My Addict - My Ex:  How Meth Destroyed My Relationship and is Inflicting Trauma on Middle Class America

Introduction

In the dirty, grey hall of a 1920s building in Hollywood, I saw my dreams, sitting high in the glittering hills, crash --- landing in the muck of a nasty break up. His Hollywood redo and my plan for some kinda success became a lower middle class fight over drugs, gambling and staying out all night. In that splotchy, dimly lit top floor, hope soured into a blistering argument over his multiple addictions and me throwing him out.

He dragged his belongings to the elevator as we fought. As he descended, my sweet dreams for romance and career vanished. I’ve been a news reporter, an advertising writer and I’ve saved sea turtles in Greece. I’m wise, smart and sophisticated.  I thought knew it all.

Then I moved to LA. Now, six months later, I’m back home in Texas, recovering from a traumatic experience with the deadly crystal meth.

Crystal meth is a fiendish illegal drug on an unchecked rampage in America. The federal government is rapidly enacting strict laws against it, as middle class families struggle in its grip. Meth is invading small towns and major cities, cutting its way into all levels of society.

Before moving to LA I had never heard of meth. Ice? Tweaking? What’s that?

But the man I loved knew about it. My boyfriend was an addict of meth.

Through his chronic and heavy use, the man I loved dragged me into a disturbed and chaotic world, a place I never wanted to be that wreaked havoc on my life.

For years F. had worked in the “industry”. He had come home to our hometown in Texas on a mysterious hiatus. Through a mutual friend we started to date. After being regaled by his tales of working in network TV,

I started to think of own opportunities there. I’d always wanted to live in LA. After a year together, he asked me to return there with him.

I finally agreed and within a week I had transferred jobs and found an apartment. 

He picked me up from the airport, as sweet as ever.

During dinner, I thought  “Everything’s going to be all right.”

We went to his hotel room where I would stay until my place became free.

When he came to bed that night sniffing, an alarm bell rang in my head. The word that came to me was “cocaine”. Though he’d admitted he had indulged when he was young,

I assumed those days were past. And it was mid-May, hardly cold season. I loved being with him again so I ignored the warning sign.

At 11:30pm the next night, he abruptly left. He was off to play a gig.

Finally, at three a.m. he came to bed. Suddenly in a half sleep he grabbed me, held me and moaned: “P. I am so sorry, I am so sorry.”

Why?

It wasn’t just about being out late; that wail was a symptom of some deeper guilt.

The next night he left again but this time he didn’t come home at all. 

At 4 am, my alarm bells were sounding. I tried to stay calm but I was devastated.

How could he just leave me like that?

Where were you all night? I asked, worry in my voice.

I was at Kinko’s online looking for an apartment! Was that possible?

It was the first in a thicket of lies to come. Meth addicts lie often and a lot, covering up a crazy lifestyle meth foists on them.

Some mornings he was locked in the bathroom, screaming in pain.

He had horrific stomach cramps and it sounded like someone was grabbing his intestines and twisting them. I was petrified. Was it the fruit and nut cake I brought from home? It lasted almost ten minutes yet he told me only to leave him alone.

Typically he would spend hours in the bathroom with the door closed.

It would be quiet in there and I wondered: what the hell is he doing?

After a week of nocturnal disappearances, aloof, secretive behavior and a growing distance between us, I had to know what was wrong.

So I snooped. 

Looking around, digging inside of his razor kit, I found what explained all. There, next to his dual-headed electric razor and shaving cream was a clipped, orange plastic straw, five inches long, and a small, empty bag with white crystal remains. After more than a year of dating, I never saw him have more than one drink and he did not smoke.

Over the phone, a friend said most likely it was crystal meth.

“What’s that?”

“It’s like cocaine but cheaper. It’s speed, methamphetamine and it’s highly addictive. Try it once and you’re hooked. It’s why I left Vegas. ”

My boyfriend came home that afternoon and calmly I said:

“F., I found the drugs.”

He was calm but looked upset and disappointed that he had been found out.

“Well the cat’s out of the bag.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“For years.”

“Well I know nothing I say or do will stop you.”

“You’re right. If I want to stop it’s up to me.”

But quitting didn’t seem to be on his agenda.

After a week in Burbank, he wanted to move in to my new apartment, a place I found before I arrived. I was scared of having a drug addict there. What if the owners found out? 

As the days passed he punished me for my decision.

