The Long Hard Road out of Hell Part 17: Stigma, Midlife Crises, Inadequacy

Addiction, Stigma, and the Fear of Being Unchosen

When your best friend of 20 years, the one who cackles with you over dark humor and dances in the shadows of twisted taboos, turns to you and says, “Fuck, babe, feeling the darkness much lately?”—it’s like a neon sign flashing: Time to check your headspace.

When did I sink into this swamp of self-pity? Where’s that fizzy, electric spark I used to fling like confetti? I’ve got everything I need—shelter, food, a kid who deserves better—so why am I wading through misery like it’s quicksand?

Neurology’s the easy answer. Brain chemistry’s a bitch. But what happened to mind over matter? To faking a smile so convincingly, my brain buys the lie? Maybe this is just life’s rhythm, a pendulum swinging between light and shadow. Right now, I’m staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, heart pounding, waiting for the shot, or the silence.

If you’ve been following this journey for a while, you know I’ve been tapering for 12 weeks now. Twelve. Freaking. Weeks. Longer than planned, dragged out with excuses so airtight they could double as alibis in a courtroom. “I’ll keep tapering, using less and less until I run out,” I told myself. “Quitting cold turkey with drugs in the house is just begging for a relapse, a siren call for a moment of weakness.” Yada, yada, fish paste. But now I’m down to crumbs. Very low. I haven’t been this close to empty in ages, and it’s setting off klaxons in my nervous system. Anxiety’s got me in a chokehold, whispering, What happens when it’s gone?
The tapering started methodical—measured doses, a plan. But a few weeks ago, I slipped. Relapsed. Now I’m eyeballing it, weighing every other shot to make sure I’m cutting down, not creeping up. It’s a tightrope walk, and one wrong step could send me tumbling.

Physically, I’m a mixed bag. I’ve been hitting the gym, feeling strong enough to power through most days, thanks to the meth cessation protocol—peptides and supplements that slashed my tolerance in just a week. Those meth micro-doses I’m still taking? They keep me functional, helping me nail my targets. But this week, no gym—transport’s a bust. And today? I crashed hard. Up at 7 a.m., out cold by 1 p.m., sleeping through the afternoon. Writing this took hours, with me nodding off at least three times. Maybe five. Who’s counting?

My body’s staging a rebellion. Headaches pound like a drum, possibly from withdrawal, probably from dehydration—I’ve been terrible at drinking water. My appetite’s usually fine, anchored by a massive protein smoothie every morning, often splitting into two, sometimes all I eat. But today? I went feral. Sugar and carb cravings hijacked me—two chocolate bars, biscotti, a mocha, bulgur wheat with fresh herbs and raw veggies, crisps, cabanossi, and steel-cut oats loaded with protein powder, dates, nuts, banana, and cinnamon. My skin, usually glowing, betrayed me this week—breakouts, puffy eyes, and dryness screaming neglect. And don’t get me started on the kidney pain nagging like a bad neighbor, or the hazelnut that obliterated my crown. Dentists here cost a fortune, and my ex, who I “work” for without a dime, won’t foot the bill for a trip to Johannesburg. So, I’m chugging painkillers—not exactly a love letter to my kidneys.

I’ve been wrestling with Stigma. I’m an open book, heart bleeding on my sleeve, hating secrets like they’re poison. Yet I’m lugging this one around, and it taints everything—every choice, every conversation. It’s a backpack full of bricks, chaining me to negative cycles. I dodge opportunities because of it. A job offer came my way recently, but I turned it down—detox is unpredictable, and I’d probably get fired for flaking. Social invites? Nope. Someone asked me to bring my son to the park, but I bailed, terrified they’d spot my scars or sense something’s off.

Imagine if I could just be real and tell my son’s teacher: “If my kid’s acting out, it’s because I’m in detox. I’m half-asleep or ‘sick in bed’ most days, barely present. My patience is thinner than a razor’s edge. Please meet him with empathy, but hold the line.” Sounds reasonable, right? But I can’t say that without risking a knock from social services.
Read that again and tell me: Doesn’t it sound like we’re both better off when I’m using? Drop your thoughts in the comments—I’m curious.

