ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
(Methamphetamine, IV ~110 mg / Alcohol ~6 beers) Very Experienced - "I'm tired."
Junk Mail, Part 1
"I'm tired."
(Methamphetamine ~110mg, beer~1500ml)
I've slept about five hours in the past four days. I should really crash; but, I'm a sucker for a binge.
I went to sleep this morning, for a couple of hours, because the fatigue was starting to compromise my amphetamine buzz. I also hadn't eaten anything, at all, for almost 72 hours; and, I'm not young enough to get away with that any more. Meth takes it's toll; I have been hallucinating heavily for over 24 hours. The combination of sleep-deprivation and good quality crystal, creates this weird optical illusion. I can see the air. But it's not really the air. My depth perception is fucked up to such an extent that objects in the distance appear as if they have spread out in between my pupils and whatever I'm looking at; if I look at the wall, for example, the texture of the paint separates and appears, at various distances, as tiny unstable particles floating in the air. This is something I only get from meth. It is a unique hallucination. Certain objects have more three dimensionality than others.
I suspected earlier that what I was actually witnessing were smells, because I noticed a correlation between the odour intensity of each object and it's three dimensionality. But, that's probably just a bit of psychosis. Last night, I was convinced – when I was peaking from a hit – that I had meth somehow enables me to see more of the visual spectrum; and, the floating objects – although only partially visible – actually existed in some unknowable capacity. Meth makes you crazy; I've experienced full blown episodes of psychosis from long periods of usage. I really shouldn't have purchased half a gram. The quality is so high – it's close to pure – that I'm incapable of using it all, intraveinously, over the course of five days; which means I'm going to have to stop while I still have some left. And I'll feel like shit, and I'll keep thinking, “I'll just have a little bit, to counteract the comedown/ withdrawals. Like tonight, I told myself I wasn't going to use.
It is very addictive.
Only have one 27 gauge syringe left, excluding a couple of fresh barrels and half a dozen – or so – removable tips. I've got a bunch of 29 gauge one piece insulin syringes, but it's dangerous to use them this late in the game. A lot of people find 29 to be too small, generally. If you use a 25, and you are properly inside a vein, pulling back the plunger and pushing it in again is easy; even if you're fucked off your head. 29 gauge, on the other hand, is sometimes difficult even if you are inside a vein; because the amount of pressure that you have to put on the plunger in order to pull blood into the barrel, is considerable. And if you're tired, drunk, and otherwise intoxicated – as I currently am – you tend to misjudge things. I do have a bunch of 25 tips for the empty barrels, but they're too big to use when I'm fucked up; there's less room for mistakes in terms of properly entering a vein; it's quite easy to be half in and half out of a vein, especially a small vein, when using a 25, or larger, needle point.
Yesterday – or was it this morning – I was hallucinating so heavily, and my hands were shaking so much, that I accidentally stabbed myself three or four times with the needle without even noticing it. I could hardly see what I was doing. My skin became three dimensional. I felt this sharp pain in arm a couple of times before I realized that I was pricking myself; not a good state to be using intraveinous needles. My veins have sustained a fair amount of damage over past decade; one of the major veins in my right arm – the cephalic – collapsed sometime last year. I need to be careful. That's another reason I had to go to sleep and eat something. Because, now, the hallucinations and the shakes should be managable.
I'm slightly concerned about the state of my mental health; I've been having olfactory and auditory hallucinations a lot recently. I've been hearing voices coming out of electric appliances, even when I just smoke a bit of weed. I have also been developing what my rational mind assures me are just drug-induced psychotic delusions. I'm concerned that I'm going insane. The state of my mental health has been on my mind a lot over the past month. I am suffering from severe depression, which renders me incapable of performing even the most basic tasks. The meth helps, short term, but – in the long term – it's also probably contributing to it.
Have hardly had any weed throughout my little binge. The only thing I've been consuming is beer and meth. I use alcohol to balance out the meth, so I can function at work and at uni; this is not recommended, unless you're a seasoned alcoholic and you have a lot of experience with amphhetamines. If you time it correctly, with the right dose, the addition of alcohol can be a really tool to bring you back down to a fairly normal-functioning level. I use it sparingly. Over the past four days, I've had eight stubbies and two pints at the pub; today, I've had five stubbies. On average, roughly four beers a day; that is all I need.
Been writing a long short story – my best so far – over the past two days. Amphetamines improve my ability to write so much. I write almost directly from my subconscious. The pesky overly-conscious thoughts, and doubts, I tend to have – when I'm sober, or on another drug – are practically non-existant. I don't have to think about what I'm writing. It just flows out at somewhere around 150 words per minute. Then, afterwards, I don't remember a lot of what I wrote – on account of the fact that I'm doing it subconsciously, I suppose. Amphetamines, including psychedelic amphetamines, are – by far – the best drug for creative writing; assuming you are using it more as a creative tool than a recreational drug; assuming, that is, that you know your limits. I should have the first draft of my story – which, I estimate, will end up somewhere in the vicinity of twelve thousand words – done by the weekend. To produce the same work, sober, would take me – maybe – two months.
12:23 am, Day 4
Put 50 units of water into a 27 gauge single-use insulin syringe. I've run out of sterile water, so I take it from running tap water, via the faucet over my bath. It's good meth, so there's no need to use a wheel filter. I wander back into the study, feeling somewhat confused and disoriented – on account of the lack of meth and overabundance of alcohol – and wipe down my spoon, which I rinsed earlier, with a medical swab. I rip open a second swab, to clean the tips of my fingers, before tearing a piece of cotton wool from the centre of a clump that has been sitting there since Saturday. Drop 70 mg of meth into the spoon. This is slightly more than my normal dose: to compensate for the increasing tolerance level; and, because I feel like getting really fucking high. Those of you thinking 70 mg is nothing, I'd say that you're probably shooting garbage. 70 mg of this stuff will last me around 8-12 hours; it is unsually potent, and long-lasting. With weaker gear, I've often had to redose at the 4 or 5 hour mark to keep the energy going.
12:39 am
I'm getting distracted. Need to focus, before I become incapable of administering the needle. I put the tourniquet around my right arm, above the elbow. I leave it loose, for now; it's the type with the little plastic locking mechanism. I look around for a clean piece of material I can use to warm up my veins. There are no towels left, so I grab a handkercheif out of the cupboard and we it with boiling water. I place it, dripping with water, on the inside of my elbow and bend my arm just enough to hold it in place. It is so hot, it almost burns me. I sit down, tighten the tourniquet, and remove the handerchief; then I use a third swab to remove any bacteria from my skin. I feel around for my veins; both of the remaining majors are bulging nicely, but I've used each of them at least once over the past couple of days so I need to move up, slightly, towards my bicep. And, as I said before, the celaphic – my old favorite – is now gone due to overuse. My hands are shaking quite a lot; too much, really, to be doing this sort of thing. I've learnt to hold syringes in a particular way; supporting the back of my hand against my arm, in order to steady myself. Still, though, there is no justification for doing this. The binge has to end; this needs to be my last shot for a couple of days.
I push the needle in. It doesn't hurt, on account of the relatively small gauge. When they take blood, the size of the needle point – meaning, the outside circumference – is often more than twice that of a 27 gauge. When people say they are afraid of needles, or that needles hurt, I figure they mean that they are afraid of big picks; cause, otherwise you're just a pussy. Assuming you don't have an abcess, or hit a nerve, and you have some idea what you're doing, the pain should be almost non-existant. I pull back on the plunger and get blood. Push 25 mls into my vein, then the needle slips a fraction of a milimitre. I pull back again, to check that I'm still in the vein; I get more blood, but there is a bit of pressure – meaning either I'm up against the wall of the vein, or I need to release the tourniquet. I pull out and swap over to the other usable vein in my right arm, which for most people is considered a minor. There's typically two really prominent veins under the elbow, in each arm; for some reason, I have three. This second vein is in a slightly more awkward position, though; it runs on a 45 degree angle. Since there is blood in the barrel, I need to be quick. After approximately two minutes, the blood will start to become solid; in three minutes, it will be too thick to travel through a 27 gauge needle. So I don't waste any time. I slid in, and pull back; get some air, readjust and pull back again; get blood, and empty another twenty mls into my arm. The rush is warm and cozy. I release the tourniquet – letting it fall to the floor – and breathe deep. I pull the needle out of my vein and elevate my arm, applying pressure to the injection sites with the clean side of the handerchief. I stay there for thirty seconds, with my arm above my head and the palm of my hand pressed against the wall. I close my eyes and enjoy the rush. The pattern maker that lives in my brain paints happy colours across the darkness, casting metallic blue lightning bolts before my eyes. I take a series of deep, incredibly satisfying breaths. Everything is beautiful; every pore on my skin; every hair on my head: my body is coursing with euphoric energy. The rush is so nice, that I want to do another shot. A little one. The problem with meth is it's too good. I sit back down and suck up some water from a glass into the syringe, then spray it at the back of my throat; I then wash down the taste of blood and chemicals with what remains of my fifth beer, before rolling my sleeve back up.
