She told me this story and asked that I pass it on because maybe it will save someone's life.
"It was Labor Day. I had lost my mother, and then my brother hung himself, a series of events that had me confused and numb. I had no feelings anywhere; it was like I was in someone else's body going through motions like a robot. A friend invited me over to his house early in the afternoon. When I got there a lot of people were sitting around the table just 'bulbing it up.' "Try it," they said, "it will make you feel better." I watched them for a while. I saw a woman take a light bulb, carefully twist the end off and painstakingly clean out the inside of the bulb, then tape the end of the bulb, leaving room for a hard plastic straw. The straw has to be hard. I watched from a place of total indifference and unconcern. Something in me said I should get away from here, I should not do this, but I didn't care what happened to me now. I watched as she poured a little packet of meth in the bulb and shook it down, then put the straw in and got out her lighter. Everyone who uses meth has a lot of lighters. The lighter was held to the bottom of the bulb for a long time. When the bulb turned yellow and filled up with smoke, my boyfriend handed it to me and told me to inhale long and slow through the straw.
At first I felt nothing, then my head started to tingle, with a whoosh and a rush of lightning. I was suddenly on top of the world. I never felt so good before. I cannot describe the ecstasy, the elation, and the euphoria; suddenly I was somebody. I was invincible, witty, and clever, out there, full of energy. We did about $400 worth of meth and stayed up all night. We drank beer but it had no effect on me for a long time. The alcohol lies in wait until the meth wears off. When the beer hit my brain at 9:00 the next morning, I passed out and the next thing I knew it was 10:00 oâclock at night. When I woke up I smelled it right away. I did it again. People came and went and brought more. We went on and on without sleep for days. People leaving would douse themselves with perfume to cover the smell.
I had never been a pot smoker, but I learned that the only way to come down from the meth high was to smoke pot; otherwise the pain of just stopping was unbearable.
I tried to quit. The depression was worse than being buried alive in dark, stone cold, musty soil. My windows had to be covered with foil to keep all the light out because light was unbearable. I did not want to talk to anybody, see anybody, or even live. I just wanted to lie there all alone in the dark totally worthless, full of rage, nerves raw, body rubbish, unable to eat, quivering, and shaking with cold chills and sweating profusely with meth coming out of every pore in my body. I could tell no one what was happening to me. There was no one I could trust. My daughter fed, bathed, and took care of the younger kids; she begged me to be the mother I used to be and helped me to the bathroom. Time was suspended in cold murky pain that went on and on.
When I could get myself out of the bedroom I went to the Dr. and asked him to give me something for depression. I did not tell him about the meth and he would not give me anything. The only way out of the living hell was to use meth again. When I could not get meth I used whatever was available, cocaine, pot, alcohol, mostly I lived in a blackout. Other people where like ghosts and shadows, it did not matter if they were there or not as long as the drug was.