Kids need presence, attunement—someone who’s there. When I’m bedridden in detox, especially on weeks like this when it’s just me and my son, no school, no transport, it shakes him. A child senses when the adult is not fully present, and when their needs aren’t met, it sparks fear, and that fear spills out in behaviour. There’s no such thing as a “naughty” kid—every outburst is a feeling, a need, screaming to be heard. And I’m not meeting his. It kills me.

What if I came clean to my family? I can guess their reactions, but people can surprise you, for better or worse. If I called them up and said, “Listen, after rehab in 2008, I relapsed within three months and haven’t stopped since. I’m ready to quit now, but I’m struggling,” what would they do? After the inevitable disappointment, would they rally around me? Ask how they can help? Or would they swoop in like they did in 2007, taking over my life, deciding what I need, tossing my belongings, and locking me away at my aunt’s house like a prisoner?

This secrecy feeds my isolation, and it’s not just about jobs or playdates. It’s personal, too. I’m 39 and—pausing for effect—I’ve never been on a date. Not one. I’ve been in many long(ish)-term relationships, but no guy’s ever asked me out, picked me up, taken me out and left me navigating that awkward to-kiss-or-not moment. It’s not like I’m racking up one-night stands either—my heart’s too quick to fall in love when I let someone close, so casual flings would probably wreck me. But this gap in my life, this absence of being chosen, ties into the dread that’s been gnawing at me: Is this what midlife crisis feels like? That realisation that I’ve likely lived more days than I’ve got left—and have I lived at all, or just survived? I turn 40 soon, and I’m wrestling with whether to let my greys show or keep poisoning myself with toxic hair dye. Those fine lines won’t stay fine forever. Then what? Just another “old spinster” with a “difficult” child?

I’ll admit, lately, men have been circling, their interest sparking like a match in the dark. But it terrifies me. They know I’m on drugs—know I’m raw, vulnerable, maybe easy to manipulate, easy to use. After a recent hurt I’ve written about incessantly in previous essays, I’m scared to trust. Why me? They don’t know the real me—just the addict, the one with nothing to show for her life, no big wins, nothing to offer. They’re driven, successful, and accomplished. I’m… stuck. What are the odds that they’re just another shadow of my father, offering love that’ll inevitably cut? Am I just the easy mark, Miss Right Now, or—dare I hope—that they see me and appreciate that I’m complex, deep, creative, intelligent, everything that contributes to my awesomemess? The thought of being played, of being wanted for my weakness, keeps me locked behind walls I can’t scale. And besides, my heart still isn’t my own to give away; the one who broke it still possesses it. I don’t know how to reclaim it. I don’t want to.

My emotions are a labyrinth, twisting and endless. Can I trust them [my emotions]? They run so deep they scare me—are they real, or just a desperate grab for the complex blend of dopamine, oxytocin, norepinephrine, and serotonin: excitement, attachment, and anticipation associated with being loved, wanted, chosen? The worst part: I know the answer, I know what I should do, but will I?

Secret: I dream of rescue. I want to scream, “I can’t do this!” and have someone sweep in, pack our bags, and carry us to a new life—ocean waves whispering through big windows, white Egyptian cotton sheets, good coffee, a fridge brimming with smoothie fixings. A place where my son and I are held, taken care of, or rather, cared for, where I can focus on healing without the chokehold of tension. I know, I know—feminism might raise an eyebrow at that. But I’m not saying I want to ditch independence or agency. I just want a space where I can rebuild without being on guard 24/7, braced for arguments with a man who thinks he’s entitled to my body despite our breakup. I’m exhausted from living in survival mode, hypervigilant, always waiting for the next blow.

So, where am I at? Still teetering on the edge of that void, fast running out of supply, so the notion of a life without drugs is real, staring me in the face and it scares me shitless. I haven’t seen my son’s smile in too long, and that absence is a stone in my chest. Before drugs, I hated myself, hated life. On them, I found a version of me I could love, a world that felt alive, electric. My ex swears meth makes me a better person, and part of me—damn it—believes him. What if I step into that sober void and despise who I am? What if life without the crutch is just a dull, grinding ache? Guess we’re about to find out.

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