We fought, he ignored me and the cooling atmosphere between us froze.

I was scared of losing him. I was also frightened of the isolated man he had become. 

But when you are close to someone in a far away place, when you love them and need them, you go to great lengths to avoid their loss. Holding on, no matter how dire the consequences, isn’t half as painful as letting go.

I broke down. Can my boyfriend move with me? The leasor agreed.

He loved me again and I was happy.

Los Angeles Miracle Mile

Soon I found myself living with a man who bled from large, open sores he had scratched into his skin. I noticed a large scab some 1/2” long on his chest. One day he was bleeding from wounds on his scalp. “F., F.  you’re bleeding!” and he’d rush off to clean himself up. Among its horrendous side effects, meth induces a hallucinatory feeling that creepy crawly bugs are walking on your skin. Users scratch insanely, fingernails digging holes into their hides, trying to rid themselves of these imaginary insects.

F. loved cola. When we went out he always had a cola in his hand.

Now our fridge was so packed with soda there was no room for food.

Once he bought two six packs of soda and two days later they were gone.

He had “meth mouth” is a cotton-mouth dryness causing users to down colas by the case. The drug restricts the flow of saliva so they need constant lubrication.  No saliva means mouth acid has a chance to break down tooth enamel.  The combination is so severe many addicts end up with yellow or brown smiles, broken teeth or no teeth at all. Their craving for huge amounts of sugary drinks causes further rotting.

He never ate fruits, vegetables, cereals or anything remotely nutritious.

Besides restaurant food and Jack in the Box, he ate sourdough bread, dried currents and a Lean Cuisine everyday.

The toxic list of ingredients in meth is the last thing a sane person would put in their body: lighter fluid, cold medications, ephedrine, pseudoephedrine (key ingredients in cold medicine) Coleman fuel, paint thinner, acetone, and battery acid.

These are blended and brought to a steady boil or “cooked”.

I would look on the vanity and find smatterings of soot where he must have smoked it. It’s hard for me to imagine how after I would leave for work, F. would take a spoon or a piece of rounded tin foil, load it with “Tina”, flick on a Bic and begin to inhale those deadly fumes. How crude to inflict this on yourself. Maybe a car engine can handle such a hard-core mix but imagine what it does to delicate human tissue. 

I had admired him for clambering to the top of the Hollywood heap. He was loaded with charm and jokes and he was as sweet as a peach.

His stories of working on famous TV series were loud and colorful, full of big names and stars. His TV credits still roll today.

Now all he did was watch it.

Instead of retiring with riches, the IRS took his money and his house. He had also crashed his car.

Now he gambled all night, hitting the casinos, fueled by meth. I imagined the closed- door phone calls he had in our bedroom to be with his loan sharks and dealers.

Now he was another Hollywood has-been, a shattered soul tossed to the curb of Sunset Strip, most likely wondering where it all went.

The human juice that makes us pink, fresh and supple was gone in him.

Often he looked bloodless and vacant. Once dark, hairy and virile, now he was thin and pale; his cheeks were gaunt and eyes sunken. He used to ride horses and hike Griffith Park.

Now he was bald and his teeth suffered.

One of the most disturbing aspects of meth is its affect on sex. The libido is fueled to unnatural heights, which in many cases leads to cheating and broken hearts. It encourages depravity and promotes “marathon” sex sessions. Watching porn becomes a 24/7 activity.

But there’s a downside. Sex may be wild at first but meth use causes impotence or “crystal dick”. Gay meth users prefer to “bareback” have sex without condoms and once again AIDS is on the rise. Linked to this is the fact that meth removes sexual inhibitions so that straights go gay and meth using women prostitute themselves for dope. Nothing is sacred, nothing.

He was online so much that I was finally curious about what he looked at all night.

I checked the Internet history. There must have been 258 listings for sex sites, everything from big-titted blond escorts to swinging couples to men into S&M. He swore to me that he said didn’t pursue those people.

I now found myself playing cop. When I sifted through his things, I discovered old looking condom packages. I assumed we were exclusive so we didn’t use protection.

He said they were leftovers from a long time ago. They were in a Pan Am bag so I believed him.

He picked me up from LAX once. Hugging him, I knew something was wrong. His back was soaked in sweat; he was cold and clammy. I couldn’t understand it as it wasn’t that hot and being slender he didn’t sweat much.

Later I learned heavy, cold sweats are a symptom of being high on meth.

