpleasant life situations.
Although I have a rich drug history, I am no fool: meth is clearly my unwitting "DOC" and I respect/fear it with aplomb.
Before the calendar turned, I had been meth-free for two years. In the past 10 months, however, it has re-entered my life, my use going from once every 4-8 weeks to about once a month. I have used twice in the past two weeks; before that I was sober for 7 weeks from my last dosage.
This will unequivocally be my last trip for at least another year.
I had no intention of using this beautiful fall evening, but a buddy I recently met -- from Bluelight, of all places -- asks me if I want to pick up. I have been -- let's be honest here -- fiending the past couple of days. Nothing serious, but it's an itch to scratch. I oblige.
Financially, picking up is a squeeze for me at the moment. I have to dip into the credit card I so laboriously pared down by $500 the past six weeks. Shame rids my core; one step forward and two steps back is seemingly the story of my life.
I press on, knowing that this experience is a mark of demarcation; back to my Ps and Qs following. I must learn to love myself and forgive myself, even as I seemingly helplessly observe practicing aversion.
After an hour of deliberation, Manuel's connect comes through.
My newfound buddy is 20 years old with a rich drug history. He talks incessantly, a mile-a-minute, about only one thing: drugs. I empathize; he is deep within the throes of addiction. Yet he is still attractive. Vivacious.
I can tell he has a pure heart. He has chosen a challenging life. Starting drugs so young molds the brain into the status quo of pleasure-seeking. I have no idea if Manuel will be able to overcome his challenges and blossom into ingenuity.
This is only the second time we've met.
After an hour drive to our destination we succeed in copping. Our dealer has obviously been using his own product; his pupils are enlarged and his vocal tone is spastic. He insists on demanding we stay safe.
He hooks it up! A gram for [cens0red].
This is the largest amount I have ever purchased. My use is sporadic, and it has been years since I have flat-out binged on ice; I have learned my lesson. Manuel is short on cash, but I give him half of the rock -- a milky white sculpture -- for personal use.
I do not trust myself.
Prior use has scolded me: I rarely smoke Tina.
My preferred use: before noon, with a night of sleep and a full meal ensconced in my animal matter. My only hard and fast rule is to never stay up more than one day; I have not broken that rule in two or three years. Optimally speaking, I snort a few lines, get obscenely gakked up, and ride out the rush. Within an hour or two, I decide how much more I will partake in, get my fix, and then do not re-dose until the next trip, however many weeks or months in the future, if at all.
This time will be different. For one, this stuff is good, but not quite as good as what my friend had been giving me the past couple of weeks. The friend's shard is crystal clear; very little is needed puts me in my happy place.
Secondly, I am determined to do this trip properly. I have a number of life things I want to handle, and much writing to scribe. My past couple of trips I have had tremendous insight, but wasted hours organizing and masturbating to porn. While immensely pleasurable on shard, it is an enormous time and energy waster, particularly from someone who has slowly but surely all but eliminated porn from his life.
At 8 PM I pull into a shopping center and crunch four lines, two for yours truly and two for Manuel.
This is solid stuff, yet I can't help but observe my tolerance has increased by leaps and bounds. There is no more rush. No matter; I am disappointed, but I expected as much. I have not been eating and exercising in-between my recent dosing; what could I possibly expect? The rush is overrated anyhow. The reason I do not smoke is because the rush begets loss of control; I become a fiend. This way I can control and mask myself and blend in, incognito, with the world at large.
We rail another two lines. Manuel is primarily a smoker, and I am surprised to see he is impressed at the gradual come up from insufflation. He is not as "fiendy" as I have assumed.
I avoid the temptation to get preachy on his preferred ROA; I only mentally note to myself that what comes up must come down, and pat myself on the back for being willing to trade a potential rush for long-term "sustainability," if one dare use this word with such an insidious drug.
I promptly drive home, hoping to return before 9 in order to buy fruits and vegetables. I will be juicing throughout my trip, further balancing the intense euphoria (and subsequent comedown) and ensuring my body has vital nutrients to protect my vitals.
The drive is pleasant; classical music is our exposition, and Manuel has much to say. I empathetically listen. I enjoy listening almost as much as a grand ole soliloquy, and I actively prod him for context and demonstrate I actually do give a shit about his company. I am warmed that his narrative finally branches from his previous one-track mind of drug use.
Like myself, Manuel comes from alcoholic parents. One of my recent epiphanies was delivered by a former AA member. Despite having a close relationship with God, I have always been supremely skeptical of AA; Judeo-Christian philosophy triggers a subconscious defense mechanism.
Yet I was pleasantly surprised: Steve, the friend in question, said that children of alcoholics tend to have similar patterns in relating with others. Most poignantly, they tend to be terrified of abandonment. We -- see the defense mechanism in work? "They" is so impersonal, yet I am referring to myself! -- also tend to "have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility," resulting in personal shame at their attempted perfectionism and people-pleasing.
One of my golden rules is to be brutally honest and aware of myself, working diligently to untie the knots of subconscious patterns rooted in negativity and self-hatred. As I bring them to awareness, I gain the capability of owning my own reactions, becoming an "actor" rather than a "reactor."
