Inside me lives something I don’t often talk about. The Monster.
It doesn’t live under my bed or in some haunted corner of my past. It lives in me—right beneath the surface. Meth is the key. One hit, and the lock turns. The Monster wakes up.
At first, it feels like a superpower. The Monster is brilliant, thrilling, fast. It makes me feel alive in a way nothing else can. Ideas fire like lightning. I chase danger like a lover. It makes chaos feel like art. The Monster whispers that I was made for more—for risk, intensity, destruction dressed up as freedom.
But here’s the truth:
The Monster doesn’t play. It takes over. It wrecks my routines, burns through my relationships, devours my stability. It turns my curiosity into obsession. It drags me away from everything I love. Every time I unlock that door, the Monster grows stronger—and I lose more of myself.
The hardest part? I still feel it. Even when it’s sleeping. The craving. The pull. The lie that maybe this time I could control it. That maybe one more hit wouldn’t open the door all the way.
But I know better now. The Monster never shares the wheel.
So I don’t fight it with willpower alone. I fight it by not engaging. I fight it by building a life with a solid platform—one rooted in truth, loyalty, routine, and stability. The very things the Monster hates. And still, I leave space for adventure, for creativity, for spontaneity—but on my terms. Not its.
This is my reality:
The Monster is always there.
But I’m the one holding the key.