He shook, and was agitated and mean. His eyes were cold dark stones. I was worried about his turn onto the busy 405 and begged him to slow down. 

Before we met, he had been arrested for DUI but successfully contested the charge.

But the LAPD was right. He should have been thrown in jail. 

Typical of meth addicts he would say he was going out but that he would be back by midnight. Early in the morning he would creep in the door.

I wanted to be cool so I didn’t ask what he did out all night.

But I went online and found answers:

“Usually at someone's house, getting high, mumbling and whispering, fixing your bike for hours and hours, laughing at you when you call to check on your loved one, bickering, staring into space, sex, abandoned cigarettes, one after the other, picking you skin off, seeing the light creep behind the shades, talking bull ... basically, being all alone in a room full of people who are also all alone. “ Ex-meth addict --- KCI Anti-Meth Site

“Some are out all night selling, trying to find some to buy, cooking, trying to find a place to cook, tweaking with friends,  ‘ working’ on things, getting everything done, getting nothing done, talking about very meaningful aspects of life, talking about nothing serious, losing track of time, seriously working at their job (until meth gets the best of the user), having sex, thinking about when they could have sex (but meth has now ruined that).

One thing about meth, the serious user of meth will stop at little to make sure they have their next fix ... even if they have to drive to another state to get it. Gambling, porn and other substance addictions can be part of being out all night. “  KCI Anti-Meth Site

One woman reported that her boyfriend had literally taken her car apart.

Staying home with me, which he rarely did, was even more boring than these empty activities. 

My self-esteem plummeted everyday.

Once inhaled the meth high lasts 6-12 hours. Meth delivers a surge of dopamine release 12 times what non-users get when doing something fun and pleasurable.

Binges are roller coasters of exhilarating highs followed by the crashing depths of a severe depression. Some addicts report going a week or two without sleep. But once the speeding highs evaporate, an overwhelming fatigue set in and they sleep for days. It’s a vicious cycle. Sadly, as soon as they’ve rested the first thing they want is another hit. This life of not eating or sleeping takes a terrible toll on the body. Before and after pictures of users are now famous and it’s not surprising that their skin is pocked and sallow, their hair looks like straw and the body has shrunk. A daily intake of battery acid is no beauty tonic.

He was no different. He clenched his jaws, grinding his teeth, his speech was rapid, his paranoia acute. He would talk a blue streak about music, sex, history or astronomy.

Not knowing he was doping, I asked myself why I dated such a bore. Many times our conversations were flat and uninteresting. I looked for substance in him but his heart and soul were vacant.

Meth heads race on about trivia, thinking they are fascinating and apt.

But they’re only interesting to themselves. They are shallow; their conversation rarely touching upon intimacy or feelings.  They never inquire about the other guy’s welfare; they don’t care. A motel room key sat for weeks on the table; he didn’t even have the discipline to throw it in a mailbox. He slept in the day and stayed awake all night.

The relationship sucked.

The same place that gives fame and fortune wreaks havoc on those souls.

In LA, it’s as easy to buy meth as it is milk. It’s a hotbed of temptation and a smorgasbord of sin.  But meth has now taken a strong hold in small and middle sized US cities, spreading from the West coast, east. The National Drug Intelligence Center reports that 40% of drug enforcement agencies consider meth to be their number one problem. Some communities in the upper Mid West say 75-100% of their incarcerations are meth related.

As it’s made from readily available chemicals, anyone with an Internet recipe can cook and use. Last year, the government ruled that cold medicines, which carry a key ingredient needed to make meth, be placed behind the counter. Some drug stores even make one register to prevent a cooker from buying for his lab.

Meth users can do and see the same thing for hours at a time. He would have seen TV shows and movies five or ten times and still be entertained.

He got mad if I shut off the lights to save energy; he kept them burning day and night.

He was scared of something. Meth users are paranoid and envision that all sorts of people are after them. Some have hallucinations and see what’s called “shadow people.”

He never came to bed with me. “Shut things down and come to bed please.” “OK” he would say but at 4 am, I was alone. The constant rejection is hard to take. Meth removes emotions so the innocent bystanders, friends, family and lovers, are left with a corroding shell of a human being who cares not a whit about them.

I kept telling myself that dating a drug addict is a deal breaker.

But as anyone in love knows: it’s hard to leave even when it’s killing you.

I tried competing with meth by making him jealous. I stayed out late and dated. I did anything to get his attention.

