I am going nowhere in life. How can I possibly help others when I can’t even help myself? What a fucking hypocrite, right? All I want is to leave this world in better shape than when I first stepped foot on it and touch the lives of those who need it most. You’d think sacrificing so much for others in the past would earn you a bountiful 401k of karma, but nahh. You’re still left with nothing, to fend for yourself and hold your own. Someone fucked me up as a kid, I fucked myself up even more later on, and now I’m fucking up my chances at unfucking others’ fuckedness. Fuck. They say a calm sea never made a skilled sailor, but fuck me… The longer I stay here, the more I feel as though I was literally just born to die.
I will self-destruct before they even get a chance to break me. This is MY consciousness. NOT yours. I’m so fucking sick and tired of being belittled and walked all over by these condescending bigots. Get off your high-horse and lose the ignorant power-trip. I refuse to stoop to their level. I know my heart’s in the right place and that’s all that matters. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone but myself. Disown me; I was never yours to begin with, yet you feel so fucking entitled.
Eating and gaining weight again. I can feel it as well as see it. At first I thought I was doing a fairly good job at tricking myself into thinking nutrition was a healthy step in the right direction… That its core purpose was to benefit both my mind and body’s primary needs. That it was objectively essential and to be desired. I was so determined to get my anemia back under control, seeing as how my circulation was becoming so alarmingly poor again that my body temperature would unpredictably go berserk and certain joints or even limbs would begin to discolour into a nasty purple/blue… The overall weakness / endless waves of fatigue and general physical aches and pains were easily well-masked by the drug use, so those issues rarely posed problems, however, some days my skin would be so pale, it felt as though my veins were contrasting against a thin transparent sheet of paper. I still remain stumped as to why the effects proved to be drastically stronger this last time around, though… Seriously. It’s fucking unreal and I downright just don’t get it. Why was I tweaking perfectly fine at first, and now all of a sudden, without even the slightest sleep deprivation, I straight up look like a dope fiend after one line? All I’m left with is pupils, extreme dry-mouth, shakiness, blurred vision, and repetitive OCD-like movements. It doesn’t freak me out as it’s happening, but I know it sure as hell must freak out others. Whether it be the particular look in their eye, the underlying facial expression they’re so desperately attempting to supress, or the uncomfortably silent lack of acknowledgement, believe me — I’m aware. After all, I am the one consciously experiencing it. But that’s beside the point… Bottom line, it doesn’t necessarily bother me as much as it does baffle me. I want straight answers. I want to know WHY. Was it the potency? That would make sense, as quality varies from batch to batch… Or was it the quantity? Perhaps I should have started small and worked my way up again in correspondence to tolerance… Who fucking knows. All I know is that I miss the hell out of heaven and I miss sharing it with him. As soon as I’ve paid my dues I’m sure I’ll use a different source and briefly experiment in order to try and find some way to maybe learn and manipulate certain factors… Almost like training my brain to function differently… The way I want it to. I mean, yes, I’m not going to sit here and negate the fact that at the moment, I AM perfectly content with my short-term sobriety and I AM glad I haven’t had to put myself through the vicious cycle of withdrawals… However, truth be told, I honestly don’t know how much longer I can keep fooling myself for. Who am I kidding… Without crystal I’m only going to fall back into the binge-purge process, the constant counting of every fucking calorie and nutrition label, the cutting, the burning, the asphyxiation, the starving, the need for laxatives just to feel empty, the daily diuretics, the self-loathing, the distancing, the destruction of perfectly solid relationships… The list goes on and on. Sure, ultimately the cons might’ve outnumbered the pros, but ice was more than recreational for me. It was a tool that I depended on for pseudo-self-esteem. Those with lab coats and PhDs would call it self-medicating; I could care less. It fucking worked and that’s all that matters. I would rather be thin and malnourished than miserable, disgusting, and overweight.
“she shot meth for a couple years daily before this started happening but once it started, it didn’t stop. she would stay up for days at a time though and it would usually kick in about the third day.
she was sure people were talking about her (right in front of her or just out of sight), she thought she was being followed everywhere she went. every time she drove past a payphone with someone talking on it, she was sure they were talking about her and reporting her position to someone else a few blocks away on another payphone.
it was getting really insane. sometimes she would have to get away from everyone and would find herself sitting in her car at 3 in the morning feeling so lost and empty and pathetic. she’d sit there until the “normal” people started waking up and going about their day and she’d think about how far from normal her life had become.
it eventually got to the point where it simply wasn’t fun anymore and the bad far outweighed the good. luckily at that point she was able to stop using.
oh, and another thing for the OP, trying to use less or control her use in any other way didn’t help. it got to the point where it started to feel like her body was becoming allergic (for lack of a better word) to meth because every single time she shot up, she’d get a bad feeling. even if the paranoia didn’t start right away, she’d start feeling really sore in her back or neck (like she’d been tweaking on something for hours) or would get a head ache or it would put her in a bad mood. it just stopped working for whatever reason.
she thinks it’s because meth is such a potent, dirty and damaging drug that the honeymoon period only lasts for so long then the body stops being able to process it as well and all the bad effects start to take over.”