My mind is not as clear as I would like it to be, though maybe this is just my way of justifying having another shot. The longer you keep a binge going, the dirtier the high gets; my first hit is always perfect. After five days, it hardly has any positive effects; and, I start to go crazy. I'm not quite there yet; at this stage, the clarity is still okay, but I have to increase my dose, to combat my rapidly increasing tolerance, the beer, and the lack of sleep.
1:18 am
I really want to have another shot; I'm going to, even though I know it's a bad idea. I've been justifying it to myself in numerous ways. One of the more ridiculous justifications is: if I finish up the gear I have remaining before I get to the five day mark, I can avoid the inevitable insanity. It sounds illogical, to take more of a drug that causes psychosis in order to avoid psychotic symptoms developing, but that's what addiction does. You can justify anything if you have the chemical incentive to do so.
I grab a 29 gauge out, and fill it up with water from the bath again. It's fucking difficult to do with such a slight needle, but I don't have any clean glasses or cups or anything so it'll have to do. Takes me a couple of minutes. I've forgotten how much difference there is between 27 and 29. It's been so long since I've had to use a 29. The eye on the needle is, at most, half the size of it's big brother.
I move the cotton out of the way; dump a 20 mg chunk of crystal onto the spoon; add the water; crush it up; and shift the same piece of cotton back into position. I am hallucinating considerably more than I was for the first shot, and my hands are shaking way too much. It's hard to pull the liquid up, through cotton, into the tiny needle. I have a bad feeling about fucking this up. I start feeling a little anxious about the idea; but there's no going back now and, at least, I'm not drunk enough to pin cushion myself and collapse another vein.
I dampen the handkercheif, put it on my other elbow, and tighten the tourniquet; then I swab and slide the needle in. It is more painful than usual, because the veins are getting overused. They need time to heal. Still, it's just a little sting. I'm so high and anxious that I forget about holding the syringe, so that I can steady it against the shakes, so I have to wiggle my hand back down the barrel after it's in. I pull back and get a tiny bit of blood, followed by a bubble. This is the worst thing that can happen; if you just get a bubble, you can simply start again.
Now I have a three minute, maximum, time limit to get it right; which makes me panic. I don't want to lose the shot; I haven't lost one all year. But nothing goes right. I try at a different site, on the wrong side of a track – having run out of room above it. I am getting shakier by the second. I pull back and get air. The vein is probably blocked, upstream by a clot; either that, or I've missed. I pull out. The blood in the barrel is already starting to get solid.
I try once more, and fail. Fucking 29 gauge! Frustrated, I spray the contents of the needle down my throat. Instantly, I decide to give it another go – with a removable 27 needle / barrel-base set up, this time. Before I get set up, I find three unopened 27 gauges. Double fuck! I should have checked properly before I wasted that last shot. Oh well, at least I've got a decent pick.
I mix up my shot, warm up my elbow; swab, and tighten the tourniquet. I use the same vein as the first shot. There is hardly enough room above my track marks to squeeze in without having to go through muscle – and, possibly, hit a nerve. I am careful, this time; and more confident, due to the gauge. I slip in. Again, it hurts more than usual due to overuse. I pull back and get blood. I empty half of it into my vein and slip again slightly as I stop to check that I'm still in position; I get air.
I don't panic. I swap over to the other vein, and quickly empty the rest of the syringe.
Then, I wipe down my inner elbows with the handkercheif and elevate my arm; fill the syringe with water and shoot it back down my throat; have a big swig of my VB; and, finally, go brush my teeth. I am rushing pretty fucking hard now. Everything feels amazing. Brushing my teeth is pure bliss. I am rushing slightly more than I had intended. My thoughts are going too fast for me to be able to write properly. But, that will pass soon enough.
My beer is flat. I crack open another one, and discover a cigarette butt on my way back to my desk. Usually when I take meth, I chain smoke cigarettes; over the course of this binge, I have had less than five. I'm quitting, while taking amphetamines, which is not a particularly good idea; haven't had any tobacco for almost two days now. I attribute the anxiety and the shakes, partly to my nicotine withdrawals. And, since I'm rushing so hard, it's a huge relief to find something to smoke. I break it up onto a little pile of weed, and reroll it into a joint. Have only had one joint in the past four days, too. The tobacco and the weed provide some much needed relief.
What I should have done, instead of redosing meth, is gotten really stoned and drunk and gone to sleep. That would have been the sensible move. This always happens with meth; I keep going, even when I don't want to. I tell myself that once the drugs kick in, I won't care about anything. But I do. The high is compromised by my lack of sleep, on top of the dehyrdation and severe malnutrition.
5:30 am
The larger of the remaining veins in my right arm is hurting; I'm worried about potentially collapsing it. There is small lump, probably a clot, in the vein near where it goes under my forearm muscle; below that, I'm struggling to find the vein. I even used a tourniquet to try and locate it. I found what I think might be it, but I'm not convinced. It's probably paranoia. I don't think it has collapsed; but, it's not worth the risk. I have quite a bit of vascular damage already. My veins have shrunk considerably over the years, and they are no longer as straight as they once were. If I'm going to continue to IV, I need to give my veins time to recover between each shot; or, eventually, I will run out of usable veins on my inner elbow.
I discovered something weird when I was poking around, looking for the vein with my fingertip. The celaphic on my right arm is back, somehow. It collapsed, I am certain of that. I tried to find it so many times; and the blue line of the vein visibly disappeared, before being promptly replaced by another one. Now, I can feel it again. It's faint, but it's in the exact same place it used to be. It's possible that, if I did indeed just collapse the other one, that the celaphic – which never totally collapsed, but rather shrank until I could no longer feel it – is expanding, in order to compensate for this potential collapse and deliver more blood to my arm.
No, I can feel both of them; so, I guess – maybe – they're both partially collapsed. I'm a fucking idiot. If I used syringes responsibly, this would never have happened. I seriously need to re-evaluate my approach to meth. I've managed to get alcohol under control. For a long time I told myself I was an alcoholic, but – really – there's no such thing. I just used the term as an excuse for my lack of will control, and my poor decision making. Same thing goes for meth. I blame the addictive properties of the drug, as if I am powerless against them; but, honestly, I've never really tried to keep it in control. I don't do this because I am incapable of doing it any other way; I do it, because I tell myself that I am incapable. The stigma that methamphetamines has, in terms of it's addictive properties, is significant enough to facilitate my self-deception.
I believe that the majority of addiction problems exist, largely, because we believe they exist. Take cigarettes, for example; people often start smoking in high school and never really take a break until they're in their mid twenties or thirties. Then, they think, “Fuck. I'd better quit before I get cancer.” But, by that time, the idea of how difficult quitting is has been re-enforced so many times that they are terrified; so terrified, that a lot of people don't ever really try.
There is no classes of recreationally-used substances more addictive than amphetamines and opiates; I haven't made my mind up as to which is more addictive of the two. I think it depends on the person, and wether or not they are more inclined to uppers or downers. I guess I like meth more than I like heroin, so maybe that makes the withdrawals more difficult. But, then, I can take opiates every day indefinitely without going crazy or starving; which means that I tend to use opiates for weeks on end, and – therefore – develop a stronger physical dependency. My point is, they're pretty close. They're are the most addictive recreational drugs on the planet, and I have kept them under control, relatively, for a decade and a half. People say things like, “As soon as you have your first hit, you're addicted for life,” which is utter horseshit. I was always afraid of opiates because of the stigma, but there is nothing to be afraid of if they're used in moderation.
It's easy to not try. I've said many times that I “can't” quit smoking marijuana, for example; but, typically, I don't say that after making a genuine effort. It's not that difficult.
I used to drink like a fish. Just one month ago, I was drinking straight out of a bottle of bourbon before breakfast. I'd been convinced for some time, that I was an alcoholic. I never tried to quit. I didn't even try to cut down. I wanted to believe that I couldn't help myself; because having an “addictive” personality enables me to justify abusing the fuck out of drugs, and out of my own body. On some not-quite-conscious level, I've always known this. There is no such thing as an “addictive” personality; there are only strong people and weak people. And, I'm not weak.
I went to see a counsellor at university last week, to get a certificate qualifying me for special consideration; because I've been too depressed, and have been taking too many drugs, to study. I find it weird how being addicted to illegal drugs is, legally, considered a valid excuse for various things. Same as alcoholism; if you prove that you're an alcoholic, you can excuse yourself from an enormous amount of – otherwise unavoidable – consequences. Many crimes that are the result of the excessive consumption of alcohol, can be negated – or significantly reduced – if you simply admit that you don't have any will power. The diagnosis of addictive personality disorder is basically the honour system; if you tell your doctor that you're an alcoholic, you are one. Kind of like how if you tell yourself you don't have the power to resist meth.
