Meth: a Ticking Timebomb Gone Viral

Killing Two Birds with One Stone...The Irony and the Tragedy

Self-medicating with a drug like meth, contrary to popular opinion, did what I wanted it to do...forget about the hurtful things I did to others and in turn, what they did to me. Forget the regrets, the loss and all the sorrow that comes along with these things. The pain of abandonment and (whether real or perceived) betrayal...all forgotten in the high of methamphetamine abuse.

Yes, there were the inevitable and inescapable comedowns, but these darker-than-dark days were short-lived and were soon forgotten the next time I felt like hiding away from my issues. For a long time, this form of therapy worked for me. Unlike a lot of addicts, who go through the predictable cycle of introduction, abuse to the point of rock bottom, then seek help, only to relapse and eventually get clean, I saw another way...a way that would keep me using (on and off...but mostly on) for the best part of forty years.

Some might say I dodged a bullet, given the fact that I am still breathing. But the truth is not as clear-cut as it might on the surface appear. Over the last year, and especially in the last few months, I have noticed a change in my short-term memory. Just the other night, I couldn't remember if I had showered that afternoon and had to check my towel to see if it was damp. This also extends to what I have for dinner, sometimes forgetting what I had eaten only a few hours before.

It seems so ironic that I took meth in order to forget, and now that I have decided enough is enough, the outcome from all those years of slowly killing my brain, is the possibility I might develop early-onset dementia. I watched my father as he descended this path until he didn't know who I was. I remember his distrust when he questioned me as I tried to jog his memory about his past by naming his siblings..."How do you know about my family?"

The last time I visited my father, I was with my children (they were around ten years old at the time), and as we left, I spoke to them about not allowing me to get to that point. Upon reflection, it was a stupid thing for me to say because what could they, or anyone else for that matter do, if I can no longer recognise them? Even now, I think to myself if it happens, I will kill myself...a much easier thing to say than it is to do.

The laws to do with euthanasia in Australia are a failure and are so strict (for our own good, of course) that it isn't feasible to go down that path. Because in the event I do get to the stage where I am unable to make that decision, any hope of dying with dignity is lost. And the sad fact is making that choice before I lose the capacity isn't available. It isn't fair to those who know what they want, but are caught between religious do-gooders preaching their own beliefs and an over-protective government that is happy to take away my right to die when and how I wish. If it ever becomes their turn to suffer, however, I wonder if they will then feel the same way.

The only solace is that my father didn't suffer, especially once he got to the point where he didn't know much of anything...reverting back to an almost child-like state. It was us, his family, who suffered the most, especially in those last months when I couldn't even bring myself to visit him and the guilt I felt because of this. Perhaps it was also because I could foresee a similar fate for me...like a train that no one could stop. I wrote this poem after he died "What Price Your Dignity"  dealing with the feelings of relief that just didn't seem right.

I will talk to my doctor, so he can refer me to a specialist who will take pictures of the holes where normal brain matter should be. I've heard that there are new drugs that can delay the inevitable, but these treatments are likely to be very expensive and could be a long way off being approved by the FDA.

I'm scared and I cannot think of a sadder way to die...not just for me, but for those who love and care about me. In the meantime, I am not going to sit by waiting for dementia to come to me. I never was one to roll over and give up easily. The plan is to make an appointment and get a diagnosis. And since I am going to Thailand anyway (either short or long term depending on the results of the tests), I've begun learning some of the basics of the language. Our brains are very malleable and plasticity might just gain me some precious time. Staying active physically and mentally is something else that cannot hurt. Learning new skills will play a role, not just in keeping my mind my own, but by helping me to better integrate into Thai culture and hopefully, also gaining some appreciation from the people.