At the time, my sponsor—someone I met through the addiction recovery groups I was attending—kept telling me what to do. But it wasn’t helping. I didn’t want to listen. I wasn’t interested. Sure, I was admitting I had a problem and I knew my addiction was spiraling out of control, but the part of me I call “the monster” still thought it knew better.
Eventually, that monster didn’t know better. I pushed my brain to its absolute limit until it could no longer cope. It misfired, shutting down, and I ended up in a coma. I was found outside on a main road in the middle of the city—completely vulnerable. I almost lost my life.
There were parts of my Chemsex addiction that I used to enjoy—at least that’s what I told myself. The sex addiction, the inability to be alone, the thrill of meeting strangers, the temporary escape from my mental health struggles, even the illusion that I could still hold down a job. Crystal meth made all of that feel easier. Better.
But the truth? That’s all bullshit.
It doesn’t give you anything real. Just misery, sadness, and destruction.