Yet these discoveries are often quite painful; my psyche is impeccable at lying to self and practicing aversion. The discovery of this new pattern, however, grants me wisdom and inspiration: I now better understand my own actions, and the otherwise perplexing behaviors of those close to me, Manuel included.
I hesitate; does that sound divisive? It is the opposite: I feel bonded.
Manuel discusses his ex-girlfriend, and as he finishes his narrative, I opine that I feel it is not the girl that he misses, but what the girl brought out of him: Manuel's best self, the optimistic, motivated go-getter that does not need to use in order to attain purpose.
Unconditional love.
After a quick run to the store and a pit stop at the gas station to fill up my mother's Toyota Salara, I pull onto Manuel's block and bid him adieu around 9:30. He is grateful for my kindness, and I am equally pleased at being able to show him unconditional love.
Expediting the timeline a bit, I assemble the juicer, prepare the fruits and vegetables, and am left with about 60-80 ounces of fresh juice. I am partial to beets, grapefruit, apples, kale, and cilantro; anything else is gravy.
Guzzling about 30 ounces, I take another 30 ounces with me as my companion for the night and refrigerate the rest. Consuming some spirulina and preparing apple cider vinegar in my agua, I resign myself to mitigating the deleterious effects of methamphetamine as best as I can.
There is nothing I enjoy more on meth than good conversation. During my most recent depressive phase, I have distanced myself from all but one of my friends; I call B and we riff for about thirty minutes.
B is currently deep in practicing the Venusian arts and much of our discussion revolves around evolutionary seduction. I am deeply impressed with how far B has come in such a short time. He brings his own effervescent optimism to the opposite sex, yet is able to maintain his integrity in his pursuit of the carnal.
He offers me some sage advice, prodding me about one of my own preconceived notions. In the past I have expressed dissatisfaction on men having to bear the brunt of initiation. While I have increasingly come to grips with this expectation, B is in the process of owning it!
Much obliged.
I am extremely careful to behave as normally as possible. I do not talk too fast or too much; the only thing out of the ordinary is the fact that I am up so late. While I wish I felt like I could be honest about my use, there is shame attached; in many ways my friends look up to me, and I hate to disappoint them. There are a couple of friends I can divulge such matters to, but neither B or J fit the bill.
J is walking home from work and we thankfully chat for a good hour or so. J has been one of my best friends for about four years now, but recently I have kept him at arm's length. I apologize for my lapse in judgment, share my recent epiphany and otherwise listen most ardently as he brings me up to speed on his new (first!) girlfriend and various slacklining adventures.
J is particularly articulate -- he's a hell of a writer! -- and insight flows whenever we converse. This time he touches on Eckhart Tolle -- oh how reluctant he is to share his spiritual side! -- and I am floored as he elucidates on what Tolle has to say about time and the present moment.
As a yoga instructor and frequent meditator, I am intimately familiar with the breath, the present, and time, but predominantly only as intellectual constructs. I am still struggling to assimilate the concepts into my emotional body, into my day-to-day reality. J makes clear that all my thoughts of intuition I have been grappling with are signs to strike into action!
As J says, when you are thinking about doing something, do it immediately. B and J are good friends as well, and B shared with me J's thoughts on life: you can either accept life with vigor, or take a step or two into oblivion.
Oblivion.
Meth is quite like oblivion. It is borrowing time, an unsustainable generator of psychic harmony that demands a great price for its short-term hedonism. Yet it is simply a tool; it is up to me to utilize it.
In the past few years I have weaned myself off of drug use; it is my intention to be 100 percent drug free. I succeed for various swaths of time, but unpredictably I fall off the wagon and lapse into old patterns. I lose perspective and am unsure what I am carrying on for. Yet, as heinous as this may sound, meth has, in the past 10 months or so, clarified my purpose and shone light on my weaknesses.
Knowledge is power. It has helped trigger knowledge; it is up to sober me to utilize it. It is like loaning from the future; assuredly I would have discovered such perceived insight at my own pace while sober, but I could not resist taking a shortcut. The danger is that if you loan one too many times, you go through your own personal Hell in order to regain sanity and the temerity to put into action our hopes and dreams.
This is why I must scribe. This is not just a high talking. I am learning to love myself and shedding old thought patterns. The process is unpredictable, ridden with potholes. I must continue on.
- Buddha
I have been thinking of suicide recently, but I admit I would never go through with it. It is selfish and cowardly; furthermore it would solve nothing, for I strongly suspect I would only be forced to return to learn my lessons.
The veracity hidden in my thoughts of suicide are just fantasies of oblivion. Absolving personal responsibility, which is truly impossible.
The truth of it is that I am deathly afraid of success. I always suspected this, but now I am sure of it. The awareness of the truth is valuable, but how do I move beyond such paralyzing ear?
The older I get, the more I realize preconceptions and mores must be dismissed. Everyone is so tremendously unique; everyone's narrative, purpose and perception is full of breadth and depth. There truly are no rules; we create them on the fly, one experience auto-correcting in a tete-a-tete with intent.
Waking Life.