…bravo. Could not have said it better myself.
That one night / morning broke me. I haven’t been the same since and I know it. Why would anybody want to fucking stay with a nobody like me? What is there to gain, when I have nothing left? I’ve distanced myself from every one I used to know. Those who, for whatever reason, remain can’t seem to tolerate my existence. I know I fucked up my heart this last time. The sharp jabbing chest pains and irregular beat gave it away. I was so afraid that if I allowed myself to fall asleep, I would no longer be there in the morning. But what am I afraid of? What am I any good for? There’s no fight left.Might as well off myself.
I can't help but think I'm part of some sick and twisted social experiment.
It’s so fucked.
No matter what I do, I can’t seem to shake the feeling.
It’s got me all sorts of fucked up.
Something’s gotta give.
The high isn’t the same anymore. It lacks the initial rush. The euphoria. What made me feel everything good, all at once, as though my soul were flying high above my body. The cravings no longer exist. In their place lies a distaste for withdrawals. It breaks my mind, yet somehow keeps me sane. It’s become a love / hate relationship, but for some reason I don’t want to end it just yet. This sugarcoated poison’s managed such firm grip around all that I am, all that I thought I was, that I can’t even trust my own thoughts. I’m almost certain every ounce of willpower I so highly valued has been laid to rest. I feel empty, much like an abyss. Passion used to effortlessly fuel the expression paired with desire. Now it seems every dull muted sense of feeling and inspiration has been buried alive. What remains is nothing but a shell of the person I once was. What kills me most is knowing it’s not only hurt me, but the one I care for and love most. The last thing I want is to drain them of their own energy, but it seems as though no matter how hard I try, my own carelessness continues to burden their lives, depriving them of well-deserved happiness. I cause unnecessary pain and hinder their own state of mind, when those were never my intentions to begin with. On the contrary, I wish I could be the antidote to their pain. The solution to all their problems. I want so badly to give this person the world, everything that they were never given before. They are my reason.
I’m in absolute love with a fucking substance. I’ve learned who my real friends are through using. Those who give up on me aren’t worth my time. Those who choose to stick around and ride with me are the ones I will sacrifice for. Fuck it — Live life in the fast lane; automatic. Chasing dragons ‘till tolerance proves otherwise. Keep those hot-rails coming and keep me high, keep me high, keep me high.
He hurt me, I hurt him. We both fucked up. I think that’s something we can both agree on. He says communication is key, yet he’s inadvertently too naive to realize that that’s an aspect I tend to fall short on. Not necessarily a weakness (As I try my best to always be verbal when it comes to intentions and expressing them freely), but considerably not one of my strong suits. What happened has happened. It’s all been said and done. It’s in the past. Taking it as a learning experience, I can see us moving past this. However, what we must ask ourselves is “Did it alter the relationship? Will things ever be the same?” Personally, from where I’m standing, the moment my eyes registered betrayal, that connection was lost in translation — Without hesitation. When it boils down to it, Biggie said it best… "I don’t chase ‘em, I replace ‘em". So goodbye Josh; hello Harvey. This is the oldest guy I’ve been with yet. Not gonna lie, at one point I found myself aggressively questioning what in the fuck I was (/am) even doing, but somehow, I feel inclined to say that things might be different with this guy. Perhaps I’ve been abusing the meaning of the word “different” and throwing it out into the open too much or too soon, but truth be told, I personally feel my heart’s in the right place, and judging by what this dude’s shared with me so far, I might not be the only one. This world would be nothing without hope, would it not? So here I am, maintaining my head above water, taking chances, and actually making an effort to have at least a little faith. Learn to take your own advice and perspectives are subject to change. If things fall through, then oh fucking well. Nothing new, nothing wasted, just additional knowledge to broaden and help shape me into the person I’m ultimately destined to be. Granted, although even the notion of a predetermined disposition is something I’ve never been too comfortable with, I’m fully aware that whatever may come, comes naturally; there is no preventing truth. The vibe I’ve received from the energy that’s been contributed strikes me as genuine and sincere. We both know where the other stands in regards to what we want and what we would like for it to be considered. I like that sense of solidarity and I’m glad we’ve clarified terms. Of course, I do realize I could be proven wrong just as easily as any of the countless times before, but alas, I’m only human. The way I see it, I’m better off simply letting things happen and just rolling with the punches. My subconscious continues to cavalierly dismiss years of jading, treating the gradual emotional deterioration as nothing more than a glitch. Fatuously embedded desires anticipate even the mere potential for stability. Reaching out to grasp, but never getting a good grip. It knows no rest. Rationalize open interpretations of intimacy and all its forms. Always looking for love in all the wrong places… But god would I be lying if I said the chase wasn’t such a thrill.