Obviously I can quit. I've done it over fifty times. And, if I can quit, then I can moderate. Alcoholics will tell you that, if they have alcohol in the house, they will drink it; which is what I used to think about booze, and – also – what I said about meth earlier. They are the only two drugs in the world, that I believe I have a serious problem with.
Meth and alcohol.
Most people have a drug, or two, that they take. When I went to the counsellor – who was about as competant as a high school counsellor – he asked me if I was taking any recreational drugs.
“Yes,” I replied. “Recently I've been taking: marijuana, alcohol, dextromethorphan, morphine, codeine, LSA, LSD, scopolamine, atropine, psilocybin-containing mushrooms, muscimol-containing mushrooms, amphetamines and methamphetamines.”
He smiled, condescendingly, and said, “What drugs do you regularly take?”
I replied, “marijuana, alcohol, dextromethorphan, morphine, codeine, LSA, LSD, scopolamine, atropine, psilocybin-containing mushrooms, muscimol-containing mushrooms, amphetamines and methamphetamines.”
He didn't believe me; I think he thought I was just showing off. Fucking incompetent counsellor. I told him, “I've been cycling through these drugs, in order to avoid getting seriously addicted to any of them.” Which is actually a really effective way of dealing with addiction; I thought it was to begin with, anyway. Theoretically, it was a pretty sound idea. Unfortunately, my suspicions about the possible dangers of cycling, were eventually confirmed.
It has been driving me crazy. Doing dissociatives one day, followed by opiates the next; then psilocybin, and datura; LSD, and – finally – marijuana: it forces you to transition too rapidly from one personality to the other. You don't have time to adjust. When I take LSD all the time, my – subconscious – mind and my body become familiar with the drug, and I'm able to function. Cycling, on a daily basis, means that you never grow accustomed to any one drug. Which means, if you get high on a daily basis, you become non-functional. I'm not sure, but I think cycling contributed considerably to my depression; it certainly didn't help.
And I'm glad that experiment failed, because I was just trying to cheat the system. I was trying to moderate each drug, individually, rather than moderating how often I'm getting high. If I discovered a way to get high every day without consequences, then I'd probably never cut down on my intake. Thank God it's impossible. I don't want to be high every day, or every second day for that matter. I take way too many drugs. A lot of you guys, who frequent this forum, do too; I've read your trip reports and your contributions to various drug-specific threads.
I am seriously concerned, that I have cancer or something. I used to tell people that I was a hypochondriac, but – really – it's because I've put so much garbage into my body: research chemicals; dissociatives; alcohol; cannabinoids; amphetamines; inhalants; cigarettes; benzos; opiates; and, various pharmaceutical drugs. I'm sure there are more classes of drugs that I can't think of, too. My head is pretty fucked up from the lack of sleep and the booze. The 110 mg of meth I consumed is already starting to show signs of loss. I'm so tired that I can feel the fatigue through the amphetamines. Aside from the drugs, and the alcohol, I haven't been taking care of myself for well over a decade; by this, I mean I have been intoxicating myself – and starving myself – with no consideration for my physical health.
There haven't been any clean dishes in the house for three months now; I shoved them all, covered with food and mould, into my kitchen cupboard – because the landlady was coming round for a periodic inspection. Then, I just left them there; and started eating take-out every day: because I couldn't be bothered getting them back down and cleaning them. My house is really fucked up. I don't look after it, either.
I said before that I've been experiencing olfactory hallucinations, because there's this smell which I can't seem to locate. I looked around the house, and found many disgusting items, including a glass next to my computer a quarter full of congealed poppy seed tea, that had grown two inches of yellow mould. It smelt absolutely disgusting, yet it's been sitting there, three feet from my head, for – maybe – as much as three weeks. And the dishes in the cupboard; I haven't even looked at them since I put them up there, but I remember there was a whole bunch of uneaten food and jars full of old, discarded, poppy seeds. So I've been breathing that in, as well. But what I've been smelling today, came from neither of these locations. I've smelt it in every room at the house. Sometimes it was there, and sometimes it wasn't. Usually, I can smells to their source; I'm particularly good at doing this, because – unfortunately – I've been letting shit decay inside my house for as long as I moved out from my folks, ten years ago. And before that, I'd let shit decay in my locker at school; or, if I could get away with it, in my room. I've never been able to not locate an actual smell before, so I just put it down to a hallucination. But, I just worked it out. It's my favorite cat, the girl; my happy little feline feminine friend: she stinks real bad. And that's my fault; I don't take care of her, either. I've never shampooed my cats, or given them a bath; they, more often than not, have fleas; and sometimes I go a couple of days without feeding them. I get particularly neglectful of my pets on certain drugs; and meth is one of those drugs.
I used to hate myself for the state of my life; until, recently, I realized the cause of all this behavoir. I am seriously depressed; more so than most people will ever experience in their lives. When it's bad, it's really bad; sometimes I can hardly move. The past two months have been the worst. It, the depression, has developed a number physical symptoms; most significantly psychomotor retardation. I used to deny the fact that I was depressed, because I didn't want to be. For some time, I have insisted that there is no such thing as depression. And I believe my own bullshit: that depression was a non-existent self-diagnosed illness like alcoholism; and the only reason people said they were depressed was to justify themselves. “I don't look after myself because I'm lazy, not because I'm depressed.” It quickly became a viscious cycle. My depression demotivated me towards living a healthy life, and – since I denied psychiatry – I interpreted what was in reality just a symptom of my depression as a personal failure; which, in turn, depressed me; ad infinitum. I've been depressed since I was a little kid, but it's been getting worse all these years. Now that it's gotten to the point where I can't function as a man, I have to face it; I have to acknowledge it. And, I have to admit the major cause of the questionable state of my mental health – which is, drug use.
I've known this, I suppose, and denied it, for half of my life. When I'm sober, I'm much happier. The depression that's been there since I was a kid, has pretty much gone now; I took a five week break from everything some months back, and I had no issues – excluding the first week, during the stronger withdrawal symptoms – until, I returned to being an addict with a death wish. Three or four days after I started using drugs again, the depression returned.
This counsellor I went to see, the one who smirked at me and didn't treat me with a lot of respect, he probably can't comprehend why drug addictions are recognized as a legitimate excuse either. I don't know how many students he's got coming in there every week, demanding special consideration due to the consequences of their own actions. It would probably piss me off, as well, after a while. I mean, do I deserve to receive help that I don't need? Should years of alcoholism and drug-addiction, be on par, as an excuse, with problems are not self-inflicted like disabilities and other health related issues. And the depression that arises from these self-inflicted “addictive disorders”, should it be on par with depression that results from being phsyically or psychologically abused?
I guess, maybe, that's why I denied that I was depressed; because, I knew, deep down, that it was my own fault. I have less pity for people who suffer from self-inflicted wounds; just like I have less pity for someone who causes an avoidable car accident, through negligence, or because they were drunk. Alcoholics Anonymous teaches people that they're not responsible for their actions, by defining alcohol addiction as a disease. It's not a disease; and, sometimes, our actions are beyond forgiveness. I've heard some fucked up shit during AA meetings. People are comfortable admitting the deepest darkest things, in a context in which everything is forgiven. I've heard a lot of members say that it feels good to talk about this stuff. Well, of course it fucking does, when you're given a get out of jail free card regardless of your sins. That's why AA, more often than not, appeals to such horrible people. It's not because being horrible is a symptom of the so-called disease. No. It appeals to sinners for the same reason that sinners become born again; because, they have done so many bad things in their lives that they can't live with themselves anymore. They need forgiveness in order to silence their conscience; they need to talk about their horrible mistakes – those terrible things they vowed never to reveal to a soul. They need forgiveness, but most of them do not deserve it.
Some people would argue that it doesn't matter if they deserve it or not; it's better to get them to stop hurting people, however we can. But that's not taking into account one of the major flaws with the AA system, which is: what happens when these people – who no longer feel a sense of personal responsibility for their drunken actions – have a relapse? They still remain convinced that their actions, no matter what those actions are, deserve forgiveness; because it's repeated in meetings, thousands of times over, that alcoholics have no defense against alcohol. So when members relapse, they are capable of doing terrible things without having to take any responsibility for them. Because they believe, when they're drunk, and when they wake up the next morning, that it's not their fault. They can abuse people, and embarrass themselves; they can do whatever they want: and then just blame the booze. Obviously, this is really dangerous.
They might as well tell reformed child rapists, during therapy, that rape is a disease and their despicable actions are nothing more than symptoms; fuck, they might as well tell everybody that everything is beyond our control and none of us are responsible for anything that we do: that way, when a skizophrenic serial killer chops off a woman's head and keeps it in the fridge so he can make love to it, he can do so without feeling conflicted about being a disgusting pile of shit. The child rapist does not deserve this peace of mind; nor does the hardcore alcoholic, who beats his wife; and I'm not sure I deserve special consideration, either. My depression is actually a symptom of my drug use, but I chose to do drugs. Nobody is forcing me to be a junky. I can, and have, stopped – cold turkey – many, many times. I can stop using drugs, at any time; I've proved it to people before, for the sake of proving it to myself. I am not an addict; that implies the drugs have some control over me. No. I'm reckless and irresonspible. I'm immature. I abuse myself, and I make no effort to exercise control. I've often said that I like being addicted to drugs. Now, I realize, that's just gives me the excuse to take them every day. I'm not an addict, and I never have been; the word addict implies that the drug has some sort of hold over me.
