Meth: a Ticking Timebomb Gone Viral

Peer Group Pressure

What do you get when you cross a group of alcoholics with a non-drinker? An uncomfortable standoff.

The last time alcohol crossed my lips was in early November 2018, at my hotel in Patong, Thailand. While I was there, I would wake late (but not late enough to miss breakfast) and leave my room. Then I would search the corridors for hotel staff who refurbished the rooms, so I could tip them 100 baht each (along with the traditional Thai bow, wai). Then, with the wonderful feeling this gave me filling my heart with joy, it was time to hit breakfast hard...hard enough so I didn't need to eat again until late afternoon. I would then return to my room for a little rest, allowing the food to settle before changing into my swimmers and heading to the pool. Once I had a deck chair sorted, I would order a pina colada and alternate between reading a book on Theravada Buddhism and subtly (or perhaps conspicuously) check out any Russian women (who seemed to be everywhere in Patong) most of whom liked wearing string bikinis poolside...and I, for one, had no issue with this.

Looking back...is it any wonder I dream of returning to the land of smiles?

Yesterday, at Ash's party, I was the only one who wasn't drinking alcohol (besides the kids). This doesn't usually bother me...in fact, I hold up my sobriety (from alcohol and other drugs) like a badge of honour. But there weren't enough people there for my non-drinking ways to go unnoticed by the majority in attendance. Peer group pressure became an issue...not for me, but for them.

I don't want to sound like someone who gives in easily to this kind of controlling behaviour because I'm not. If I decide to dig my heels in on any matter, wild horses couldn't make me change my mind. But because it was my new friend's birthday, and it was becoming obvious that my not drinking was causing some degree of chair-shifting among the devoted practitioners of the drop, I gave in to peer group pressure (for the greater good of all in attendance), had one shot of Black Sambuca (I do like the taste of licorice, and at the same time, the silencing of voices saying, "Go on...just have one!").

And once the fist pumps (I'm not joking either) were completed, I was accepted into the group as one of their own. It was then things relaxed markedly and I had a pretty good afternoon. The alcohol had little effect on me and didn't come close to touching the significant dose of caffeine I had consumed before leaving for the party.

Caffeine... as we all should know, is a psychoactive drug (isn't it ironic that no one is pointing fingers and judging addicts of caffeine, especially those who are addicted to caffeine)...(and yes, I know, drinking coffee is socially acceptable and better health-wise than being addicted to meth), that flowed like a raging river through my body, before attaching itself to the appropriate receptor sites in my brain, which in turn, released just enough dopamine so that I could enjoy the next few hours, despite witnessing the downhill slide of all those around me.

Despite them knowing I wasn't truly one of them, my hero status was secured (at least until the next morning when they wouldn't remember me or my good deed) when the group realised they had consumed almost all of their supplies and needed more alcohol. I saw my opportunity to kill two birds with one generous offer...to drive the least drunk of the lot to the bottle shop. The compromise was once my mission was complete, I would bid farewell to my copilot and go home.

Once home, I got on my bike and rode for forty minutes...glad to have survived the party and the ride (always).

All in all...my fear of going to the party was not as bad as the reality...just.