Why I Fell In Love With Cocaine And Why I Really Had To Stop Doing It
I’ve been in an abusive relationship. I’m ashamed to say that I stayed in it much longer than I should have, but holy shit, I was so in love. It wasn’t until I was almost dead that I realized I needed to get out. My ex’s name is cocaine, and even though we’ve been separated for about a year now, I still can’t help but think about him sometimes.
When I first quit, I couldn’t stop thinking about the beginning, before it all went bad. It all started my sophomore year of college. I had spent my entire high school career as an athlete and perfect student. My father was an alcoholic who’d gone sober after my mother left him, taking my sister and I with her. I was terrified of becoming like him.
I’m not exactly sure what caused my attitude to change from one of fierce determination to avoid alcohol and drugs at all cost, to me just shrugging my shoulders and saying ‘what the hell, why not?’ Maybe I was tired of fighting it, maybe I just wanted the experiences, maybe I was mad at my dad and wanted to say screw you…either way, as soon as I started, I couldn’t stop. I was like a malnourished person dropped off at a 24 hour buffet.
Molly, acid, pills—I loved them all. But cocaine was the one. My new roommate offered me a line before a big Halloween party, and I was hooked. As I’m writing this, I’m getting jealous of myself in the past, remembering how amazing I felt that first time and how insane that night was, how insane so many of the nights were after that. I loved to party and I would go out clubbing or partying every night of the week for about two years straight. I knew promoters at every single club and would get free coke on top of the gram I usually always had with me. They did lines on every part of my body. Pretty soon it wasn’t just when I was partying, I would use it as my morning coffee to get me going, my afternoon snack to keep my energy up and always as a supplement to help me study. The only thing is, when you only put cocaine into your body for days at a time, your body tends to shut down. And mine certainly did.
“I knew promoters at every single club and would get free coke on top of the gram I usually always had with me. They did lines on every part of my body.”
By the time I had been doing coke for about two years I weighed maybe 110 pounds (I’m 5’9), parts of my nasal passages had started to actually disintegrate and I had bloody noses every day. I had a perpetual cold, my body was covered in bruises, my eyes were constantly bloodshot no matter what I did, and a teacup poodle could probably push me over—I was so weak. I lost a good job. I woke up in the beds of too many strangers to count. I was paranoid and twitchy all the time. But I still couldn’t stop. You know the first time you hook up with someone, when they starting to take off your shirt, or unzipping your jeans, that feeling when you start getting turned on? That’s how coke made me feel all the time. I would probably still be doing it or more likely dead from it right now if it wasn’t for my mom—she was the one who saved me.
I went home one day, and my mom asked me to go for a walk. She told me she knew I was addicted to coke. She said she knew all the signs because a druggie knows a druggie. My dad wasn’t the only one who liked drugs and alcohol.
Apparently my mom and dad met doing lines together. I knew my mom was a partier when she was younger, but I never knew the full extent—I learned a lot about my family that day. I also learned that it wasn’t just my father’s alcoholism that broke my parents and our family up, it was his addiction to coke as well. They had done it together for a while, but my mom was never truly an addict. She liked to party, but she was able to stop, and she did. She thought my father had too, especially after my sister and I were born. But he didn’t, he hid it very well for some time, but like my mom said, she knew the signs. After several unsuccessful stints of rehab and trying her best to make it work, my mom took us away because she didn’t want that life for us. It was us leaving that finally got my father sober. My mom has provided for me and has been my best friend my whole life, she has also sacrificed so much so that my sister and I wouldn’t be exposed to drugs and all the unhappiness they bring. The next day I checked into a rehab.
And I hated my life for a good long while. I hated myself for a good long while. I had failed my mom, I turned into the person I refused to turn into, I had to go through rehab and discuss very personal aspects of my life with random tweakers and junkies, and on top of it all I was going through withdrawals. I considered just ending it all a few times, but I refused to let my selfishness ruin the lives of the people I love more than it already had. I fucked up big time and now I had to pay for it. It took at least 4 months before I could get through the day without crying unconsolably. And another 3 months before I actually felt safe enough to go out in public alone without immediately rushing to buy blow. My ex had one hell of a strong hold on me and he will probably always be lurking there in the back part of my mind. But it’s been just under a year and I have a good relationship with my family and friends, have several jobs and internships, my own place, and I don’t feel like shit 24/7. I’m not gonna let anyone fuck that up, not my ex, and certainly not myself.