A Letter To Crystal Meth, P1. Login to Kupika  or  Create a new account 

This diary entry is written by ‹fuckingpickyournoseidiot›. ( View all entries )
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A Letter To Crystal Meth, P1.Category: (general)
Thursday, 8 October 2015
06:19:48 PM (GMT)
I wrote this a couple of years ago while I was in recovery and decided to share it with you. I've always said that there is no love/hate relationship that could ever rival the one between a jibtech and their dope. I still find this to be true, for my on again/off again relationship with you over the four years has been a prime example of such. I mean, in the same moment that I'll swear I need you, I can always promise that you'll make me want to die. I cry and I scream because I can't bear to let you go, but nothing in my life is ever okay and it never gets any better until I have you within reach. But the irony of it, is that it never gets any better BECAUSE you're within my reach. Our relationship has been a sick and twisted tryst born of paint, emptiness, and desire, our passion feeding off of secrets and dear, as you'd revel in the intensity and the tragedy of what my life became. You'l revel in my powerlessness over you, laughing at my helplessness. Despite this reign of terror, you were my one and only. If that doesn't begin to convey my simultaneous feelings of love and hate, of necessity and of disgust, then I don't know what will. When I met you for the first time, I found you more interesting and beautiful than anything. But I wasn't inclined to see the dark parts of you, or the way you had already sunk your hooks into the hearts of a few friends of mine. What I saw was thick, snow-white clouds of smoke leaving their lips, and dancing in circles around the room. I saw their hastily groomed attitudes of indifference in regards to the "real world", the life that I had come to despise, and I wanted that. I wanted that freedom from responsibility, that freedom from feeling and emotions. I am fourteen-going-on-fifteen, and my heart was broken. Or at least what I believed broken to be at that age. Despite hours and hours of supposedly deep and meaningful conversation, cocaine was really my best and only friend, and an eight-ball every two weeks was becoming kid stuff. Unable to see the flaws in my logic, I searched you out and I put you up my nose. That first night, I swear to fucking God, I flew. Nothing and no one else had ever made me feel as good, or as good about myself, as you did. It felt almost as if you were stitching up that constant, hollow, empty void that was inside of me. You whispered in my ear that I didn't have to feel all those awful feelings anymore, and that I didn't need to feel lonely. You told me that you would be my friend, and that you wanted to help me, help me to be the best me that I could possibly be. I should've known that a drug like you would have told me absolutely anything to get me stuck in your grip. And so it began, innocently enough, I guess. I'd like to say that I didn't know what you were capable of, but I wasn't that naive. Only weeks after I had befriended you, our relationship had evolved rapidly. I found myself distraught without you, and my thoughts would become preoccupied with sneaky ways in which I could win you back. Incredibly enough, I was able to recognize that my grip on life was slipping away. Simply put, I was scared. I was scared because of how strongly I had come to feel for you. Things were spiraling out of control, and I only knew this because I was one of those things. I had suspicions that control was something I'd had very, very little of, or had rarely ever been in throughout my young life. I I cut ties with you, on a whim. I stayed away from the place we had met. I learned again how to interact with normal people. I dreamt about you, but I didn't seek you out or try to reconnect. I found myself in another abusive relationship, and this one took all of my time, energy, and freedom just as you had. But this one took my child as well. Things got really bad, like they always seemed to when it came to my life. Everything exploded. Again, I was left with nothing. My thoughts turned to you, and to my old mechanisms of coping. Pint, blow, and vodka, and strange boys who told me they loved me. That's what you gave me, and it seemed like that's what I wanted, what I needed. I was a victim of euphoric recall. When you and I met for the second time, it was not planned. It was an accident, a coincidence, a cheap thrill. But this time, the moment I saw you, the moment that I felt you, I knew that you were about to become my everything. I had nothing to hold me back from you, and I didn't want to be held back either. I jumped in headfirst and headstrong, and you made me feel so fucking good, you made me stop thinking about what had happened to me, and you helped me forget that my life had once again become a complete and utter disaster. It felt like old times, with you and I, but a million times better this go-round. My self-confidence, and I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude were amplified. I didn't have to care about anything, and you gave me an excuse to not care. This time my heart was broken, and in absolutely emotionally stabbing ways, crippling me from the inside out. I didn't want to do anything, especially anything productive. I didn't have the strength to attempt anything that's required of normal people in a normal society. Anything remotely resembling the life that I had: school a job, relationships, people to answer to, a family, hope and dreams - were completely out of the fucking question. You were the answer. You've got this charismatic way of making people believe that they can do whatever the fuck they want. If I wanted to smoke dope, I'd smoke dope. If I wanted to stay awake all night and tweak on sharpie drawings, I would. I was amazed and even overjoyed by this. The last thing I wanted to do was live a real life, and in your world, that was not expected of me. In the beginning it was perfect, and you were my be-all, end-all. But isn't that how it always starts? Falling in love with you was like going down the goddamned rabbit hole. Your world was one that was almost completely separate from the one that was lived in above the basement and outside of the suburbia's in which we dwelled. We didn't live anywhere remotely close to reality, and this was always so, so entertaining to me. The people were like fictional characters in and of themselves. Their dialogue with one another, clever and exaggerated the events that took place were completely and utterly ridiculous. This may sound ridiculous to most, but I know differently. You, Crystal Meth, have a culture within yourself. It's a strange cult-following dripping with psychosis and criminal activity, based on theatrics and dramatics and a seemingly unspoken perpetual agreement to try and make every single day as ridiculous, crazy, and