The Meth, the Man, and the Myth of Control
An honest reflection on tapering gone sideways—when control slips, love gets chemical, and self-compassion is the hardest drug to find.
“When you find yourself in the depths of your personal hell, look up—you’ll see my name carved into the wall.”
- Nathan Raaths
First, a Quick Announcement: Dope Support
I’ve been there [the depths of a personal hell] so many times, I have VIP Membership, and I don’t doubt I will find myself there again. Addiction is a lonely road, even when you’re not alone. Many agree that you might find a few deep connections, here or there, but when the party’s over, you’re lucky if you have a solid one left. We’ve all felt it, that hollow ache that sticks around.
Humans need community—whether deep in the mess, fighting for recovery, or walking the straight line, a good community can be a game changer, a saving grace.
Dope Support isn’t Narcotics Anonymous.
This is a Virtual meeting space, every other Wednesday, and is open to anyone touched by drug use: whether actively using, thinking about stopping, years in recovery, or supporting someone through it. No abstinence-only requirements or chasing goals—here, agency drives the vibe, safety holds you close, and autonomy unfolds at your pace. It’s a place where you can offload without people stepping in to fix or change you. You can cry, laugh, share, vent, ask or just sit quietly with people who get it.
Every day, I witness the profound lack of support, the heavy burden of stigma, and the pervasive loneliness and indifference that I know all too well. Dope Support is my response to this space, born from my experience and a deep yearning for connection.
I will share all the info next week. If you are concerned about missing the update, send me a message and I will update you personally.
Lost in the Void: Dissociation and Self-Reckoning
For two weeks, I’ve been a ghost in my own life, online and off—drifting with no anchor. I didn’t plan it; a fog of dissociation just swallowed everything. Ever finish a day wondering, “What did I even do?” That’s been me for 14 days—completely checked out. Do I have top-tier dissociation skills, or is this how mental breakdowns are birthed?
My mind’s been trapped in an endless loop, ripping apart every choice, every relationship I’ve loved or lost, every shaky hope for a future I can’t quite see. One Saturday, I spent 16 hours staring at a blank screen and painting my nails—not because I’m that vain or inept, but because it was something while my brain yelled, “You fucking failure! Oops, you did it again! You just never learn. Broken. Unlovable. Fucking. Failure. ’Nuff said.” My hands shook, but I felt nothing. The following night I sat, in that same, uncomfortable spot, winter creeping in and up my spine, as I sobbed uncontrollably, until 7:30 am when my son woke and declared it a new day.
My dissonance became apparent this week, in my best friend’s reaction when I shared that my ex hadn’t used meth in weeks and that the shift in him was tangible: or rather, he appeared to be a pro at time management, and displayed significantly increased engagement with life. She was sceptical, echoing a truth I’ve often shared: recurrence is common, part of the journey, to be anticipated. But her response stung. I realized I’ve been framing recurrence as inevitable, something to be expected when I meant something else: if someone doesn’t succeed on their first, second, or hundred-and-thirty-ninth try, don’t lose hope or cast them out. Don’t shame them. Recognize that people fall back for reasons far beyond one’s control. The message is not fatalism—it’s compassion.
Yet, here I am, ashamed and tempted to sugarcoat the truth. I’m grappling with an existential fracture: between the advocate I am in public, and the judge I become in private. Am I a hypocrite? Perhaps. Or maybe this is just what it looks like when intellect and pain speak different languages. I’m left wondering:
Do I crusade for compassion in the hope that others will extend it to me, and I might avoid the consequences of my choices?
Am I trying to secure metaphorical get-out-of-jail-free cards?
Do I carry implicit bias against people who use drugs—even as one of them?
Have I been lying to myself this entire time?
Am I so passionate about this work to convince myself that redemption is possible?
Or do I simply enjoy tearing myself down?
Has trauma rendered me incapable of accepting imperfection?
Of being merely human?
I always remind myself: “You’re only as good as your last fuck-up”
And boy, I fucked up.
Square One, Again (Fuuuuuuck)
I have one win that cannot be dismissed: I finally have all the peptides necessary for the protocol! The peptides showed up, and I thought I was ready to roll. Nope. Revisited the protocol and, darn-it-shit; I can’t just jump in; I must restart the taper. I’d gotten down to 0.134g per shot, once a day, almost done! Now? I’m using more, and more often than when I started. Back to the big top we go, where my monkeys run the show, and I walk the tightrope.