Really, I am in control; I abuse the drugs, they do not abuse me. Nothing has any control over me whatsoever. I am not weak, though sometimes I have embraced the idea in order to excuse myself from trying; I am a very strong person. If I want to do something, I can do it. I took a five week break from drugs – including alcohol, cigarettes, sugar and coffee – while simultaneously abstaining from various non-drug “addictions” such as: sex and masturbation; as well as, watching films and television shows. I even stopped listening to music. And, it wasn't difficult.
If I keep taking drugs like this, I'm going to eventually get to a point in which I blame the drugs for fucking up my life – like alcoholics do – and vow to never take any mind altering substances ever again. This happened to both my brothers. They think marijuana is bad for people, because they made no effort to use it resonsibly. They abused it; they failed to moderate their usage; and, they allowed themselves to sit around – stoned, all day – doing nothing. Basically, they fucked the drug up for themselves in the future; the older brother, he fucked all drugs up for himself a long time ago. Since then, he turned from marijuana – and various other drugs – to alcohol; and now, he's doing the same fucking thing with drinking. He's not going to have any intoxicants left by the time he's forty. He'll be one of those jaded ex-users who demonize all – legal and illegal – drugs, rather than just admitting that it wasn't the drugs; and accepting the fact that he fucked up.
Why are some people able to use drugs in moderation, and others aren't? The answer is, as far as I'm concerned, that we're all able to use drugs in moderation. It's more difficult for some people, than others, perhaps, for a whole variety of reasons; but, it's not impossible. People overcome adversity and accomplish extraordinary things in this life. The modern – predominantly western – world is so pampered and priveledged. Our societies make excuses for our laziness; for our abuse of drugs and alcohol; for our self-destructive decisions; even when we hurt other people. Everybody's a victim, now, even the perpetrator of the crime: which, as a theoretical concept, may have some validity; but, in practice, just makes us weak. We are all spoilt by political correctness; by liberal activists, who are apparently content to pioneer for the rights of practically everybody.
I'm sick of feeling sorry for myself; and, I'm sick of making excuses. I am not an addict, or an alcoholic; I do not have a disease or a disorder: and, I don't deserve special treatment. I am not weak; I am in control: and I am quite capable of using drugs responsibly.
People, like me, give drugs a bad name. People look at me, and my lifestyle, and I contribute to their opinions – to the collective opinion – that marijuana and LSD are detremental to society. This is what I mean when I say that I abuse drugs, rather than the other way around; non-neurotoxic mind-altering substances, such as psilocybin, are – prior to consumption – neither good nor bad. They have the potential to be destructive, all drugs do. Heroin can kill you, but so can salt.
The truth is: drugs don't kill people; people kill themselves. When someone overdoses on heroin, or meth: it's not the drugs fault; it's the users fault, for being irresponsible. If proper harm reduction is exercised, and drugs are consumed – as they should be – in moderation, then there should be no potential for overdose. If you are reading this, and you're one of the people out there who use drugs responsibly, I'd like to apologize – sincerely – for contributing, by example, to the general global opinion that the majority of recreational drugs are evil. We, those of us who abuse drugs, often complain that said substances should be legal; as if it's unfair. Yet, they continue to ensure that the substances remain so, by further tarnishing their reputations.
Drugs always start off legal. Then people abuse them, and they become illegal. We are the abusers, hundreds and thousands of years after the fact; we continue to kill ourselves, and fuck up our lives, and we say – when we finally renounce our drug-oriented lifestyles – that, yes, drugs are indeed bad. We say, we were just in denial when we were using; that the drugs confused us, disoriented us. These substances that are illegal because they either have been abused, or have high potential for abuse; yet, we don't make any effort to change the negative public opinion. On the contrary, we contribute to it. Then, we complain that the “evil government” makes them illegal.
We insist that we should, what, be allowed to abuse ourselves; that we should be free to do anything we want, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else? This is one of the most common arguments against the drug war; its the “American Defense”; our tendency, in spoilt wetsern societies, is – often – to prioritize the importance of absolute freedom, regardless of what the consequences are. Because, in theory, having the freedom to do what you want sounds great.
The “American Defense” ensures that, in the US – which is, I believe, the country that holds the record for having the most firearm related murders in the history of the world – everybody can own a gun; because the freedom to do so, is more important than the murders.
You are unlikely to do much damage to a car, if you have an accident while riding a gokart down a major urban road. Although it is a reckless and totally unjustifiable thing to do, it is less likely to hurt someone else then if you drive a normal sized car; the only life you are threatening, is your own. Being granted the freedom to behave in any way you see fit, as long as you don't harm others; that's one of the big arguments towards ending the drug war. So, should we be allowed to drive gokarts down the street, too; or not wear our seatbelts when driving a car?
Isn't it our responsibility as fellow members of this species, to look out for one another? From a non-users perspective, drugs appear to be pretty dangerous. Drugs are illegal because of idiots like me; I am – we are – the cause of the drug war, not the government. We tarnish the reputation of substances that quite often have massive potential; we are not good examples. We don't prove to the world that these drugs should be legalized; we do the opposite. We allow ourselves to become addicted, despite the fact that – if you're careful – developing a habit is totally avoidable. The only thing we report, about drugs, are the negative consequences; you don't hear a lot of people publically declaring their love of heroin. No. The positive aspects of drug use, remain silent. From the governments perspective, we overdose and we go to rehab. From the non-users perspective, drugs appear to ruin lives. When somebody has an overdose, they end up in the hospital and it's recorded statistically; but there are no statistics for positive experiences. We abuse drugs, then we blame them, without ever really trying to responsibly manage our use; and, by doing so, we contribute to the misconception that drugs are more addictive then they actually are. Which makes people believe that they too are incapable of quitting: so the next generation has an excuse to follow the tradition of irresponsible drug use.
Most drug-users I've known, have not used exclusively in moderation; there are more drug abusers than there are users, from my observations. More often than not, prolonged drug use tends to fuck up people's lives. It's not a conspiracy, the war on drugs. The government is just doing their job; it's no different to gambling reform, or any other preventative measure. Experts, in various fields, are trained to study society and humanity. They can't help but notice that gambling and drugs have the potential to be highly destructive. Casinos, like alcohol, have existed for too long to be outlawed altogether. Another argument against the drug war is: alcohol should be illegal; again this is prioritizing theory over the consequences of theory. Alcohol is too well engrained in society for it to – realistically – be declared illegal, without a massive uproar. As for casinos: parents who have serious gambling problems, quite often harm their children in one way or another; and parents who are drug users, are capable of doing the same. When it's convenient, people will often blame their actions on drugs; just like how gambling addicts complain about casinos; how fat people sue McDonald's; and, how I extended all my university deadlines by wearing a nametag that says “addict.” I have no right to complain about what I consider to be an unjust law, while – at the same time – contributing, shamelessly, to the reason it was established in the first place; nobody does. It is a gun owner's responsibility to either use their weapon in a responsible manner. Similarly, the only thing we – as drug users – can do to make a difference, is be responsible.
7:17 am, Day 5
I open another beer, and watch the season finale of Breaking Bad, before going to work.
I'm coming down now, and I can't have any more meth; I need to wait – at least a week – until my veins heal. In order to keep myself awake at work – I've got to leave relatively soon, but the shift is only three hours long – I'm going to need to rely on a substantial amount of coffee. It's time to take another break from everything; only this time, when I decide to use again I have to try and be responsible. I'm tired of resenting my position as a junky; and declaring myself incapable of change. I'm tired of being weak; I want to be in control. I'm tired of being a fucking hypocrite. I don't want to fear for my physical or mental health anymore.
I'm tired of being tired; I'm tired of being depressed. I'm tired of fucking up. I'm tired of being paranoid; tired of being too high to open the front door; tired of not wanting my parents to drop in, unexpected, at my house – because the place is always littered with drugs and drug paraphenalia. I'm tired of having a fucked up house, full of rubbish and dirty dishes. I'm tired of waking up in the morning with a hangover; or a headache; or a head full of hazy memories and regret. I'm tired of having to lie to people about who I am, because I'm ashamed of being a junky; I'm tired of my constant self loathing; tired being depressed. I'm tired of stubbornly justifying my life; tired of lying to myself. I'm tired of not having enough money for food, because I've spent it on drugs or booze; tired of underperforming at university. I'm tired of trying to convince myself that drugs like alcohol and marijuana make me a better writer, when all the evidence points to the contrary. I'm tired of devaluing my sober self; tired of escapism; of avoiding reality; of delusion.