completely fucked-up as possible. You made us believe that by holding your hand and jumping int the fire, that our demons would never be able to get us. You made us believe that the inanity that ensued was all just fun and games. A lot of it was, I suppose. At least that's what my memories tell me. Hellishly, twisted fun and games played by the most childish of adults. What's unfortunate is that most of my time spent with you was just that. Sadness, confusion, desperation, depression, and resonating emptiness. Lies, betrayal, and fiendish behavior. You were completely overwhelming. You took away the last tiny bit I had, of my sense of self. I didn't even know I had it until it was long gone. I was unsure of who I was, or where I fit into the scheme of things, and you took advantage of that, as well as the people around me. You turned me into someone who was only there for you. I did everything for the drug. I allowed you to make me over into nothing more than another small-town jibtech, an expert of all things methamphetamine chic. You had possessed me. I lost myself and I also love every friend of association I had had, who was not connected to the meth world. Some attempted to stay close to me longer than others did, though most gave up fast, ran in the opposite destination, or pretended that we were never friends to begin with and talked a lot of shit. You gave me a very strange superiority complex, and I eventually became mean-spirited and cold towards everyone. Those who stayed, you, Meth, became their best friend. Their only friend. You most definitely became mine. You see, I know that it was a million times worse that it ever was better. You were and still are a conniving and manipulative ex-lover who tries to weasel their way back into my heart and into my life. In the past, you've always been able to trick me into believing that the good times outnumber the bad, but they didn't. Not even close. I've got to keep my mind and my memories clear, and never forget all the shit that you've caused me. How could I ever go back to you? If anything in the world could possibly steal a persons soul, I am sure that it would be you. I nearly began to truly believe in evil, because I saw it in all those around me, and I started to see it within myself. Remember the psychological rejection that came hand in hand with wanting true friendships that I could never have, for they all loved you far more that they could ever love another human being? Remember when I spent Christmas at my grandmas house, too twacked out to close my eyes. I had missed the night they decorated the tree, which was once a tradition, because I was out getting high, no doubt. I smoked pint in her bathroom and I didn't even feel guilty; I didn't feel anything. Remember how much weight I lost and how awful I looked? Remember how my sort-of boyfriend told me I was disgusting? Remember when I got so sick, so dehydrated and malnourished that I was hospitalized? Remember how I almost died because of you? Remember the week and a half I spent in the hospital because of you? And do you remember how lost I felt without you? And how I gave up on my idea to stay clean a mere three days after I was released? Do you remember how within two weeks of being out, I started snorting meth? How strong a hold you must have had on me to ignore my near-death experience and to use more than I ever had before? I felt worthless without you and I felt worthless with you. I was becoming sick of you, sick of me, but I felt emotionally, mentally, and physically angry without you. Do you remember when I stopped going to the doctor because the needles made me too shaky, too anxious, too paranoid to talk to people, and too panicky to sit still? Do you remember when my hair started to fall out by the handful? Remember when you killed my mother? I was horrified; but I still would not stop. Hell no, I was at a point where I swore I'd do meth for the rest of my life. Remember when our friends were breaking down each other's doors, cutting them in half, and stealing from one another - the people we spent nearly every minute of every day around? Remember when I stole from my friends, my parents, my sister, numerous times? I can make myself sick remembering some of the stupid and disrespectful shit that I pulled in my active addiction. Remember when things would get violent, at times? Remember how I truly couldn't trust anyone, and the paranoia that came along with not trusting anyone? Remember how horrible, selfish, and two-faced everyone was, including me? Remember when all of my own lies and bullshit came full circle, and I lost that sense of belonging, forever? I remember watching the people around me go crazy. I watched people slip so far into their crank-fueled delusions I sometimes didn't think they'd ever come back. Usually they did, but they were never truly the same, like a little piece of them was missing. Because you never truly let us go. There were many other happenings around these parts, but I don't need to explain them for they were all strange and morbid, morbid and insane, and you caused all of the crazy. It was horrible to watch, and terrible to be a part of. It was horrible to know that people were there, just helping others along, detaching from reality, one hoot or smash at a time. I hated these times, I hated them so much. They scared me. When I started questioning my own sanity, it was almost terrifying. I couldn't walk alone, especially at night. I began to see people and other things constantly, people and things who were not there, hiding behind every corner, every tree, in every window, every parked car, every shadow. They were watching me, following me, preparing to attack me or trying to make me go insane. I began to hear things, especially when I'd sit in my bedroom at night, tweaking out. I'd hear people, sneaking through my backyard, whispering, fucking with me. That was the worst, considering the people I associated with. It was very plausible to think that there'd be people lurking through my yard at 3 in the morning, but I never knew for sure. A few times I even crept into my own yard, flashlight in hand, trying to catch them in the act, because I was sure there was someone there. I never saw anyone... I didn't know what was real and what wasn't half the time. I'd hear music and voices inside of the running water in the shower. I heard voices coming from the creek near my house. From beneath the surface of the water. I was sure of it, even though I knew that it was impossible. Those lines were constantly being blurred. I'd hear my doorbell ring numerous times a day, but no one was ever there.

MaidenofAvalon says:   8 October 2015   598746  
‹Lifeless Baby› says:   8 October 2015   294415  
This is amazing. And I'm so glad you're okay.
Vague says :   25 October 2015   567212  
your writing is spectacular and i hope youre doing better.
you have so much potential.

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