But meth is a lover who stomps the competition. Her control over a user can last a lifetime. Former addicts attest they would have rather died at 65 than quit. I read about a 66-year-old who OD’ed. Meth forces our natural dopamine to tidal wave levels. The high is called a “body orgasm”. But dopamine isn’t meant to be distributed in such large quantities. And after the body gets used to meth, it needs increased amounts to release enough dopamine to still feel good. Soon the dopamine receptors are shot; then users only feel good when they’re high.

He was obsessed with Superman; saw all the movies and bought the comic books. He once texted me: “Yes it’s Superman.” Meth grants a Superman feeling; they see themselves as invincible, powerful and attractive.  A user’s ability to concentrate is concentrated to the degree that a repetitive, mundane task like cleaning the kitchen provides thrills for hours.  Many don’t know that the day or night is gone; addicts think that only a few hours have passed.

Giving up meth is a torturous process. The active addiction can be stopped but the desire to use can hit addicts like a thunderbolt from the clear blue sky. Present a small mental association like a song or place and the happy days of being high will come flooding back. Suddenly the user who’s trying to quit rings their dealer and the chase is on, all over again.

Withdrawal from the drug is purely psychological. Skin itches, depression sets in and life becomes hell on earth. Nothing feels good, nothing. It can take 14 months for the receptors that transmit dopamine to repair themselves. Since our natural feel good chemical can’t course through their veins, a super depression sets in. Quitters lose the one thing that made them happy: meth. The good vibes can’t come naturally anymore.

The drug causes cognitive damage, something they never recover from.  Infrared pictures show a meth brain looking like a round of Swiss cheese: there are literally holes from drug usage where brain matter has been wiped out.

Short and long term memory are shot. Meth users are also lacking in maturity. As we age, we are learning about life and gaining the wisdom needed to be better human beings. But meth users aren’t becoming wiser and learning. Their years under meth are spent chasing speed and getting high. Their use isn’t leisure use, for weekend recreation.

Meth becomes a lifestyle and users need it to function, like needing coffee in the morning.

But quit they do, at least once, at least for a time. One addict I knew cried on the phone:

“ I am so sick of it! I feel so bad all of the time and I just can’t stand this shit anymore!” She was checking into rehab the next day. But relapse rates are depressing, up to 95%. But whether it’s a diet or alcohol, recovery also depends on the will of the person.

My friend wouldn’t even respond to the many attempts I made to steer him to rehab.

One place would have taken him for free. Most times he wouldn’t even admit to the problem.

All addictions are a battle with ourselves. Some people have a harder time saying no to the child inside.

Despite speed bequeathing loads of energy, nothing gets accomplished and everything—jobs, families and reputations—gets destroyed. It removes the original person and replaces them with a manic monster; a freak with little else on their mind but scoring the next hit. Meth rules her subjects so they will lie and lie and lie—anything to maintain a facade and a place to live while using; anything to keep their meth life intact.

The Break-Up

It had been only five weeks of living together but I was depleted.  Emotionally I had caved yet I dreamed of a turn around.

On a Friday afternoon the eve of my birthday, I had hoped we might do something nice.

I bought small cakes and champagne and walked the short distance home. I immediately opened the bottle and downed it.

Never did I drink as much as now.

The 15 minutes he said he needed to run an errand had become an hour.

I knew he had been out scoring. Plastered, I dove headlong into a blistering fight using sarcasm, insults, revealing months of inward pain, anger. It broke the relationship. Though he took me to dinner, it was over. We came home and more devastating feelings engulfed me.  Nothing I said fixed it. He hated me. But I couldn’t control the deep sadness and utter resignation I felt over him and us. It was a laughable yet traumatic episode and with meth at the helm there could be no happy ending.

He drove me to the airport the next morning; I went home to Texas for the weekend.

We were silent. When he dropped me off, I begged him to fix things. In reply I got sarcasm and blame.

When I came home to the apartment on returning, things looked strange. He had been cleaning up, but from what? It looked as if there had been a small party and he had tidied up afterwards. The cocktail glasses had been washed and pillows plumped. More condoms then surfaced and the taxi- cab number was out. He had been fucking people inside of my apartment.

To make matters worse he was high and desperate for meth.

He was frenetic and pacing. He had fronted the rent check and I owed him a balance.

I wanted to pay my half but out of revenge I refused to give it to him.

“No I am not going to give it to you! You’ll just use it for drugs!”

