Further Lamentations

That’s just the thing, then, with sorrow, and living with it like it’s an old friend. And it is. The sadness can surface at any time, crumpling you momentarily. It doesn’t matter if it was an inconvenient moment for a shot in the heart: the blows come when you least expect them, and sometimes when you do.

It’s not often when your entire relationship with a person is all-encompassed by a knowledge, present from the first moment, that he is going to die.

That’s how it was here. It was not a place I wanted to be in, and nor did he. I can tell you that being witness to the madness of methamphetamine is beyond your most macabre inventions about it. Marko was the first man down in that circle caught in meth’s trap. It came and went like wildfire through him, less than a year from trying it until dying. I was so shell-shocked and naïve about meth that I promised Marko I would ‘be there’ for his friend, who was also ill.

They all fall down. Where the hell do I go from here? When I went to see Bobby, to tell him his best friend had overdosed and died, he had been in prison on minor possession charges for a few months, and was clean, sober, sparkling with hope. He spoke valiantly of opening a ministry in Marko’s name, to reach out to the tweaked out, used up masses. I thought I could save the world and dreamed it with him. Our terrible story could inspire others to get help. We could fix everything, we could put it back together, and God would bless us.

It’s too nightmarish and too personal right now to go into the strange sorrow of meth’s descent, and into the hundreds of hours spent searching for resources, for a rehab or program or bed or shrink who could help him. The cycle was endless, at its’ beginning, filled with hope, then swiftly filled in with defeat, psychotic frustration and disappointment, shame, terror of cameras and charts. Suffice it to say, during that part of the struggle and maybe all of it, Bobby lived in hell. The Crystal Inferno would make Dante’s seem like a sitcom.

I was so filled with joy and hope to hear that Bobby was better, about half a year or so after he left. It was news I got a lot, in between. And every time I hoped.

Two handsome, bright, beautiful, boys, best friends, partners in crime, brothers. Both gone. All I can feel now, despite the heartaches and hell this special and loving friendship brought, is these were all innocent people. From the day Marko introduced Bobby to me years ago, all I ever saw in between relapses was this person looking for help in the yellow pages, willing to try anything at all again to get better. Filling up with hope if he went a couple weeks or months.

I feel like poor Bobby was just dropped into a cruel video game. Here, try thirty years of torture, and see how you won’t ever make it. I always used the word ‘elegant’ to describe Bobby, from the start. It was a little poetic for a roughneck east coaster, but it was absolutely true. A polite, bright, gorgeous young man with a quick wit and the same longing for understanding as every other human being. Even when he was most broken, I could depend on his love. He loved me unconditionally, his brother’s wife, and helped me when I was most emptied of everything. He was there for me when I was emotionally bankrupt, with nothing to offer. He said he would walk a thousand miles for me. He nearly did, to visit me last summer, three beautiful days that we spent listening to Johnny Cash and watching Simpsons and even going to church. How I hoped there that he was freed! He was so filled with light and a potentiality of happiness.

Not that long ago, Bobby had sent me an email. It said simply: “Woman, sometimes I wonder what I would have done without you. much love, B.”

But what am I going to do without you? It isn’t fair.

In case any of you underestimate this methamphetamine shit, or think all addicts are just weak people, you should know that three from that circle died. Bobby took the longest. Three totally different demographics, three totally different, promising lives.

Bobby is survived by many who loved him, several girlfriends who will never get over their scars, childhood friends, family. He loved doing special things for people, giving them a small gift that he knew they would find special, a small trinket of some magic weight. His quick smile or intense stare let you know he was with you in the moment. You knew he wouldn’t let anyone hurt you. He stood up for you.

Where do I go from here? I don’t know. I’m less and less sure of the ways in which I used to make sense of the world. I feel like everything is a cruel joke, and that’s a far cry from the stance I had not long ago that refused defeat: my last art show, which Bobby paid a surprise visit from the east coast to see my book launch- proclaimed in huge paint “if this heart is gonna break it’s gonna take a lot to break it.’

