About a year ago, I gathered the last of my meth, mixed a shot, and slid the needle into one of the few veins on my arm that was still easy to access. I drew up, and once the familiar splash of red came through, I plunged the liquid into my bloodstream. The all too well known feeling of elation, energy and confidence filled me for the last time.
At the time, I imagined making a post of this nature would be something victorious, something that would fill me with joy to share, but I regret to say that isn't the case.
A year on, things feel only marginally better than they did during the initial withdrawals, and the drug still haunts my nightmares, taunting me with pipes that empty themselves by the time I get them lit, needles that won't pierce my veins, a dragon chase that repeats itself in almost every dream that I can recall.
To be frank, I fucking miss the shit. I want nothing more than to wrap my lips around a pipe once more, to infuse my blood with its icy warmth. Nothing else in my life has so effectively masked the feelings of self-loathing and doubt that permeate my existence, nothing else has ever made me feel so whole, even temporarily.
A year of this unrelenting void has worn me down, every day I wake up to the same grey world, my brief moments of joy separated by vast chasms of emptiness that gnaw at me from the inside like some parasite, the deafening silence of my mind plaguing me like a psychic tinnitus. I've all but given up on hope of a better life, as hell is just that bit more bearable if you don't believe there's an escape.
So here we are. Guess to an extent I'm proud of what I achieved, but it honestly feels like a moot victory at this point.
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