“I am not using it for drugs. I owe a guy 40 bucks and I need to pay him.”

“No one needs 40 bucks that bad. They must be really poor.”

It went around and around.  I told him to move out and he said he would; he had been looking for apartments in Glendale. That stung.

But I didn’t give up and he left taking a guitar to hock.

It could have been dangerous for me to fight with him. High, users can swing into violence quickly. They’re amplified and exaggerated. Thoughts of him using the kitchen knives against me had crossed my mind.

Though we “broke up” he still lived with me. I still could not face losing him and started calling myself “codependent”.

I was sinking too.

Soon he never came home until after I had left for work. He avoided me. One weekend morning I was hung over and taking a chance and missing him sorely, I crawled into bed with him. He hugged me and held me tight. Suddenly he had to run an errand bringing me a magazine and a cola.  We stayed together in bed read the paper and were intimate. He seemed happier when he was in my arms. He crashed into a deep sleep.

But I knew that soon he would be fumbling for another excuse to leave me for the day.

It was an unhappy life for me: him leaving anonymously and coming home at dawn.

He never talked about his whereabouts. His doings were kept in the dark, safe from light and truth. Despite living together, I knew only what he told me. I wasted time basing decisions on his lies. I had hoped for a future, I had hoped for love. A friend finally commented “He’s just using her for a place to live.”

This could not last between two people inside of a one-bedroom apartment. 

I left instead and spent the day and evening in Santa Monica.

I came home and a note read “I am glad we are friends again. F. ”

But I couldn’t have meant much to him if he chose to leave me again that same night.

After that I was cold and stayed in the bedroom. I quit talking to him and he stayed out of the house. Then one night I could take it no longer. I called him at 10: 30pm wherever the hell he might be and begged him to talk to me. Three times I called, three times we argued and he hung up on me. Never had he been as disrespectful as now.

I lost it.

At 11pm I went around the apartment and got all the trash bags I could find. Assiduously I went through his things and threw them into a plastic bag. I got every little thing of his out: shirts, shoes, condoms, laundry, socks, instruments, amplifiers, a dvd player, tv, comic books, everything. I packed it all up and out it went. The bags, suitcases and instruments, all went into the hallway. It was risky to toss out his valuables and his musical equipment but I was so angry. And if I didn’t throw him out, he wouldn’t leave.

I wanted to hurt him. He had hurt me so greatly.

As usual he returned about 8 am. He could not believe his things sat outside the door. He stormed up and down the short hall.

We argued. He accused me of evilness and gross insensitivity.

He was the one being trampled on!

We said a few more ugly things to each other and I left for work shaken, tired and deeply depressed. He was gone.

Epilogue

Since then I have read everything I could find about crystal meth. The stories of its destruction, the horror the people who love addicts endure and the crushing pain they are put through, about the death wish of addicts as a final means of escape, the over doses, crimes conducted to support a habit, and premature aging.

Like death, there is simply no upside to meth besides the short profound high it grants then just as quickly takes away. She is some lover knowing when to leave them wanting more. And they always come back.

Addictions of all kinds are tough to beat. They all operate in the same way. Life crushes us and we look for a medication to feel better. We pick one we like and then spend years trying to throw off the yoke. I love Kettle chips and red wine. When I feel down, there’s nothing like an evening with them and a good TV show. I know, and we all do, how to find ways to soothe ourselves. But meth and drugs take it too far. Recovering from salt and vinegar potato chips isn’t the chore of quitting meth.

I hoped that he would binge so much with his freedom from me that he would overdo it and hit bottom. But a recovering addict informed me that they can control the doses well enough to continue using, avoiding outright death. Maybe. 

All I know is that living with and loving someone on crystal meth left me shattered and sad, and very aware of the scourge working out there to mangle a life.

Meth steals everything but you’ll never admit your life is gone.

Never start because after one hit you cannot stop. 

Never start on that path of unending misery; a misery you can’t control and won’t acknowledge.

Don’t let it worry parents, harm friendships, scare firefighters watching houses where its cooked, addict teens, kill loved ones.

Let’s stop her before she stops those too weak to shield themselves.

Don’t let meth take another bright and beautiful victim. 

He was sweet to me once. I remember when he would come over and together we would view the starry Texas sky.

He taught me the constellations; he knew them all.

He pointed to the stars and admired them and smiled. 

He was eager and kind.

I miss that man terribly. 
--aka Lynne from KCI Message Board