When I think about my "purpose" in life -- we create our own purpose! -- I am attracted to my strengths, my passions. What am I good at, even if I'm not particularly enamored with said skill?
Communicating and connecting with others. I am genuinely interested in helping others, in hearing others, in learning what makes everyone tick. As I continue down this intent, I gradually become more accepting in jumping through aforementioned mores, the hurdles I have so often disdained. It is the cost of doing business.
I am so blessed. God has heard my recent prayers. I know I have the strength to overcome this dependence. I am not a victim.
- Gandhi
Shortly after midnight I reluctantly re-dose. I truly do not need a gram, or even half a gram, of ice; the unpleasant effects (and long-term consequences) increase exponentially!
Yet a part of me welcomes it: I seek the structure of being "forced" back into my healthful routine.
That is one reason why I am such an extremist. I strive balance, and I try to be vigiliant, aware of my limits. When I cross them, as I am undoubtedly doing with this experience, I gain the motivation to work twice as hard to repair and mitigate the damage.
Let's be real: the above paragraph is rationalization. I do not "need" to re-dose; it is not wisdom-seeking but animalistic greed. Forgive me. First I must forgive myself.
Three lines, about two inches. I am again wired, but not overly so.
My mother's room is just a few feet from my own, so I take care not to get caught tweaking. I assemble a playlist of YouTube videos -- competitive tournament sets from a fighting game whose community I participate in -- and minimize my typing.
Unfortunately it is not feasible to write out all the things I wish to, not without alerting my mother I am abnormal. During a trip a few weeks ago she questioned whether I went to sleep. She would never confront me on such a thing, but she is no dummy; I need not worry her further.
I create drafts, present trip report included. Then I study.
I have been apart of this community since my senior year in high school. I am an accomplished competitor, substantially above average but not quite great. Southern California is the most competitive region in the world for this fighting game, too.
I have a love-hate relationship with the hobby, but after taking a substantial break for most of the year, I have gained a dramatically advanced understanding and am incensed to improve. It is a form of martial arts; yoga is a spiritual martial art and this game is modern martial art as well. I obsess over the psychological patterns, the ripples of momentum and the tipping points in triggering your own, or ending someone else's.
My favorite part about competing in this game is the stress. It taxes all of my resources to remain calm under tremendous stress. The technical demand in the metagame is tremendous; under tournament pressure everyone makes mistakes. The key is not to get shook; to remain centered, confident and free. Creative. Unattached.
Since I have been competing for as long as I have been meditating and practicing yoga, I have been privy to the tremendous psychological growth afforded me, demonstrated in the game. I am no longer as obsessed about the game as I once was, yet that has somehow made me much better.
Play styles are so interesting. Everyone has their own, and it tells you so much about someone's character, more than conversing via the clumsy medium of language ever could. There is much more left unsaid in our waking life; one can sense it only through the periphery, the morass of context, of vibration.
Congratulations if you have bared with my numerous diatribes. Expediting the experience again -- I lost myself in watching tournament matches -- it is now approaching noon. I re-dosed again at 10 AM, with four similar-sized lines. Re-dosing isn't doing anything other than prolonging my motivation, interest and focus.
How will the rest of my trip pan out? I intend on writing a letter to three individuals: myself; my mother; my boss. I will not send them until I re-read them sober. Want to ensure I am genuine, yes, but also efficient, the anti-thesis of this current trip report.
Epilogue:
As emphasized throughout the trip report, I will re-double my efforts towards sobriety in the weeks and months following this experience. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results, then I must change my concrete plan of action.
At the top of my priority list is purchasing a book, Personal Power Through Awareness, that is replete with self-loving mantras to reprogram my battered subconscious. Months ago I read the book but rationalized my way out of practicing the mantras; too cheesy, I too hard-headed. Yet I must humble myself and recite: I have enough psychological studying to know it will make a tremendously powerful impact on my life.
You only rise as far as your thoughts.
I also intend to begin a juice fast, likely beginning Monday. I am going to eat solid food as I recover from this trip, likely a cavalcade of peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I will also resume my prior practices of regular journaling, exercise, reading, rationed Internet time (no more than four hours a day, which is plenty).
Most importantly, I will set in motion the process to begin teaching yoga at the studio. I have just five hours to go before I am Yoga Alliance certified. But I tell you, I'm afraid of success! I created a slight, trumped it up, and utilized it as an excuse to not finish. I am ashamed of that behavior, too, but I must come to grips with it. No one is going to be as hard on me as myself.
Yoga is my rock. Through it I remain balanced and cultivate equanimity. The downside, though, is that it stirs and unravels a great many epiphanies, bringing awareness to heretofore unconscious processes. Empowering, yes, but every day requires me to challenge my fears. The brain abhors change; it gesticulates wildly as it tricks you into repetitions of the status quo.
There are decades of behavior currently under the knife. It is only normal for me to experience a number of ups and downs. But I have a tremendous support system of family and friends, I possess concrete gifts and aspirations, and I continue to cultivate unconditional love and humility before God, the incredibly beneficent Cosmos.
I hope this trip report gave you insight into one man's experience with a potent chemical. I'll see you in Sober Living!
