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No one has the ability to make my blood boil like Harry, but every time it reduces to lukewarm, I search for him, pleading for him to come home.
Unable to achieve any sense of maleness through recreational activities, I obsessively watched The Godfather, The Sopranos, and other Mafia entertainment to get my fix. These characters are depraved, yet their appeal is irrefutable. Their machismo exists because they’re bad. They’re cool because they are bad. Macho equaled cool. Media reduced most queer characters to victims and powerless wimps. I fantasized about becoming the bad guy, if for no other reason than to marinate in maleness, but I settled for acting, where I could occupy that role on a temporary basis. Now, I can buttfuck a line
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In my first few weeks taking GBL, getting higher than I’d ever been on any drug before it, I would feel so unyoked that I’d drive around the city at dawn, before the hurly-burly of the day, like a scene out of Die Hard, swerving onto the sidewalk, nearly running pedestrians over, screaming WAHOOO! at the top of my lungs and squawking like a predatorial bird. Why? Mostly it was for the mere amusement of instilling unassailable shock in another person. But it was also because this behavior, so aberrant from my baseline and so felonious, felt freeing. I hadn’t felt this free since being ten years
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I’d eventually realize my resentment of his physical requests stemmed from self-indignation for having been conditioned to no longer enjoy sex not heightened by mind-altering chemicals.
His words sound like code. Does he love me, or is he simply reciting a character description?
Doing something bad for us because it feels good isn’t a paradox exclusively designed for addicts; we’re just the experts.
Tweakers don’t rest. We either fall out from G or drop into an unconscious state when our bodies finally capitulate. I remember the formative sex talk Mom gave me and her cornerstone advice: to have sex only with someone you trust. I’ve renounced that wisdom. Here in Tweakerworld, the opposite prevails. Our brains are rewired to exclusively enjoy sex with those we cannot trust. We treat each other like breathing sex dolls. I wonder if this damage to my sexual appetite can be repaired, or am I better suited to stay here forever?
When we see a man pushing a shopping cart, shouting at no one, we dismiss him with one word: insane. But to him there is purpose. He’s operating with reasons truthful to him. His alternative understanding challenges our conceptual safety, so we banish the mentally ill rather than seeking to penetrate the nuances. Psychosis is like a dream. It might seem random, but there’s a delicate landscape of abstract communications stemming from within the deepest chambers of the mind and soul.
Yes, psychosis is much like a dream, only it occurs while we’re awake. Thus, it encourages us to act rather than simply marinating in unconscious messaging.
I understand now that I’m the protagonist of a docuseries about a privileged middle-class outsider who aims to become a crystal meth kingpin and fails pathetically. Every moment of my life this past year has served as entertainment. What a fool I was to think this was some community initiation ritual. That was merely a scene, a diversion, a plot line. It’s one thing to tell my story on my own terms, but this is exploitation. Perhaps I should stay here and accept my role. Everyone loves an underdog. I’ll rise again, a confident, worthy dealer, and I’ll earn the respect of my fellow tweaker
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When she drops me off, we hug with our whole bodies. She holds me closer than anyone ever could, and then, as one must, she lets me go. Neither of us expels any tears. She maintains a poised smile that offers hope, but I know, as does she, that in this world there are no guarantees.
I tap back into my soul and am pleasantly reassured that it hasn’t been hollowed.
When I say I love you to my future partner, it will mean I honor him with ceaseless truth. I continue to struggle enjoying sex and being intimate without the chemicals. I’m working to heal. I continue to acknowledge then shed any internalized homophobia that was the impetus for my addiction. I cherish my gayness more and more every day! I don’t fear HIV nor harbor any stigma. I go to therapy. I show up. I express gratitude. I don’t regret. I plan. I dream. I pursue. I persist.
The reasons relapse occurs are manifold. The reason it lasts is shame. Shame is a defining characteristic within queerness and addiction. The effect of combining them is injurious. The gay community suffers a crisis of shame. Society has long told us that who we are is inherently wrong, that it must be changed or extirpated. We’ve witnessed progress, but this trauma runs deep. Meth functions as a false antidote, seemingly converting shame into pride, permitting men to engage in their sexuality in excess, unlocking a barbaric force that is ultimately detrimental to our well-being. But healing
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Embrace cheese and oversentimentality. Don’t run from being a cliché. There’s a lot of joy there. What is a cliché besides a story worth repeating?
Immerse yourself in the thing you love most. Mine is storytelling. Writing this book has been my savior. It’s given me purpose as I’ve rebuilt. It’s provided the opportunity to release my demons, to speak the truth, to be seen in my entirety. Through revisiting Tweakerworld as prose, I’ve been blessed to leave it forever.
Sometimes the detour is indeed the best route. For as long as we’re breathing, it’s never too late to be happy.
A reader recently asked me if I believed I was both the hero and the villain in this story. True stories should not be reduced to such limiting archetypes. This book contains droves of bad decisions but arguably no bad guys. There’s no evil in addiction. There’s sickness. Society doesn’t discuss these nuances of addiction.
But crystal meth in the gay community is not a passing fad or drug du jour. It is a lifestyle fueled by sweet release from traumas and inhibitions, hijacking men into delusionary senses of intimacy, combining chemical dependence with sex addiction, facilitated by smartphone apps and billion-dollar drug cartels, all in the guise of connectivity.
I’m lucky. I should be dead or in prison. My story could happen to you or to someone you love. I never imagined I’d have a gun pointed at my head or that I’d become a rape victim just because I sought to “have a good time.” But shame, an unfortunate state aligned with most queer identity, will compound and transform until it’s addressed. This is my story about trauma finding shelter in the throes of addiction, about the dehumanization of crystal meth, and about the mind’s determination to save itself. This book is my rallying cry.