I am tired of this pain I inflict upon myself.
Junk Mail, Part 1
"I'm tired."
(Methamphetamine ~110mg, beer~1500ml)
I've slept about five hours in the past four days. I should really crash; but, I'm a sucker for a binge.
I went to sleep this morning, for a couple of hours, because the fatigue was starting to compromise my amphetamine buzz. I also hadn't eaten anything, at all, for almost 72 hours; and, I'm not young enough to get away with that any more. Meth takes it's toll; I have been hallucinating heavily for over 24 hours. The combination of sleep-deprivation and good quality crystal, creates this weird optical illusion. I can see the air. But it's not really the air. My depth perception is fucked up to such an extent that objects in the distance appear as if they have spread out in between my pupils and whatever I'm looking at; if I look at the wall, for example, the texture of the paint separates and appears, at various distances, as tiny unstable particles floating in the air. This is something I only get from meth. It is a unique hallucination. Certain objects have more three dimensionality than others.
I suspected earlier that what I was actually witnessing were smells, because I noticed a correlation between the odour intensity of each object and it's three dimensionality. But, that's probably just a bit of psychosis. Last night, I was convinced – when I was peaking from a hit – that I had meth somehow enables me to see more of the visual spectrum; and, the floating objects – although only partially visible – actually existed in some unknowable capacity. Meth makes you crazy; I've experienced full blown episodes of psychosis from long periods of usage. I really shouldn't have purchased half a gram. The quality is so high – it's close to pure – that I'm incapable of using it all, intraveinously, over the course of five days; which means I'm going to have to stop while I still have some left. And I'll feel like shit, and I'll keep thinking, “I'll just have a little bit, to counteract the comedown/ withdrawals. Like tonight, I told myself I wasn't going to use.
It is very addictive.
Only have one 27 gauge syringe left, excluding a couple of fresh barrels and half a dozen – or so – removable tips. I've got a bunch of 29 gauge one piece insulin syringes, but it's dangerous to use them this late in the game. A lot of people find 29 to be too small, generally. If you use a 25, and you are properly inside a vein, pulling back the plunger and pushing it in again is easy; even if you're fucked off your head. 29 gauge, on the other hand, is sometimes difficult even if you are inside a vein; because the amount of pressure that you have to put on the plunger in order to pull blood into the barrel, is considerable. And if you're tired, drunk, and otherwise intoxicated – as I currently am – you tend to misjudge things. I do have a bunch of 25 tips for the empty barrels, but they're too big to use when I'm fucked up; there's less room for mistakes in terms of properly entering a vein; it's quite easy to be half in and half out of a vein, especially a small vein, when using a 25, or larger, needle point.
Yesterday – or was it this morning – I was hallucinating so heavily, and my hands were shaking so much, that I accidentally stabbed myself three or four times with the needle without even noticing it. I could hardly see what I was doing. My skin became three dimensional. I felt this sharp pain in arm a couple of times before I realized that I was pricking myself; not a good state to be using intraveinous needles. My veins have sustained a fair amount of damage over past decade; one of the major veins in my right arm – the cephalic – collapsed sometime last year. I need to be careful. That's another reason I had to go to sleep and eat something. Because, now, the hallucinations and the shakes should be managable.
I'm slightly concerned about the state of my mental health; I've been having olfactory and auditory hallucinations a lot recently. I've been hearing voices coming out of electric appliances, even when I just smoke a bit of weed. I have also been developing what my rational mind assures me are just drug-induced psychotic delusions. I'm concerned that I'm going insane. The state of my mental health has been on my mind a lot over the past month. I am suffering from severe depression, which renders me incapable of performing even the most basic tasks. The meth helps, short term, but – in the long term – it's also probably contributing to it.
Have hardly had any weed throughout my little binge. The only thing I've been consuming is beer and meth. I use alcohol to balance out the meth, so I can function at work and at uni; this is not recommended, unless you're a seasoned alcoholic and you have a lot of experience with amphhetamines. If you time it correctly, with the right dose, the addition of alcohol can be a really tool to bring you back down to a fairly normal-functioning level. I use it sparingly. Over the past four days, I've had eight stubbies and two pints at the pub; today, I've had five stubbies. On average, roughly four beers a day; that is all I need.
Been writing a long short story – my best so far – over the past two days. Amphetamines improve my ability to write so much. I write almost directly from my subconscious. The pesky overly-conscious thoughts, and doubts, I tend to have – when I'm sober, or on another drug – are practically non-existant. I don't have to think about what I'm writing. It just flows out at somewhere around 150 words per minute. Then, afterwards, I don't remember a lot of what I wrote – on account of the fact that I'm doing it subconsciously, I suppose. Amphetamines, including psychedelic amphetamines, are – by far – the best drug for creative writing; assuming you are using it more as a creative tool than a recreational drug; assuming, that is, that you know your limits. I should have the first draft of my story – which, I estimate, will end up somewhere in the vicinity of twelve thousand words – done by the weekend. To produce the same work, sober, would take me – maybe – two months.
12:23 am, Day 4
Put 50 units of water into a 27 gauge single-use insulin syringe. I've run out of sterile water, so I take it from running tap water, via the faucet over my bath. It's good meth, so there's no need to use a wheel filter. I wander back into the study, feeling somewhat confused and disoriented – on account of the lack of meth and overabundance of alcohol – and wipe down my spoon, which I rinsed earlier, with a medical swab. I rip open a second swab, to clean the tips of my fingers, before tearing a piece of cotton wool from the centre of a clump that has been sitting there since Saturday. Drop 70 mg of meth into the spoon. This is slightly more than my normal dose: to compensate for the increasing tolerance level; and, because I feel like getting really fucking high. Those of you thinking 70 mg is nothing, I'd say that you're probably shooting garbage. 70 mg of this stuff will last me around 8-12 hours; it is unsually potent, and long-lasting. With weaker gear, I've often had to redose at the 4 or 5 hour mark to keep the energy going.
12:39 am
I'm getting distracted. Need to focus, before I become incapable of administering the needle. I put the tourniquet around my right arm, above the elbow. I leave it loose, for now; it's the type with the little plastic locking mechanism. I look around for a clean piece of material I can use to warm up my veins. There are no towels left, so I grab a handkercheif out of the cupboard and we it with boiling water. I place it, dripping with water, on the inside of my elbow and bend my arm just enough to hold it in place. It is so hot, it almost burns me. I sit down, tighten the tourniquet, and remove the handerchief; then I use a third swab to remove any bacteria from my skin. I feel around for my veins; both of the remaining majors are bulging nicely, but I've used each of them at least once over the past couple of days so I need to move up, slightly, towards my bicep. And, as I said before, the celaphic – my old favorite – is now gone due to overuse. My hands are shaking quite a lot; too much, really, to be doing this sort of thing. I've learnt to hold syringes in a particular way; supporting the back of my hand against my arm, in order to steady myself. Still, though, there is no justification for doing this. The binge has to end; this needs to be my last shot for a couple of days.
I push the needle in. It doesn't hurt, on account of the relatively small gauge. When they take blood, the size of the needle point – meaning, the outside circumference – is often more than twice that of a 27 gauge. When people say they are afraid of needles, or that needles hurt, I figure they mean that they are afraid of big picks; cause, otherwise you're just a pussy. Assuming you don't have an abcess, or hit a nerve, and you have some idea what you're doing, the pain should be almost non-existant. I pull back on the plunger and get blood. Push 25 mls into my vein, then the needle slips a fraction of a milimitre. I pull back again, to check that I'm still in the vein; I get more blood, but there is a bit of pressure – meaning either I'm up against the wall of the vein, or I need to release the tourniquet. I pull out and swap over to the other usable vein in my right arm, which for most people is considered a minor. There's typically two really prominent veins under the elbow, in each arm; for some reason, I have three. This second vein is in a slightly more awkward position, though; it runs on a 45 degree angle. Since there is blood in the barrel, I need to be quick. After approximately two minutes, the blood will start to become solid; in three minutes, it will be too thick to travel through a 27 gauge needle. So I don't waste any time. I slid in, and pull back; get some air, readjust and pull back again; get blood, and empty another twenty mls into my arm. The rush is warm and cozy. I release the tourniquet – letting it fall to the floor – and breathe deep. I pull the needle out of my vein and elevate my arm, applying pressure to the injection sites with the clean side of the handerchief. I stay there for thirty seconds, with my arm above my head and the palm of my hand pressed against the wall. I close my eyes and enjoy the rush. The pattern maker that lives in my brain paints happy colours across the darkness, casting metallic blue lightning bolts before my eyes. I take a series of deep, incredibly satisfying breaths. Everything is beautiful; every pore on my skin; every hair on my head: my body is coursing with euphoric energy. The rush is so nice, that I want to do another shot. A little one. The problem with meth is it's too good. I sit back down and suck up some water from a glass into the syringe, then spray it at the back of my throat; I then wash down the taste of blood and chemicals with what remains of my fifth beer, before rolling my sleeve back up.
