Once upon a time I was a drug addict. My drug of choice was crystal meth. I used it daily, sometimes hourly. I sometimes rationed out my supply so it would last a little longer. And I often consumed it in large quantities – after building up a tolerance and daring myself to push my luck to the absolute edge for a new experience. I occasionally consumed more than the human body should allow, and I have no doubt I am alive today only by the grace of God.
I was known to call in sick at my job to allow extended party time. Or to recover from an extended party time. Once or twice I even quit a job – by opting to not show up for my scheduled shift – in order to party longer. Rent and utility bills went unpaid when the supply ran low and needed replenishing. Moving from a trendy apartment in a trendy neighborhood to a dive roadside motel with weekly rent was acceptable to me at the time – the lowered rent allowed for more replenishing.
I sacrificed my family’s love and ignored their concerns when it interfered with my freedom to indulge. I damaged friendships to avoid sharing my stash. And I squandered the hope for an admirable future for an exciting few moments of ecstasy that dissipated with each sunrise. And with each sunrise, reality stepped up to slap me – I was going nowhere I wanted to go and doing nothing I wanted to do, except indulge in short-lived pleasure.
The week that should have seen me kicked out of the dive motel, I asked for help and my parents rescued me.
It has been 31 years since I last used meth. But I am not cured; I am still an addict.
Last week I used my new drug of choice – several days in a row. Even hourly. I used more than my body should have been able to handle, once to the point of feeling ill and considering bowing out of my shift at work. Over the years, I have chosen my desire to indulge over the happiness of my family, and definitely over my health. I’ve spent money I shouldn’t have on replenishing my supply, I’ve gone to extremes to hide my stash to avoid sharing it.
And reality stepped in and slapped me in the face every time I looked in the mirror: the ravages of my addiction were piling up on me, pound by pound. I was an obese caricature of a 40-something husband and father.
It would be easy to snicker at the comparison – a meth-head stick-figure sticking needles in his arm versus a marshmallow man funneling M&Ms down his throat. But both were walking a thin line, one of catastrophic health issues or sudden death. Both risked the destruction of loved ones’ futures. And both were more concerned with fulfilling their selfish pleasure over their family’s happiness and solidarity.
Even now, 90 pounds lighter, exponentially more healthy, and spiritually stronger, I struggle – sometimes daily, even hourly – with my yearnings for sugary treats, for stuffing in huge quantities to fill a void that doesn’t exist, except in my psyche. Sometimes I give in to those yearnings. Sometimes I choose to allow a little “dabble” – a fun ice cream cone outing with my family. And that littel taste often unleashes a beast that screams and schemes as bad as a junkie to get more and more and more.
Yes, it’s that bad. Sometimes.
My name is Scott and I'm an addict.
