The hell within a cross addiction between benzodiazepines, sleeping pills and alcohol did not lie
in the use of the drug itself but rather the opposite. No withdrawal anxiety
took place due to being on olanzapine already, a prescription antipsychotic
used to destroy a conscience — I mean, treat bipolar mania — and I did not
experience a single panic attack. But my body had reactions taking place in my
sleep. A side effect that never went away; somewhere I developed sleep apnea
symptoms in the middle of this melodramatic holy trinity of downers. I would wake up unable to breathe properly.
Sometimes I would drift off just sitting upright in a chair and wake up staring at my ceiling to
white noise around me, most times it took place whilst asleep. Once woken by
this lively reaction, I'd sit in my bed, stunned for many moments, wondering if
I had suffered a seizure. But the hospital, upon many tests, confirmed this to
be untrue. I had explained my benzodiazepine addiction. They simply called it, "waking from my sleep". To this day I cannot experience enough waking from my
sleep.
It made sense the mixing of drugs with medications would eventually lead to a downfall of this
sort. It is the reason behind my quitting, essentially. But I couldn't stay
sober for the life of me. So I subsequently changed my drug of choice around to
the polar opposite end of the equation. Just do stimulants. A fantastic
idea I had not come up with on my own. It came to be the moment my drug dealer offered me cocaine one day.
I bought it, obviously. Three lines later, nothing. I went through my $50 bag where I was likely stiffed. When I do look back, and remember vividly what I received, there
was not even close to half a gram in that small fore-promising bag. Disappointing.
It wasn't until later, when I began hanging out with my partner, that I discovered the
potential stimulants had to wow me. Now, this didn't happen overnight. We saw
each other for a month before deciding to go steady. At that point I just
needed someone fuckable, for all the letdowns I had revolved my summer around,
men not being able to last like a circus without a fucking act. By the time he
asked me out we were stoned eating a strawberry ice cream cake sometime after I
asked him what he thought of me. Honestly, I think he professed his love too
quickly. It had been a month. What had me pining over him, truly, was his pained
aesthetic and fetish for IV drugs; a world of experience I had not yet seen
myself, and wouldn't for a long time.
I asked many questions. I asked him to do it to me. In my mind it was an intimate act;
intercourse, a threesome with a needle, some crazed thing that quickly became
an epitome of our coming together which turned out to be something so dark.
Rather fast, he caved into my desires. He was a ex heroin junkie. How could he
say no?
Half a month later, on October 8th, we decided to see one of my old friends by borrowing the landlord's car. He was an ex. My first love, to be exact. We wanted to buy meth and smoke it together. An odd situation that worked out in the best way it could have. I mean, my partner was in a poly relationship with
a prostitute years before we ever met. It only bothered him a little.
We withdrew $130 and got fuck all. But it was enough for a time I'd call a peak moment of our
relationship. Seriously. Methamphetamine was the ultimate enhancer when it came
to sex, bonding, thinking, applying intelligence, and appreciating life as a
depressed individual on all sorts of antipsychotics slowing down the brain, damning themselves halfway to hell through the simple act of compliance. What others
saw as a life mistake was something that appealed to me like diamonds.
Perhaps I am unfortunate to be saying this drug fixed my problems for its duration.
I had no regrets.
He took us home shortly after we smoked a little at my ex's place. Fuck, he wasn't an ex. We really just pretended we were together, long enough that it meant something, since he was able to announce a reminiscing of when he swept my virginity right in front
of my boyfriend. To which he congratulated him. Like I was some epic prize. When I wasn't. I was a fool dabbling with things that were going to destroy my health in time.
It was evening. The room was silent. It was just the two of us. I felt myself falling harder as I watched him prepare our shots filled with meth and water. I watched him
tentatively. I offered my arm. He remarked how difficult my veins were to hit
before giggling as he finally hit the one in my right hand. I think I came after he injected me.
And just like that, I was flying. Suddenly, I was a new person. I had this charisma about me that I couldn't mimic ever again. I made him genuinely laugh as we sat in bed
joking around about irrelevant things, leading him to slightly exaggerate his view
of me too far into what wasn't. In truth, my medication and the methamphetamine
mixed too well. I experienced no negative side effects aside from chest pain
during the comedown and slight psychotic delusions that he was an affiliate to
an organization that stalked women like myself. Temporary thoughts for drugged
out thots. Whatever.