Thing is, it was then, already broken. And I think me thinking I had a hold of it, that I could stay together after witnessing Marko’s descent and then the loss, after witnessing the descent of Bobby and the pending loss, that the work I’d done to conquer my own demons and habits and failures, that the mistakes and tragedies I’d witnessed or been a part of had made me stronger: I think it was delusional to think I could keep it together. I feel Bobby’s life was a cruel joke on an innocent man and it touched me irrevocably, but was that all he was here for, to touch a handful of people? What about the things HE wanted? It makes me angry at God, not a place I can afford to be right now, honestly.

How the fuck am I supposed to keep on accepting the things I cannot change? All I’ve got left of that part of my life is a bunch of ‘therapeutic’ paintings, a few love letters, a few photographs. I don’t even have my husband’s ashes. Nothing.

So what happens now? Those of you who know, know. There’s the odd lucky one like one friend I won’t name. After losing everything- her business, her truck, her health, her esteem, her looks- she did spend two years of torture cleaning up and is healthy now, doing baby steps to put her life together. Sadly, three of her best friends are dead. Her ‘triumph’ feels like garbage. Is there life after meth? Some- not much.

Feel free to contact the writer to share your story, inspiration, or outrage. If you’ve found any helpful resources or inspiration through methamphetamine, I’d love to share them with others.

Live to Tell

I was thinking today that I couldn’t possibly survive any more grief. It seems I’m burying my loved ones at a good swift clip averaging every six months, and each occasion freshly macabre in a whole new way. I am so very very sad that my beautiful, crazy, elegant Bobby Martin died recently. I’ve written so much about addiction, and I don’t want to write about it again. You would not believe how much this person went through to get better. Bobby was an enigmatic and big-hearted fellow, intense, rough around the edges yet compellingly soft. I don’t want to say goodbye. God, please, no, I really cannot say goodbye. I can tell you by now that there is nothing I hate more in this world than crystal methamphetamine.

I found this old collage in a scrapbook. Immediately I burst into tears: I remember fooling around on that one with some pieces Bobby Martin had collected for me. He always brought me assorted images for my collage files. Bobby was making collages that day, too. In the crooked little white house where I lived with various crazy people, we often just hung out making small artworks. Being creative together.

I don’t know when this hole in my heart will heal, or if I should just accept that I’m permanently an open-hearted mess. Wide, wide open.

Here at home, I pulled out a painting I made for Bobby just after Marko, his close friend, died of the same illness. Heal Yourself, it implored. I depicted a figure from the tarot, blindfolded and surrounded by knives, trapped. There were owls, for Bobby’s totem spirit, and a phrase cut out that said, “The unexpected beauty of worn and imperfect things.”

Now I sit here in the dark, contemplating the vast unknown, and I feel like I’m the one missing the party. Will Dimitri and Japey and Crazy Paul be fixing fruity martinis with little kiwi garnishes, having introduced themselves to each other without my help? Will Marko and Bobby finally get to meet Johnny Cash and Tupac? What about Zoe? Is she chilling in that soul pool she talked about? Is everyone really here with me, or are you all there without me?

Well, my time is gonna come. No doubt about it. But I live to tell, and you can all expect another batch of grim poetry. Life is precious. Do something on your list this week, and tell your friends you love them.

Visit Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
Buy her poetry collection, The Astronaut’s Wife, through her site, or through indigo or amazon.

There’s Something in the Meth

Ever hear a paranoid meth freak tell you that there’s something in the methamphetamine? I heard this time and time again. Dude, yes, there is. There’s meth in your meth.

Of course, there must be someone manipulating the stock for mind control purposes, for alien abductions, for attic laboratories. One roommate felt ‘violated’ by the recording devices hidden in stuffed animals. One user was sure that there was ‘something poisonous” in the meth he was using.

If you’ve watched a friend, roommate, parent, or child go mad from methamphetamine, you know there’s no hysteria in the meth hysteria today. It’s not reefer madness, it’s real. And help is hard to find once those neurons that let you hope and think and feel are destroyed. There’s a generation of human shells walking around. Dead men walking.

