The Long Hard Road out of Hell - Week 1

First week completely meth free

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Day 3

Brain zaps. Like electric shocks frying my skull.

I first experienced them in January 2008. New Year’s Eve had already shattered me—mind gone, lost to a meth-fueled spiral. My friends took shifts, babysitting me around the clock. My boyfriend and I, both jobless after our company tanked, were drowning. He, a graphic designer from Sandton’s cushy elite, did what any desperate 24-year-old might: linked up with the country’s top meth cook. Off they went, he and his “queenie,” cooking in chicken coops, trailers, or god-knows-where. I barely saw him. Didn’t care. I was permawired, a kilo of meth stashed in my cupboard, raging at shadow people, convinced the KGB was about to crash through my window. A demon in the house trapped me in the bedroom when I was alone. Then my boyfriend said something wrong. Rage took over. I nearly strangled him, hands around his throat, intent on ending him. My soul sister pulled me off. I was confined to the room. Tried to end it all.

They shipped me to a fancy hospital. I went on a silent strike, refusing to speak to anyone but him, and he wasn’t visiting. A week or two of staring out the window, ignoring the psychiatrist and the nurses. The idiot doctor sent me home without a prescription after two weeks of shoving Wellbutrin and Prozac down my throat. That’s when the brain zaps kicked in, relentless.

Today, they’re worse. Haven’t thought about dying, though, so that’s something. Appetite’s out of control—eaten way too much and still starving. I’ll regret this. Scribbled some poetry.

My son’s struggling. Stealing. From everyone, everywhere, all the time. I don’t know how to fix him.

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Day 4

Heart palpitations today. Chest tight. Nothing new, just the usual chaos in my body.

I’m oddly stable—physically, mentally, emotionally. A miracle, considering I’m deep in my luteal phase. Just as I’m settling into writing, my phone rings. It’s my ex. I ignore him daily, but this time my heart lurches. I answer. They’re headed to the ER. My son slipped, tore his ear open. I call my bestie, grab a cap, a bag of mini crackers, and race to the hospital.

It’s hell. Holding him down as they stitch his ear, his screams piercing me. I still don’t know what happened. My ex and son both mumble, “He slipped.” No answers.

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Day 5

Brain zaps. Sleep. Cold sweats. Brain zaps. Sleep.

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Day 6

Sleep. Nightmares—vicious, clawing nightmares. Sleep. Stuff my face. Sleep.

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Day 7

I get my son ready for school. Collapse back into sleep. The gardener wakes me, holding a note. Child Welfare stopped by. They want to talk about my son.

I call my ex. “Not my kid,” he snaps. “Be a better mother, and you wouldn’t deal with this shit.” I call my mom. She’s taking my son for a while. Arrangements are in motion. He’s going to my mom.

The ex is heading to Cape Town. Again, he won’t be leaving me the car, or paying me.

I wish I knew how I could change things, how to become independent.

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