Afroman's one hit wonder did not, thankfully, describe my college career at any point in time, so far. One of my roommates in the dorm was not as mature as I apparently was at the tender age of eighteen. Oh, I did stupid shit. I heard if you snorted Zoloft it was like Ecstasy, so what did my genius ass do?
I sneezed. And sneezed. And SNEEZED and started to think that I had somehow permanently fucked my nasal passages into a constant state of sneeze and the sneezing would just continue until they took me to the hospital and I wasn't even considering pharmacy as a career at the time so I didn't know what they'd give me, allergy medication? And I managed to sneeze out the words "never...snorting...anything...ever...again..."
It was a while before I broke that vow. I explored any drug I could get my hands on, but never used anything regularly, nor did I feel any temptation to do so. Meanwhile, my roommate couldn't handle being served alcohol and flunked out of a college with embarrassingly low standards. Later, I would try coke, conclude that it was the BEST DRUG EVER and therefore feel the need to stay the hell away from it at all costs. Then, one fine day, a guy from my high school class, one of the few people I liked, called me at work. I hadn't heard from him in years and found out it was because he'd been in an abusive relationship with a woman who didn't want him even emailing other women, let alone talking to them. He was leaving her, and he confessed to having a crush on me. I was ecstatic; I hadn't realized how much I'd missed him. He flew in to visit, and while we were having a whirlwind romance, he introduced me to carisoprodol and then his prescribed Desoxyn. Actual meth. Pharmaceutical grade meth. I tried a tiny dose and I had energy to spare for the first time (cocaine aside) in my life since before the depression manifested in my pre-teen years. This guy had a coke connection as well. Also he chainsmoked Djarum blacks. Oh, and his depression symptoms were being controlled with phenelzine, a monoamine oxidase inhibitor that metabolizes to, among other things, phenethylamine. Just for shits and giggles, he went through vodka pretty quickly, too.
But we were in our early twenties, you see, and therefore invincible. So it was the worst shock of my life when a friend of his called me, crying. I remember saying "no" a lot, and then eventually curling up on my bed wishing I would die from a heart attack, too. This November it will have been fifteen years since. I don't like to use the term "get over" with someone's death, but I will say I've gotten through it, probably as much as I ever will. One of my current art projects is a little shadowbox shrine, which will include some small gifts from him and a locket full of his ashes that I used to wear 24/7. Also one of too few photos, and maybe "Live Fast, Die Pretty."
He was a bit obsessed with William Blake. Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night. If I hadn't been goth enough before, having a late fiancé sealed my credibility. Not that anyone's keeping score. If he'd lived long enough for the two of us to really seize the day, I might not have survived, either. In a way, I'm happy to be almost 40. Statistically speaking, I am most likely to die from heart disease.
Which brings me back to...whatever I've been snorting. It certainly contains meth, as my doctor's lab helpfully confirmed. I didn't think it would last long enough to show up in my urine that lovely Monday morning a few weeks ago. But it did. And now I have no hydrocodone script for my next period. I'm going to have to rely on indomethacin, which makes me feel dizzy, spaced out, and vaguely irritable. Maybe I don't have to beat myself up in order to learn a lesson, but it comes naturally to me. I'm hoping this journal will take the place of some of that beating.
When I was in an intensive outpatient program, the art therapist had us create an image of the path we're on. With white pastel, I drew a fork in the road, with one path leading to a giant labyrinth with the end too far away to be visible. The other path is easy to follow, paved with white tablets that eventually blur together into powder, and leads right off the paper. I'm not supposed to take that path. That's the Wrong One. But it seems so much easier than the labyrinth.