My mind is not as clear as I would like it to be, though maybe this is just my way of justifying having another shot. The longer you keep a binge going, the dirtier the high gets; my first hit is always perfect. After five days, it hardly has any positive effects; and, I start to go crazy. I'm not quite there yet; at this stage, the clarity is still okay, but I have to increase my dose, to combat my rapidly increasing tolerance, the beer, and the lack of sleep.
1:18 am
I really want to have another shot; I'm going to, even though I know it's a bad idea. I've been justifying it to myself in numerous ways. One of the more ridiculous justifications is: if I finish up the gear I have remaining before I get to the five day mark, I can avoid the inevitable insanity. It sounds illogical, to take more of a drug that causes psychosis in order to avoid psychotic symptoms developing, but that's what addiction does. You can justify anything if you have the chemical incentive to do so.
I grab a 29 gauge out, and fill it up with water from the bath again. It's fucking difficult to do with such a slight needle, but I don't have any clean glasses or cups or anything so it'll have to do. Takes me a couple of minutes. I've forgotten how much difference there is between 27 and 29. It's been so long since I've had to use a 29. The eye on the needle is, at most, half the size of it's big brother.
I move the cotton out of the way; dump a 20 mg chunk of crystal onto the spoon; add the water; crush it up; and shift the same piece of cotton back into position. I am hallucinating considerably more than I was for the first shot, and my hands are shaking way too much. It's hard to pull the liquid up, through cotton, into the tiny needle. I have a bad feeling about fucking this up. I start feeling a little anxious about the idea; but there's no going back now and, at least, I'm not drunk enough to pin cushion myself and collapse another vein.
I dampen the handkercheif, put it on my other elbow, and tighten the tourniquet; then I swab and slide the needle in. It is more painful than usual, because the veins are getting overused. They need time to heal. Still, it's just a little sting. I'm so high and anxious that I forget about holding the syringe, so that I can steady it against the shakes, so I have to wiggle my hand back down the barrel after it's in. I pull back and get a tiny bit of blood, followed by a bubble. This is the worst thing that can happen; if you just get a bubble, you can simply start again.
Now I have a three minute, maximum, time limit to get it right; which makes me panic. I don't want to lose the shot; I haven't lost one all year. But nothing goes right. I try at a different site, on the wrong side of a track – having run out of room above it. I am getting shakier by the second. I pull back and get air. The vein is probably blocked, upstream by a clot; either that, or I've missed. I pull out. The blood in the barrel is already starting to get solid.
I try once more, and fail. Fucking 29 gauge! Frustrated, I spray the contents of the needle down my throat. Instantly, I decide to give it another go – with a removable 27 needle / barrel-base set up, this time. Before I get set up, I find three unopened 27 gauges. Double fuck! I should have checked properly before I wasted that last shot. Oh well, at least I've got a decent pick.
I mix up my shot, warm up my elbow; swab, and tighten the tourniquet. I use the same vein as the first shot. There is hardly enough room above my track marks to squeeze in without having to go through muscle – and, possibly, hit a nerve. I am careful, this time; and more confident, due to the gauge. I slip in. Again, it hurts more than usual due to overuse. I pull back and get blood. I empty half of it into my vein and slip again slightly as I stop to check that I'm still in position; I get air.
I don't panic. I swap over to the other vein, and quickly empty the rest of the syringe.
Then, I wipe down my inner elbows with the handkercheif and elevate my arm; fill the syringe with water and shoot it back down my throat; have a big swig of my VB; and, finally, go brush my teeth. I am rushing pretty fucking hard now. Everything feels amazing. Brushing my teeth is pure bliss. I am rushing slightly more than I had intended. My thoughts are going too fast for me to be able to write properly. But, that will pass soon enough.
My beer is flat. I crack open another one, and discover a cigarette butt on my way back to my desk. Usually when I take meth, I chain smoke cigarettes; over the course of this binge, I have had less than five. I'm quitting, while taking amphetamines, which is not a particularly good idea; haven't had any tobacco for almost two days now. I attribute the anxiety and the shakes, partly to my nicotine withdrawals. And, since I'm rushing so hard, it's a huge relief to find something to smoke. I break it up onto a little pile of weed, and reroll it into a joint. Have only had one joint in the past four days, too. The tobacco and the weed provide some much needed relief.
What I should have done, instead of redosing meth, is gotten really stoned and drunk and gone to sleep. That would have been the sensible move. This always happens with meth; I keep going, even when I don't want to. I tell myself that once the drugs kick in, I won't care about anything. But I do. The high is compromised by my lack of sleep, on top of the dehyrdation and severe malnutrition.
5:30 am
The larger of the remaining veins in my right arm is hurting; I'm worried about potentially collapsing it. There is small lump, probably a clot, in the vein near where it goes under my forearm muscle; below that, I'm struggling to find the vein. I even used a tourniquet to try and locate it. I found what I think might be it, but I'm not convinced. It's probably paranoia. I don't think it has collapsed; but, it's not worth the risk. I have quite a bit of vascular damage already. My veins have shrunk considerably over the years, and they are no longer as straight as they once were. If I'm going to continue to IV, I need to give my veins time to recover between each shot; or, eventually, I will run out of usable veins on my inner elbow.
I discovered something weird when I was poking around, looking for the vein with my fingertip. The celaphic on my right arm is back, somehow. It collapsed, I am certain of that. I tried to find it so many times; and the blue line of the vein visibly disappeared, before being promptly replaced by another one. Now, I can feel it again. It's faint, but it's in the exact same place it used to be. It's possible that, if I did indeed just collapse the other one, that the celaphic – which never totally collapsed, but rather shrank until I could no longer feel it – is expanding, in order to compensate for this potential collapse and deliver more blood to my arm.
No, I can feel both of them; so, I guess – maybe – they're both partially collapsed. I'm a fucking idiot. If I used syringes responsibly, this would never have happened. I seriously need to re-evaluate my approach to meth. I've managed to get alcohol under control. For a long time I told myself I was an alcoholic, but – really – there's no such thing. I just used the term as an excuse for my lack of will control, and my poor decision making. Same thing goes for meth. I blame the addictive properties of the drug, as if I am powerless against them; but, honestly, I've never really tried to keep it in control. I don't do this because I am incapable of doing it any other way; I do it, because I tell myself that I am incapable. The stigma that methamphetamines has, in terms of it's addictive properties, is significant enough to facilitate my self-deception.
I believe that the majority of addiction problems exist, largely, because we believe they exist. Take cigarettes, for example; people often start smoking in high school and never really take a break until they're in their mid twenties or thirties. Then, they think, “Fuck. I'd better quit before I get cancer.” But, by that time, the idea of how difficult quitting is has been re-enforced so many times that they are terrified; so terrified, that a lot of people don't ever really try.
There is no classes of recreationally-used substances more addictive than amphetamines and opiates; I haven't made my mind up as to which is more addictive of the two. I think it depends on the person, and wether or not they are more inclined to uppers or downers. I guess I like meth more than I like heroin, so maybe that makes the withdrawals more difficult. But, then, I can take opiates every day indefinitely without going crazy or starving; which means that I tend to use opiates for weeks on end, and – therefore – develop a stronger physical dependency. My point is, they're pretty close. They're are the most addictive recreational drugs on the planet, and I have kept them under control, relatively, for a decade and a half. People say things like, “As soon as you have your first hit, you're addicted for life,” which is utter horseshit. I was always afraid of opiates because of the stigma, but there is nothing to be afraid of if they're used in moderation.
It's easy to not try. I've said many times that I “can't” quit smoking marijuana, for example; but, typically, I don't say that after making a genuine effort. It's not that difficult.
I used to drink like a fish. Just one month ago, I was drinking straight out of a bottle of bourbon before breakfast. I'd been convinced for some time, that I was an alcoholic. I never tried to quit. I didn't even try to cut down. I wanted to believe that I couldn't help myself; because having an “addictive” personality enables me to justify abusing the fuck out of drugs, and out of my own body. On some not-quite-conscious level, I've always known this. There is no such thing as an “addictive” personality; there are only strong people and weak people. And, I'm not weak.
I went to see a counsellor at university last week, to get a certificate qualifying me for special consideration; because I've been too depressed, and have been taking too many drugs, to study. I find it weird how being addicted to illegal drugs is, legally, considered a valid excuse for various things. Same as alcoholism; if you prove that you're an alcoholic, you can excuse yourself from an enormous amount of – otherwise unavoidable – consequences. Many crimes that are the result of the excessive consumption of alcohol, can be negated – or significantly reduced – if you simply admit that you don't have any will power. The diagnosis of addictive personality disorder is basically the honour system; if you tell your doctor that you're an alcoholic, you are one. Kind of like how if you tell yourself you don't have the power to resist meth.
Obviously I can quit. I've done it over fifty times. And, if I can quit, then I can moderate. Alcoholics will tell you that, if they have alcohol in the house, they will drink it; which is what I used to think about booze, and – also – what I said about meth earlier. They are the only two drugs in the world, that I believe I have a serious problem with.