These past two weeks’ dissociation has dragged me under. I’m a Schmeagle and my Precious? Dopamine, baby! Expertly and unethically mined through online shopping, Reddit spirals, Pinterest quotes and poetry bytes over-and-above the increase in meth use.
And then—{insert dramatic pause for effect}—there’s Atlantic.
My drug of choice: the Cali-German with 2 am ocean eyes and jacked biceps that I am simply dying to melt into.. What do you do when someone sets your neurochemistry ablaze—dopamine, serotonin, norepinephrine, oxytocin, endorphins, cortisol, phenylethylamine—and they’re nine time zones behind yours? You stay awake. For days. You FaceTime for 18 hours straight. How? With the help of your good friend Tina, of course!
A week ago, we were on a call, laughing about nothing, and his eyes locked on me, radiating tenderness, he calmed on the exhale, his face softening, the corners of his mouth a micro smile, his face lit up. For a moment, I forgot I was high, forgot I was falling apart, everything slowed down to absolute presence—that moment was all that was and ever would be. Then, the call dropped! The crash hit me like a sledgehammer.
{I know. I know! I see them.}
And I know I should be focusing solely on myself, besides, long-distance rarely works. But why box it into that tired label? Why conform to a system that’s failed so many over the years? I imagine something different, something better—being each other’s person. To be the one we share everything with—if he meets someone closer, I want to be the first he tells, to get excited with him, tease him about the mistakes he made on the first date, or how she made him stutter. I want to show him why I have such unwavering faith in humanity and that he could, too.
I’m hooked.
On him, on being seen,
and it will wreck me.
He’s a mirror of every high I’ve chased, whenever I thought something outside me could fix the hole inside. I am acutely aware of the co-dependency unfolding here. A twist first revealed during my recent impromptu acid trip—while dissolving with fractals and cosmic nonsense into the aether, a rush of rediscovering myself as god, a question cut through, over and over again: Why can’t this be enough? Why do I need someone else to feel safe? To feel complete? How can another appreciate my value if his appreciation is required to breathe it into existence? Why must it be him?
The red flags waved; I dismissed them. I know I’m setting myself up for pain, but the highs are so radiant, they feel worth the fall.
And there’s always hope.
Right?
I’m so tired of being treated like a fucking slave, a servant always fighting for permission to take up space, of being disregarded and devalued. I’m exhausted from never being enough, always the substitute or placeholder for someone better, someone worthy—then, once I’m gone, the proposals come flooding in. Not because they realised how incredible I am or that they love me, but because they miss how handy I am. I’m the one who finds answers, solutions, the one who designs and sets up systems to make their lives easier, simpler, less effort. I’m the one who gets my hands dirty in every way, carries the emotional load in the relationship and on their behalf in the world, the one who devotes her time, physical, mental and emotional energy to them, their aspirations and dreams. I ensure their success, anticipate their wants, needs, and reactions; I dance on eggshells while they sleep all day and party all night—with girls who are enough, or at least, girls who are more than I am.
But when Atlantic and I are on a call—he sees me, and that makes him the most dangerous person I know. I will bleed for anything that holds me the right way. Yet it breaks me, it fucks me up, that I feel lucky and grateful for those calls, because ultimately, I am the Lorem Ipsum of worth, and love.
Meth, sleepdep, and this neurochemical storm have brewed a thrilling, dangerous ride. For years, meth didn’t even get me high; it just kept me functional, dragging me out of bed to fake normal. But now? It’s a rush again, reminding me why I started this drug all those years ago. It makes it increasingly difficult to walk away. I’m having so much fun; perhaps too much. I’m out of my body, either lost in dream, fantasy and countless beautiful ‘what ifs”, or, I’m destraught, frantically considering all the possible reasons, while formulating sensible excuses on his behalf, for not calling me in 12 hours (I know, I know! Anxious attachment and codependence).
All that to say, I’m in my head, pendulating between blissful and doleful dissociation.
And I want more.
I’m keeping my eye on the prize, though, I know what’s at stake and what I need to do.
So, I begin again.
Square one.
Tomorrow.
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. As a South African, I cannot set up Substack subscriptions, and I want to keep it free for those who cannot afford the info.
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