So this is me. I have been a drug user of the illicit kind for about five years. It, Ice or methamphetamine, drew me in. I let myself succumb to it’s effects. It’s my own fault. This culminated in a complete break down of what was real and what wasn’t. It became another prison that I put myself in. The self inflicted prison of work, sleep, smoke ice, no sleep, write, rinse and repeat.

I managed to LIE to myself and those around me. Growing up, I became quite efficient at putting up a wall and wearing a mask so that no one would see the real me. See the constant confusion and pain that I suffered and then used drugs as a bandaid. I did not want to feel anymore. I made this choice consciously because I hated my life, but couldn’t be bothered doing anything real about it. A big mistake. How can a writer, as I call myself, not feel? This was just some of the bullshit I told myself. That I was a better writer and more creative while under the influence. Um, no, no you weren’t, mate.

When everything broke down in my mind that one last time that I lied to myself yet again and thought I could handle it, Reality broke down completely. This was not me, but it was all at the same time. Who I am just broke.

And now, in building myself up again, I share my story. No more lies. I know I have made myself a most unreliable source, but that is up to you to decide. I accept this.

The medical system has already decided on my account anyway. They must, to do their job and save as many people, provide a blanket solution. So I am an ice addict and therefore should be treated as such, in their eyes. I did not consider myself an addict three months prior to my relapse because I had refrained from touching it for the longest time since I started smoking ice. They did not and cannot believe me. Fair enough. But the solution was to treat me by supplying me with the same substance I am addicted to, or I was addicted to before I made one mistake thinking I could go back to it briefly, in a much more controlled way, yes, but this is not what I want.

I had said no and then paid dearly, almost losing my sanity altogether when I relapsed. I don’t want bandaids. I don’t need them. No one should. Bandaids don’t let things heal naturally.

Here was my life before I said no: I would work a soul destroying retail job and when the weekend rolled around, I told myself I needed to stay up to write and “catch up” on things (ie. gaming mostly as I had no other life) I had no ‘energy’ to do during the week. Vicious cycle of Shit. I even acknowledged this. But why did I continue to do it even though I knew it made me unhappy? There is no reason. It’s a choice. It was always a choice.

And so now they have me on a substitute and I find myself taking them every night. I have to, don’t I? It has been prescribed and my body is developing a dependence on it. So now, I must purge myself of the substitute. Or else risk being pulled back into the same cycle. Wish me luck.

Say it, Type it, Leave it. Thanks :)

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