Sure, you can blame it all on people stupid enough to try the stuff, but cut some slack for those who made an impulsive choice. Have you tried alcohol? Good thing it’s not quite as lethal, at least not as quickly. I tried it twice, way back before Marko died, always up to try another good time. I didn’t have one, so I didn’t revisit it. I’m lucky.

Today another 25-year old girl was found dead, one of the few survivors from the old circle of friends ‘upstairs on Parliament Street.’ Five years of intensive psychiatric care, and a shrink stupid enough to prescribe Adderall for her addiction problem! Adderall, like Ritalin but worse, hardwires the mind to need speed. It’s nearly the same thing as methamphetamine, just not quite as strong or fast acting. The poor girl, once a vivacious, beautiful dreamer spent five years as a mere skeleton, checking the walls for bugs (both kinds), refusing to eat, scratching holes in her face. She died alone after one last hurrah. I’m speechless, but sadly, I’ve been in this place before. Marry, then bury. What can stop this? I’m not sure.

In all the recent press about poor little crazy girl Britney Spears, my heart has gone out for a pop icon I didn’t really care for before. With the immense pressures of fame, her impulsivity which I among many share, her disastrous marriage, and her serious postpartum depression, there’s only the money to assuage the emptiness. I always joked that I would like to ‘try’ and see if money could help my instabilities. All I am saying, is give cash a chance. Well, my dear Ms. Spears has illustrated its helplessness in restoring self-esteem or happiness. Her latest irrational incident holding her son hostage allegedly was a nightmare scenario of her losing her mind, muttering that K-Fed had planted the bugs in her home. DOES THIS SOUND FAMILIAR? Not one person, including her medical spokespeople, has ever pointed out the paranoia and madness that comes from the Adderall. COULD HAVE BEEN THE METH IN THE METH. While her alcohol and Ecstasy use have been greatly examined, has anyone thought that the treatment might be the cause?

I researched so many treatments, police and psychiatric programs, medical and naturopathic care, and drew a big blank. Even the seasoned psychiatric staff at Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, and the judges in drug court, had no bleeding idea how to talk to, care for, or protect the meth addict. The drug-induced rage you hear about in zombie flicks is science fiction for the most part, but not when it comes to the meth in your meth. It’s terrifying for the few who are able to put the drug down and go on, they may or may not be better off. Many effects of the instantaneous brain damage are permanent. Which means you may always be convinced your wife is part of a CIA plot. Or you may always be unable to feel an emotion because you have no more dopamine wiring.

I likely wouldn’t be so reactionary if I weren’t still doing the body count. And it’s not about ‘my circle.’ Truck drivers, ministers, and dieting housewives are constantly making the news for their descent into meth. Apparently, it feels so good at first, and then after your first three-day bender, you’re already certifiably insane and you’re just waiting it out until the end. You might starve to death before you overdose.

In some ways it’s the Government Liars’ fault for being so hysterical about other drugs and not arming people with reasonable facts and choices. Everyone who grew up in the Just Say No generation can’t trust the information they were given. Obviously, marijuana didn’t cause murderous rampages, so the info about meth must also be outlandish. It makes you feel terrific and thin and able to complete two double shifts, a bonus if you need the money, as most blue collar North Americans do. In fact, job efficiency and productivity is the main reason the drug is becoming an epidemic in Thailand and other Asian countries. Life’s a bitch, then you work, then you die.

Please pray for E. and her family and friends. If you have any strategies or information or an inspirational story that might help, please share it. I feel incredibly hopeless today. The madness is not just far away in the hills of Hollywood, safe for a greedy gossip gorge. It’s close to home, mine and yours, too. Let’s pray for each other and share any answers or hope that we can.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adderall

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17808933/#storyContinued

http://todaystoronto.com/content/view/100/88/
My review of Toronto author’s book about meth.

http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Astronauts-Wife-Poems-Eros-Thanatos-Lorette-C-Luzajic/9781847287335-item.html
The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos.