Citation: ObliteratedPersona. "Speeding Towards Madness: An Experience with Methamphetamine (exp32717)". Erowid.org. Aug 9, 2018. erowid.org/exp/32717
I only did meth frequently for half a year. In that time, I came to know meth very well--meth in all its vile glory, in all its lies, and all its humanity.
The first time I tried it I was amazed at the feeling. Some friends invited me along, and I only needed two hits off of the bubble (the slang name for a meth pipe) to get me spun. I was elated, I became extremely gregarious--friendly, outgoing, I was self confident and happy--I had a cigarette, but not a light. Though that was no problem, I went to a boarding house for college students around the corner and asked them for one, while chatting politely with them.
I remember after that night, I bought a bubble. I started buying meth frequently. I sold C.D.s, I sold clothes, I wouldn't buy food--I didn't need it, I wasn't hungry. I wasn't happy with my weight, I'd struggled with anorexia before-and here meth was placed in front of me, solving all my problems. It told me it would. It told me it would help me lose weight. It told me it would help me study for my classes. It told me it would give me euphoria, that constant state of elatedness...
It lied to me. I suppose I let it.
I was now involved in the beginning of a relationship, deeply infatuated with abuse. The grip meth had on me amazes me. I remember smoking perhaps a gram or so in a night, then crawling on the floor hoping to find a crystal in the carpet after swearing I'd make it last a week. I'd curse myself afterwards, knowing I wouldn't be able to afford to get any for awhile. I'd clean my pipe for an hour and smoke what was left of that. I should of quit the time a policeman caught me and let me go. I swore I'd quit that day--I was back to meth in a week.
After awhile this all started adding up--my tolerance, my paranoia, obsessions and lack of sleep. Three hits didn't get me anymore. I needed more.
Three hits didn't get me anymore. I needed more.
I'd go to class after smoking yet another bag and wonder if anyone noticed, think everyone was staring at me. They could all tell my eyes were wide open, my brain was racing, but my body was moving lethargically--they knew...they judged, they laughed.
Then came the comedowns. Was it nausea? Not quite, I just wasn't hungry, but I starved. I knew if I ate I'd throw up. The world became slow, slower than normal. I couldn't sleep, I could only watch and listen to a world completely seperate from the one pre-meth...
Then I started to develop another persona. First she developed inside my head, who I thought to. Then when I was alone I'd talk to her. Then she'd talk to other people, whether they were aware of it or not. I called her my 'shadow'. Hah, this was before I knew Jungs theory on the shadow...now I believe it was my shadow personified. I talked to myself, I'd jump at noises I wasn't sure were there, and her and I drove people away--she told me I only needed her. Oh, and the meth loved her too. The more tweaked out I was, the stronger she was. She hated me, she loved me, she encouraged meth.
Everything was alive on meth, though I never knew what was sinister and what was simply breathing for that moment.
I eventually ended up in a mental ward. There, I got clean, and regained some sanity. I can't say meth is the devils drug, for the devil would be far more sly. No, meth is human, it is MANufactured as human cruelty symbolised.
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