Meth: a Ticking Timebomb Gone Viral

The Longest Night

It's been a while...I could feel myself slipping...nothing I grabbed onto would hold back these feelings...cravings to use.
Eight weeks clean and I came to a point where I knew that I would relapse.

I had no contacts...no one I could call, and so, I was safe. Then, in a moment I can only describe as fate, there was a knock on my door, and there before me, stood someone I hadn't seen or heard from in two years. He was my dealer, but later, we became friends (as good as friends can be when drugs are at the core). He had been sent to prison, and as soon as I saw him, I knew what I was going to do. I didn't use the tools I had been taught and nothing mattered to me at that moment, except getting and using meth.

I do not blame my friend...it was me who pushed him to get the drugs for me and looking back now, it was all meant to be.

I have never hit rock bottom...emotionally, mentally or physically, but I had no idea what was to come over the next few days. I now wonder, if I did know, as crazy as this sounds, would I still make the same choice.

Not having any drugs in my system for so long, meant my tolerance, which was at an all-time high when I began weaning myself off meth eleven weeks before, was at an all-time low, and me, thinking this was an opportunity to get as high as I had ever been before, made up a dose which was far too much for my system to handle.

I blacked out for the next ??? hours, and then, I dosed again...and again...until it got to a critical moment and I knew I was in serious trouble. I stopped at that point and tried to keep myself 'alive'...and eventually, my heart rate settled and I was through the worst...or so I thought.

It didn't occur to me that within a day or two I would go into withdrawals. That had never happened to me before, but when I realised this was the case, it was far too late to go back. And so began the longest night of my life.

I was so tired from not sleeping and what the super-strong meth had done to my body. I was completely dehydrated, had no gas left in my tank, and all I wanted to do was to rest, but as soon as I laid down, a demon, in the form of crippling anxiety, arrived to tell me it was having none of it. At one point, I called a 24-hour hotline, in utter desperation that they could help me overcome the irrational fear and hopelessness I was experiencing.

I took a shower, which helped, but when I came back into my room to lay down, claustrophobia and another wave of anxiety overtook me...this went on most of the night, and eventually, I prayed for it to end. I have only ever prayed once before in my life, and that was a very long time ago. That was the last thing I remember before waking up four hours later. I thought I would die once I fell asleep from sleep apnea.

But it still wasn't over and I spent the next few days dealing with the aftermath...the mental and physical scars...my face looks like I have gone a few rounds with a pro boxer, with two black eyes and bruises all over.

This was a terrible thing, but something I believe had to happen. Rather than cry about it, I'm determined to use this to my advantage. I already have. I had some of the drugs left over, which went down the toilet (I have never flushed drugs before). I'm pretty sure this will never happen again. I couldn't even leave the house until yesterday...worried about what people might think about my face, with both my eyes swollen and blackened. Today I did go out by wearing a mask which helped hide my injuries.

I feel ashamed of myself, but I will try to hold onto these memories the next time I feel myself slipping.