Through the years, I've eaten thousands of pills, cut up hundreds of lines and overdosed more times than I can count on my fingers and toes. I spent many mornings waking up in unfamiliar places: a stranger's bed, a random tiled floor, street curbs covered in blood or vomit. I did things that compromised my safety and dignity without hesitation, as long as it was for the goal of getting high.
I went on long car rides with strange men in unfamiliar cities for just one day's worth of pills. I stole money from my friends, family and even my friend’s families for my next pick-up. I smuggled drugs across the world. I even sold irreplaceable family heirlooms to a random pawn shop.
Nothing was too disgraceful, too unforgivable, so long as it was in the name of drugs. I glamorized my behavior as the price to pay for an excessive lifestyle and never took a second thought at the toll it took on myself or loved ones. Instead of being terrified by the inevitable near-death experiences I'd eventually find my way into, I laughed, entertained. On one occasion, after swallowing eight Xanax bars, 90mg of amphetamines and half an MDMA tablet, I flipped a brand new car and crushed it under a telephone pole. On another, I overdosed on ecstasy in Miami and after having a seizure and regaining consciousness, the first thing I did was swallow three more red presses.
My friends would beg me to slow down, but in my sick, delirious state, the prospect of death seemed romantic – like the end of a 90s teen cult film. If I was to die at the hands of these substances, I'd be so high that my departure might be one of pure bliss.