The Long Hard Road Out of Hell: I just had my last shot of meth

2 days ago

I just had my last shot of meth.
And just like that, 28 years of dedicated drug use come to an underwhelming, anticlimactic end.

It’s Friday night, 10:30, and I’m high. Don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty darn wired (of course, I’m pretty when I’m not wired, too), but something feels amiss. Ceremony? Ritual? I don’t know, but this is not what I expected. What did I have in mind? Honestly, I didn’t. The moment snuck up on me. I saw the end approaching; I counted down from shot number 5 a few days ago, but when it was time for the last one, the realisation and the rush hit me simultaneously.

This is the last show. My final swing from the chandelier. I’m sitting on my bed, alone, my fingers on the keys, the waves crashing in the distance and the annoying high-pitched zing from one of the fucking wall plugs the only sounds cutting through silence and solitude. When I notice this, the noise in my mind suddenly becomes deafening. I break down, wailing for over an hour before exhaustion sets in. What a waste of a shot. My phone vibrates. I smile.

I am lulled to sleep and Orion watches over me.

Day 1.

It’s cold, raining. Suits my mood.

I’m luteal. I already miss the secret sauce. I have no energy. My skin looks like shit. I’m fat. I brush my teeth. I have my usual smoothie. I want pasta. I. have a dried fruit roll instead. I buy a kettle. My ex is going to kill me. Because electricity. He’s on his way home. I wish he weren’t. I’m gently reprimanded by Orion—instructed to go shower because I’ll feel better after. I feel better, partly because of the shower, partly because of the things Orion tells me. It’s nice to be seen. It’s nice when someone who isn’t a drug user supports you, without judgment, only care, no pressure, but firm, always regulated, always calm. We spend the afternoon talking about anime. He sends me some music. I hate the music, but it’s strangely uplifting, motivating in a completely nonsensical, laugh yourself to the goalpost kind of way. I might eat some shrooms tomorrow.

Ex is back. He comes straight to my lovely room—more about that later—and starts shouting at me. He’s so predictable. At least he’s consistent. He says I always disappoint him. He tells my 7-year-old son that he’s moving out, doesn’t know what we’re going to do. I tell him that it’s not fair to involve a 7-year-old in our stuff like that. He slams my door while I’m still talking and storms into the house. Not long after, I hear him scream. The sound is loud, scary, full of frustration and anger. I go inside to check on my son. He’s OK. Watching a movie. I hear my ex scream again. This time it’s pain. The kind of scream you’d hear in a horror movie like “Saw”. Then sobbing. Again, I check on my son. He’s OK. He’s scared. I knock on my ex’s door. “I’m busy!”. I leave, call my son. We go out to my room. We watch two episodes of Voltron. Bedtime.

My ex phones me. “I just had the most intense breathwork session. I’m hungry. I take it the stew in the fridge is mine?” I tell him he can have it. I cooked a huge pot of beef and veg stew to freeze in portions for my detox, so I won’t just eat crap. But I won’t tell him that. Let him eat it. He says he’s going out. Thank god. I know he won’t be back tonight.

Day 2

I wake up early. Feel like shit. Exhausted. Emotional.

My son isn’t feeling well. Seems like he has a tummy bug. I don’t have any medication. Not that he’d take anything anyway.

My ex isn’t home yet. We have many agreements in place. He often disregards them to manipulate me. Over the years, I have come to know two people in that body; they are not aware of each other. One is kind(ish), reasonable, sees logic and applies it. The second doesn’t know reason or kindness. He believes in a hierarchy where he is king, and anyone who doesn’t recognise that must be punished. Headlocks and cheap shots to the ribs are common means of enforcement. But first, withholding resources—food, or access to it, restricting movement, essentials like school fees.

We are currently in this phase. He was out of town last week. Usually, I drop and collect him from the airport. This time he refused. He drove himself. I had no means of getting my son to school. My car has been standing in the driveway, fucked, for 8 months.

During the pandemic, my business (a yoga studio for kids) closed its doors. My ex offered me employment with the promise of a reasonable salary. He’s paid me once in 6 years. We have revisited the subject countless times. Sometimes he sees the logic and says he’ll start paying me, other times he says he doesn’t understand why he should pay me since he pays for everything. It’s control. It’s coercion. I’m trapped. And he loves it.

I’m responsible for the household. We’re very low on food. I get onto my sixty60 app, fill the cart with veggies, his yoghurt & milk. “Payment Failed”. He’s cancelled the card. Again. Sending me a clear message: “You deny me. I deny you.” This started 2 weeks ago, before he left on his trip. We were at the gym. I made eye contact with the “Lumberjack”. I blushed. My ex got jealous. He asked if I would sleep with him if he grew a beard like the Lumberjack. I said no, it’s not the beard. He pointed out that his biceps look as good as the Lumberjack’s (they’re not even close - hilarious). I say no, it’s not the biceps. He gets agitated. “What must I do then?” I tell him, for the umpteenth time: it’s not going to happen. The third time he had sex with me without my consent, I swore he’d never gain access to this body again. He raises his voice at me then. Why do I hold onto the past? Why can’t I just move on already?

I deny him. He denies me.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I am at a loss. I’ve been looking for employment for two years. I succeeded once. The salary wasn’t enough to cover my son’s exorbitant school fees and rent & I was just starting this meth cessation journey.
I have no resources. Nowhere to go. What am I to do? Where will we go? It’s winter—cold & raining most of the time. I don’t have a car.

I’m considering sex work. I feel nauseous. I guess it’s not much different from my relationship with my ex? It killed my soul. I had constant supply of meth, it didn’t make it better, but it helped.

I consider creating several dating profiles: “Mother seeking transactional relationship—abuse me & cover my +1 living expenses.” At least this way, it eliminates the element of betrayal and heartbreak.

I want to go back to sleep.

I should make a way to get my son to my mother. She will struggle. She can’t afford to raise him. But he won’t be the one to find me. They’ll get the news together. Support each other.

I need to get him to my mother.

It’s 13:00.

I’m going back to sleep.

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Thank you for taking the time to read Matters of Substance. These pieces are like love letters—intimate reflections where I bare my soul, sharing raw details of my journey through trauma, drugs, addiction, and healing.

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