Meth and alcohol.
Most people have a drug, or two, that they take. When I went to the counsellor – who was about as competant as a high school counsellor – he asked me if I was taking any recreational drugs.
“Yes,” I replied. “Recently I've been taking: marijuana, alcohol, dextromethorphan, morphine, codeine, LSA, LSD, scopolamine, atropine, psilocybin-containing mushrooms, muscimol-containing mushrooms, amphetamines and methamphetamines.”
He smiled, condescendingly, and said, “What drugs do you regularly take?”
I replied, “marijuana, alcohol, dextromethorphan, morphine, codeine, LSA, LSD, scopolamine, atropine, psilocybin-containing mushrooms, muscimol-containing mushrooms, amphetamines and methamphetamines.”
He didn't believe me; I think he thought I was just showing off. Fucking incompetent counsellor. I told him, “I've been cycling through these drugs, in order to avoid getting seriously addicted to any of them.” Which is actually a really effective way of dealing with addiction; I thought it was to begin with, anyway. Theoretically, it was a pretty sound idea. Unfortunately, my suspicions about the possible dangers of cycling, were eventually confirmed.
It has been driving me crazy. Doing dissociatives one day, followed by opiates the next; then psilocybin, and datura; LSD, and – finally – marijuana: it forces you to transition too rapidly from one personality to the other. You don't have time to adjust. When I take LSD all the time, my – subconscious – mind and my body become familiar with the drug, and I'm able to function. Cycling, on a daily basis, means that you never grow accustomed to any one drug. Which means, if you get high on a daily basis, you become non-functional. I'm not sure, but I think cycling contributed considerably to my depression; it certainly didn't help.
And I'm glad that experiment failed, because I was just trying to cheat the system. I was trying to moderate each drug, individually, rather than moderating how often I'm getting high. If I discovered a way to get high every day without consequences, then I'd probably never cut down on my intake. Thank God it's impossible. I don't want to be high every day, or every second day for that matter. I take way too many drugs. A lot of you guys, who frequent this forum, do too; I've read your trip reports and your contributions to various drug-specific threads.
I am seriously concerned, that I have cancer or something. I used to tell people that I was a hypochondriac, but – really – it's because I've put so much garbage into my body: research chemicals; dissociatives; alcohol; cannabinoids; amphetamines; inhalants; cigarettes; benzos; opiates; and, various pharmaceutical drugs. I'm sure there are more classes of drugs that I can't think of, too. My head is pretty fucked up from the lack of sleep and the booze. The 110 mg of meth I consumed is already starting to show signs of loss. I'm so tired that I can feel the fatigue through the amphetamines. Aside from the drugs, and the alcohol, I haven't been taking care of myself for well over a decade; by this, I mean I have been intoxicating myself – and starving myself – with no consideration for my physical health.
There haven't been any clean dishes in the house for three months now; I shoved them all, covered with food and mould, into my kitchen cupboard – because the landlady was coming round for a periodic inspection. Then, I just left them there; and started eating take-out every day: because I couldn't be bothered getting them back down and cleaning them. My house is really fucked up. I don't look after it, either.
I said before that I've been experiencing olfactory hallucinations, because there's this smell which I can't seem to locate. I looked around the house, and found many disgusting items, including a glass next to my computer a quarter full of congealed poppy seed tea, that had grown two inches of yellow mould. It smelt absolutely disgusting, yet it's been sitting there, three feet from my head, for – maybe – as much as three weeks. And the dishes in the cupboard; I haven't even looked at them since I put them up there, but I remember there was a whole bunch of uneaten food and jars full of old, discarded, poppy seeds. So I've been breathing that in, as well. But what I've been smelling today, came from neither of these locations. I've smelt it in every room at the house. Sometimes it was there, and sometimes it wasn't. Usually, I can smells to their source; I'm particularly good at doing this, because – unfortunately – I've been letting shit decay inside my house for as long as I moved out from my folks, ten years ago. And before that, I'd let shit decay in my locker at school; or, if I could get away with it, in my room. I've never been able to not locate an actual smell before, so I just put it down to a hallucination. But, I just worked it out. It's my favorite cat, the girl; my happy little feline feminine friend: she stinks real bad. And that's my fault; I don't take care of her, either. I've never shampooed my cats, or given them a bath; they, more often than not, have fleas; and sometimes I go a couple of days without feeding them. I get particularly neglectful of my pets on certain drugs; and meth is one of those drugs.
I used to hate myself for the state of my life; until, recently, I realized the cause of all this behavoir. I am seriously depressed; more so than most people will ever experience in their lives. When it's bad, it's really bad; sometimes I can hardly move. The past two months have been the worst. It, the depression, has developed a number physical symptoms; most significantly psychomotor retardation. I used to deny the fact that I was depressed, because I didn't want to be. For some time, I have insisted that there is no such thing as depression. And I believe my own bullshit: that depression was a non-existent self-diagnosed illness like alcoholism; and the only reason people said they were depressed was to justify themselves. “I don't look after myself because I'm lazy, not because I'm depressed.” It quickly became a viscious cycle. My depression demotivated me towards living a healthy life, and – since I denied psychiatry – I interpreted what was in reality just a symptom of my depression as a personal failure; which, in turn, depressed me; ad infinitum. I've been depressed since I was a little kid, but it's been getting worse all these years. Now that it's gotten to the point where I can't function as a man, I have to face it; I have to acknowledge it. And, I have to admit the major cause of the questionable state of my mental health – which is, drug use.
I've known this, I suppose, and denied it, for half of my life. When I'm sober, I'm much happier. The depression that's been there since I was a kid, has pretty much gone now; I took a five week break from everything some months back, and I had no issues – excluding the first week, during the stronger withdrawal symptoms – until, I returned to being an addict with a death wish. Three or four days after I started using drugs again, the depression returned.
This counsellor I went to see, the one who smirked at me and didn't treat me with a lot of respect, he probably can't comprehend why drug addictions are recognized as a legitimate excuse either. I don't know how many students he's got coming in there every week, demanding special consideration due to the consequences of their own actions. It would probably piss me off, as well, after a while. I mean, do I deserve to receive help that I don't need? Should years of alcoholism and drug-addiction, be on par, as an excuse, with problems are not self-inflicted like disabilities and other health related issues. And the depression that arises from these self-inflicted “addictive disorders”, should it be on par with depression that results from being phsyically or psychologically abused?
I guess, maybe, that's why I denied that I was depressed; because, I knew, deep down, that it was my own fault. I have less pity for people who suffer from self-inflicted wounds; just like I have less pity for someone who causes an avoidable car accident, through negligence, or because they were drunk. Alcoholics Anonymous teaches people that they're not responsible for their actions, by defining alcohol addiction as a disease. It's not a disease; and, sometimes, our actions are beyond forgiveness. I've heard some fucked up shit during AA meetings. People are comfortable admitting the deepest darkest things, in a context in which everything is forgiven. I've heard a lot of members say that it feels good to talk about this stuff. Well, of course it fucking does, when you're given a get out of jail free card regardless of your sins. That's why AA, more often than not, appeals to such horrible people. It's not because being horrible is a symptom of the so-called disease. No. It appeals to sinners for the same reason that sinners become born again; because, they have done so many bad things in their lives that they can't live with themselves anymore. They need forgiveness in order to silence their conscience; they need to talk about their horrible mistakes – those terrible things they vowed never to reveal to a soul. They need forgiveness, but most of them do not deserve it.
Some people would argue that it doesn't matter if they deserve it or not; it's better to get them to stop hurting people, however we can. But that's not taking into account one of the major flaws with the AA system, which is: what happens when these people – who no longer feel a sense of personal responsibility for their drunken actions – have a relapse? They still remain convinced that their actions, no matter what those actions are, deserve forgiveness; because it's repeated in meetings, thousands of times over, that alcoholics have no defense against alcohol. So when members relapse, they are capable of doing terrible things without having to take any responsibility for them. Because they believe, when they're drunk, and when they wake up the next morning, that it's not their fault. They can abuse people, and embarrass themselves; they can do whatever they want: and then just blame the booze. Obviously, this is really dangerous.
They might as well tell reformed child rapists, during therapy, that rape is a disease and their despicable actions are nothing more than symptoms; fuck, they might as well tell everybody that everything is beyond our control and none of us are responsible for anything that we do: that way, when a skizophrenic serial killer chops off a woman's head and keeps it in the fridge so he can make love to it, he can do so without feeling conflicted about being a disgusting pile of shit. The child rapist does not deserve this peace of mind; nor does the hardcore alcoholic, who beats his wife; and I'm not sure I deserve special consideration, either. My depression is actually a symptom of my drug use, but I chose to do drugs. Nobody is forcing me to be a junky. I can, and have, stopped – cold turkey – many, many times. I can stop using drugs, at any time; I've proved it to people before, for the sake of proving it to myself. I am not an addict; that implies the drugs have some control over me. No. I'm reckless and irresonspible. I'm immature. I abuse myself, and I make no effort to exercise control. I've often said that I like being addicted to drugs. Now, I realize, that's just gives me the excuse to take them every day. I'm not an addict, and I never have been; the word addict implies that the drug has some sort of hold over me.
