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Methamphetamine: Stories and Letters of the Hidden Costs
by Users, Loved Ones, and Parents

Still struggling with a broken heart
    Over a year ago, I submitted my story "Maybe I can Love Again" and since then, I have been through a personal hell that I would not wish on anyone. 15 months after my addict was arrested, I suffered a nervous breakdown ( a nonclincal term, I know, and without specific definition, but disintegration sounds too dramatic). I think this is probably the hardest thing I have ever gone through.
    I am thankful for this site, however. It has helped me greatly, along with God, the key people in my life who have put up with me asking the same "why" and "How could he" questions over and over and over.
    In nine months, the no contact order will be up and I know he will contact me again. I honestly do not know what to do. I am trying hard to forgive him, and sometimes, I am able to look at him with compassion, the same compassion Jesus has for me. And sometimes, I just keep wondering how he could do the things he did?
   The sexual aspect of his addiction is what puzzles me the most. This site has made me understand that it really has nothing to do with me. It was never about me not being enough for him. Nothing and no one will be enough.
   I hear he is doing well, and living in another state. If he is clean and sober, I wonder, would I consider going back to him? Yes, I would. I love him, and always will. But I fear if he comes back to this town, where there is a meth lab on every corner, and where everyone knows him, he will be sucked right back into the darkness.
   I cant see loving anyone again, really. Hes my soulmate. And if its not him, its no one. But I refuse to compete for his affections. Its the meth and everything that comes with it, or its me. He can not have us both. And I for one would rather be single forever than live like that.
   Tigger, I love you. Please get well.
--Jen

I've known about the site for about 6 years, maybe less or maybe longer. I used to do meth when I was younger, but got sober.
I wrote a short story, and thought about putting it up on your site.

PRETENDING
    The walls began bleeding grayness as I watched the color fade from my best friend’s eyes as he sniffed a line of meth off the toilet of a gas station bathroom. My body was propped against the bathroom door like a human lock when the whistles and bells started to ring in my head. I enjoyed the initial rush. I leaned my head back against the door. We stood locked in the stillness of winter. My mind began to walk the lonely road, creating a drift of silence between my salt- eaten ideas and the actions I was too afraid to take. Meth was beginning to trap my mind like a winter storm. A shelter I could run to at any time. The six o’clock whistle blew outside the door. One at a time we left the bathroom. My best friend hit the gas in his Honda. The muffler belted out our sins as we drove our car into the belly of the snowman.
    We drove in circles around town with our brains following in the car behind us. It became a routine, like sheep grazing in the pasture. We made our rounds picking up fellow users along the way. One by one they piled in, each with their own tale to tell. Frozen with nowhere to go, I silenced my voice opening the door to my insight. Black clouds rolled behind their words, crawling deeper into my compassion as I watched the drugs break down their walls. Goals slipped further and further for those who had them, while the ones that didn’t got caught in backwoods thinking of how to make an extra buck. I found myself in problems much bigger than my own. My outside appearance hadn’t begun to show the true pain of how I was feeling. I was the snowman that never melted. Meth was my layer of ice, hardening every excuse I could come up with like concrete.
    I watched out the window as the snow began to fall. Every tree silhouetted in the moonlight pointed us in a different direction. I began thinking of my childhood….suitcases packed in anticipation of the epic journeys with my dad only to become shattered with a single phone call. Parent’s night; winning the match only to have the loudspeaker cry the name of a cross I had to bare every time I heard it. The shame and worry. Who was I trying to be? I was pretending myself .The guilt was eating me on the inside like cancer. I was hiding under a white lie to cover the ups-and-downs of depression my father so generously gave me the moment he climbed off my mom and walked out the door.
    All those feelings under my skin began to make me itch. I tried taking a deep breath, but the tension was carved too deep into my forehead. I turned on the radio in hopes it would quite the noise in my head. Songs began filling the mood of the car. Soon the music became an undertone for our voices as the conversations finally began lifting the atmosphere of our stale environment. We became like blood brothers from a lost tribe. Our words began mixing into the deep rooted problems that lay at the center of our being. One by one I watched as we all fell down, dominos being played by our own hands.
    That night I came to one conclusion. Drugs don’t answer your problems; they bring you down like a one night stand with nothing to talk about after the high is over. You become naked in your own truth of weakness.

I've been sober for almost 10 years. The best thing I can say is talk about it. Don't hide in the shadows of your mind or the tweakers playground. Don't reward the actions of others who only think about themselves, or you will be one of these cases on this site.
--J

   I stumbled apon this link(s) while looking up information for a homework assignment for college on Congestive Heart Failure.  I read about the ingredients and how all of those awful chemicals are used.  ie: Drain-o, brake fluid, acid, kerosene.. what was I thinking.  You see, I am now 40 and back in 93-95 I was a squatter on the streets of San Francisco.  Looking back still, I think it was the happiest time of my life- and perhaps it was, but that's no way to be happy.  Eating out of trash cans, not bathing for months, pissing on the sidewalks, in the gutters, on myself.  Sticking a needle in my arm just to stay awake and walk the streets and "think" about life.  Now I'm in my 3rd year in Community College working towards a degree in Human Services- and yes, I still think about it.  But at what cost?  Heart failure?  Loss of everything that I've managed to build up?
It's not worth it, and it's never too late to ask for help.  We are weak creatures, strong willed at best- but we are social creatures who need others and its going to be okay.  I believe one of the evils of this drug lures in those who are spiritually weak or confused and it exposes all of their weakness to others- but not to the user.  Again, it's going to be okay.  Just try and take the first step- but most importantly, be honest with yourself.
--Gina