Really, I am in control; I abuse the drugs, they do not abuse me. Nothing has any control over me whatsoever. I am not weak, though sometimes I have embraced the idea in order to excuse myself from trying; I am a very strong person. If I want to do something, I can do it. I took a five week break from drugs – including alcohol, cigarettes, sugar and coffee – while simultaneously abstaining from various non-drug “addictions” such as: sex and masturbation; as well as, watching films and television shows. I even stopped listening to music. And, it wasn't difficult.
If I keep taking drugs like this, I'm going to eventually get to a point in which I blame the drugs for fucking up my life – like alcoholics do – and vow to never take any mind altering substances ever again. This happened to both my brothers. They think marijuana is bad for people, because they made no effort to use it resonsibly. They abused it; they failed to moderate their usage; and, they allowed themselves to sit around – stoned, all day – doing nothing. Basically, they fucked the drug up for themselves in the future; the older brother, he fucked all drugs up for himself a long time ago. Since then, he turned from marijuana – and various other drugs – to alcohol; and now, he's doing the same fucking thing with drinking. He's not going to have any intoxicants left by the time he's forty. He'll be one of those jaded ex-users who demonize all – legal and illegal – drugs, rather than just admitting that it wasn't the drugs; and accepting the fact that he fucked up.
Why are some people able to use drugs in moderation, and others aren't? The answer is, as far as I'm concerned, that we're all able to use drugs in moderation. It's more difficult for some people, than others, perhaps, for a whole variety of reasons; but, it's not impossible. People overcome adversity and accomplish extraordinary things in this life. The modern – predominantly western – world is so pampered and priveledged. Our societies make excuses for our laziness; for our abuse of drugs and alcohol; for our self-destructive decisions; even when we hurt other people. Everybody's a victim, now, even the perpetrator of the crime: which, as a theoretical concept, may have some validity; but, in practice, just makes us weak. We are all spoilt by political correctness; by liberal activists, who are apparently content to pioneer for the rights of practically everybody.
I'm sick of feeling sorry for myself; and, I'm sick of making excuses. I am not an addict, or an alcoholic; I do not have a disease or a disorder: and, I don't deserve special treatment. I am not weak; I am in control: and I am quite capable of using drugs responsibly.
People, like me, give drugs a bad name. People look at me, and my lifestyle, and I contribute to their opinions – to the collective opinion – that marijuana and LSD are detremental to society. This is what I mean when I say that I abuse drugs, rather than the other way around; non-neurotoxic mind-altering substances, such as psilocybin, are – prior to consumption – neither good nor bad. They have the potential to be destructive, all drugs do. Heroin can kill you, but so can salt.
The truth is: drugs don't kill people; people kill themselves. When someone overdoses on heroin, or meth: it's not the drugs fault; it's the users fault, for being irresponsible. If proper harm reduction is exercised, and drugs are consumed – as they should be – in moderation, then there should be no potential for overdose. If you are reading this, and you're one of the people out there who use drugs responsibly, I'd like to apologize – sincerely – for contributing, by example, to the general global opinion that the majority of recreational drugs are evil. We, those of us who abuse drugs, often complain that said substances should be legal; as if it's unfair. Yet, they continue to ensure that the substances remain so, by further tarnishing their reputations.
Drugs always start off legal. Then people abuse them, and they become illegal. We are the abusers, hundreds and thousands of years after the fact; we continue to kill ourselves, and fuck up our lives, and we say – when we finally renounce our drug-oriented lifestyles – that, yes, drugs are indeed bad. We say, we were just in denial when we were using; that the drugs confused us, disoriented us. These substances that are illegal because they either have been abused, or have high potential for abuse; yet, we don't make any effort to change the negative public opinion. On the contrary, we contribute to it. Then, we complain that the “evil government” makes them illegal.
We insist that we should, what, be allowed to abuse ourselves; that we should be free to do anything we want, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else? This is one of the most common arguments against the drug war; its the “American Defense”; our tendency, in spoilt wetsern societies, is – often – to prioritize the importance of absolute freedom, regardless of what the consequences are. Because, in theory, having the freedom to do what you want sounds great.
The “American Defense” ensures that, in the US – which is, I believe, the country that holds the record for having the most firearm related murders in the history of the world – everybody can own a gun; because the freedom to do so, is more important than the murders.
You are unlikely to do much damage to a car, if you have an accident while riding a gokart down a major urban road. Although it is a reckless and totally unjustifiable thing to do, it is less likely to hurt someone else then if you drive a normal sized car; the only life you are threatening, is your own. Being granted the freedom to behave in any way you see fit, as long as you don't harm others; that's one of the big arguments towards ending the drug war. So, should we be allowed to drive gokarts down the street, too; or not wear our seatbelts when driving a car?
Isn't it our responsibility as fellow members of this species, to look out for one another? From a non-users perspective, drugs appear to be pretty dangerous. Drugs are illegal because of idiots like me; I am – we are – the cause of the drug war, not the government. We tarnish the reputation of substances that quite often have massive potential; we are not good examples. We don't prove to the world that these drugs should be legalized; we do the opposite. We allow ourselves to become addicted, despite the fact that – if you're careful – developing a habit is totally avoidable. The only thing we report, about drugs, are the negative consequences; you don't hear a lot of people publically declaring their love of heroin. No. The positive aspects of drug use, remain silent. From the governments perspective, we overdose and we go to rehab. From the non-users perspective, drugs appear to ruin lives. When somebody has an overdose, they end up in the hospital and it's recorded statistically; but there are no statistics for positive experiences. We abuse drugs, then we blame them, without ever really trying to responsibly manage our use; and, by doing so, we contribute to the misconception that drugs are more addictive then they actually are. Which makes people believe that they too are incapable of quitting: so the next generation has an excuse to follow the tradition of irresponsible drug use.
Most drug-users I've known, have not used exclusively in moderation; there are more drug abusers than there are users, from my observations. More often than not, prolonged drug use tends to fuck up people's lives. It's not a conspiracy, the war on drugs. The government is just doing their job; it's no different to gambling reform, or any other preventative measure. Experts, in various fields, are trained to study society and humanity. They can't help but notice that gambling and drugs have the potential to be highly destructive. Casinos, like alcohol, have existed for too long to be outlawed altogether. Another argument against the drug war is: alcohol should be illegal; again this is prioritizing theory over the consequences of theory. Alcohol is too well engrained in society for it to – realistically – be declared illegal, without a massive uproar. As for casinos: parents who have serious gambling problems, quite often harm their children in one way or another; and parents who are drug users, are capable of doing the same. When it's convenient, people will often blame their actions on drugs; just like how gambling addicts complain about casinos; how fat people sue McDonald's; and, how I extended all my university deadlines by wearing a nametag that says “addict.” I have no right to complain about what I consider to be an unjust law, while – at the same time – contributing, shamelessly, to the reason it was established in the first place; nobody does. It is a gun owner's responsibility to either use their weapon in a responsible manner. Similarly, the only thing we – as drug users – can do to make a difference, is be responsible.
7:17 am, Day 5
I open another beer, and watch the season finale of Breaking Bad, before going to work.
I'm coming down now, and I can't have any more meth; I need to wait – at least a week – until my veins heal. In order to keep myself awake at work – I've got to leave relatively soon, but the shift is only three hours long – I'm going to need to rely on a substantial amount of coffee. It's time to take another break from everything; only this time, when I decide to use again I have to try and be responsible. I'm tired of resenting my position as a junky; and declaring myself incapable of change. I'm tired of being weak; I want to be in control. I'm tired of being a fucking hypocrite. I don't want to fear for my physical or mental health anymore.
I'm tired of being tired; I'm tired of being depressed. I'm tired of fucking up. I'm tired of being paranoid; tired of being too high to open the front door; tired of not wanting my parents to drop in, unexpected, at my house – because the place is always littered with drugs and drug paraphenalia. I'm tired of having a fucked up house, full of rubbish and dirty dishes. I'm tired of waking up in the morning with a hangover; or a headache; or a head full of hazy memories and regret. I'm tired of having to lie to people about who I am, because I'm ashamed of being a junky; I'm tired of my constant self loathing; tired being depressed. I'm tired of stubbornly justifying my life; tired of lying to myself. I'm tired of not having enough money for food, because I've spent it on drugs or booze; tired of underperforming at university. I'm tired of trying to convince myself that drugs like alcohol and marijuana make me a better writer, when all the evidence points to the contrary. I'm tired of devaluing my sober self; tired of escapism; of avoiding reality; of delusion.
I am tired of this pain I inflict upon myself.
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? am, Day 7
