This week, while suffering “flu like symptoms” because of my withdrawl, I discovered that somebody I know, who probably considers themselves a great friend, ratted my drug problem out to my two sisters, who live on the other side of the country usually quite ignorant of my life here in Toronto. In fact, I had recently pondered whether I would ever see either one of them again, now that my parents were dead. Our family’s closeness is hard to describe, at least from my perspective. Because of the way my brain works, I really don’t know my sisters. They are 7 and 9 years older than me, and had both moved out by the time I was 10.

In any case, I get a message from my younger sister first. It is cryptic, but arrives when I not in a mood to answer the phone. I do respond to a text message saying that I am with friends, and would prefer to speak later. I believe I was in the final stages of the last days being awake from my prolonged final use. I can’t quite remember the exact details, but I know I somehow got the feeling her call was directly related to somebody having contacted her with an odd message she wanted to speak verbally about. In my head, I was sure it was related. Somebody had told my sister I was using meth, and here she was, calling me while still under it’s influence.

The next day, I fell asleep at 10:30am and didn’t think to call her back. When we finally spoke, I laughed it off, and denied everything. Later that day, my older sister called, and she wasn’t believing no. She’d found a single word “addiction” on a web post that I was aware of, and considered deleting… but didn’t.

Detective sister was on the case, and I skilled the beans. Yes I have been a drug user since 27.

I am now 52, and this year I tried crystal meth and followed the usual pattern to addiction. Occasional to regular usage.

However, this bombshell hits my sisters harder than perhaps it should, because they have no perspective on how bad a druggie I am. Clearly I have lived these 25 years with an image of a non drug user. I even gave up alcohol and jokes about it often both online and in family gatherings. There was (in my mind) not any signs or hints that I may enjoy getting high.

The question then forms, “how bad” a drug user was/am I. My sisters are silently discussing the idea amongst themselves I assume, and will no doubt want more conversations soon, but they really have no way of knowing, or believing whether I was a hard time big user, an occasional user, or an experimenter. They have no stories to go by.

I’ve been trying to explain how minimal most of that time was. I can’t come up with too many great ideas, because I don’t remember my life stories the same way others do, but I did have some examples of the minimal experimental use of my drugs.

My “ACTUAL” storties. I write when I’m high, more often than not.  Over the last two decades, I would get high on two or three weekend binges every few months. In the start, I raved on acid every weekend, and often Wednesdays at home. I estimated about 200 to 250 time I’d done acid in the 90s. In the 2000s, probably not at all, or once a year. When I had roomates, I didn’t get high as often. I hated weed because it was smoked. Yech.

When I met KC, she introduced me to pipes and bongs and so I used weed occasionally, but not often. Usually I’d use weed at the end of a shrooms or acid high, or to write.

When I started hanging out more with my strip club buddy, I discovered cocaine and it’s effects on me were nearly opposite from everyone else. It was like a bad A.D.D drug that made me kind of dull and bored. I didn’t really do cocaine much, but I would partake socially if others were, and in the strip club world, cocaine was the drug.

For years I did nothing, because none of my friends were druggies, and I was/am pretty bad at making new friends. Raves had vanished, and so had acid. Ecstasy would show up among the weed dealers every once in a while and I’d binge a few weekends. I remember one year when I found some orange ones from a regular and did it every weekend(ish) for a half a year before I figured out they were probably a bit of a methyl recipie, which never occurred to me, until my teeth got worse faster than usual. I quit.

The two years I lived on the subway line on Yonge Street I did venture downtown and walk around late at night high of acid or ecstasy and I did manage to find myself in some amazingly bad neighbourhoods where I was able to test the crack life. My stories of those adventures may be scary, but I’m glad I have them. All in all, I think I have five or six Toronto crack stories.

In my time in Waterloo and Milton, I didn’t do as much. I’d smoke a little weed, but only find acid once or twice every few years and buy 10 or so, but nothing regular until I moved into a home alone.

When I was alone, the regularity upped itself a little, because I discovered the online dark web, and was able to find quality tested and reviewed drugs from peer reviewed reputable and trustworthy dealers. It changed my life, but I still didn’t go crazy. It was at that time, I was turning 50 and starting all sorts of positive life changes, including my therapy, my family doctor, medication for my obcessive tendencies and other things.

I was also pretty happy with my non drug social life and friends. The monthly fajita party, and my Saturday adventures were all highlights of my new happier life.

I do love acid however, and rediscovering it via the mail was a treat now and then.

Perhaps the biggest motivator in the change, was the sudden existence of a bigger bank account. I was able to order more acid and more ecstasy and share them with newly found drug friends. Still not every weekend or even every month, but in binges. I was able to remember the fun walking around Toronto high was.

Mostly, I stayed in my bedroom watching movies on my 55″ or living in the alternative universe where stoned Jeff could be stoned. He was still secret in this universe.

In the nearby three years I’ve lived alone, I have not smoked an oz of weed and still have the same two orange Bic lights I bought the first week. That may be the best perspective statement of all. Drug addicts and smokers go through an oz a week or more.

ahhhhhhhh, who am I trying to impress?  I am a fairly active drug enjoyer, but I do not believe abuser… except of course this recent stint with crystal meth. However, to put that into perspective too, I’m not sure what quantities are huge, but I would guess I’m still on the low scale there too compared to typical drug abuse. In all, less than a gram a month. Even my highest usage in July was two grams. I’d like to believe those who I use needles or smoke and snort might be as high as a gram a day.

Meth didn’t give me a buzz like you see in media. I did a line in the morning and stayed awake and alert all day. I got stuff done.

Perhaps that was the problem, but I did decide to quit before anybody forced me to. I knew what was wrong, and when it was bad. Horrible bad… because it was good.

I will admit I am not going to enjoy ageing beyond 52. My family history has a lot of people losing their memory and mind, and I have a head start with my memory problems. I have been obcessive counting the subtle changes already, and I don’t enjoy that. All my life I have lived with a brain that I wasn’t happy with. Being called a loser that was smart but didn;t live up to my potential. Not having an attraction to women early on, so I missed all the dating and sex rituals boys that age were supposed to go through.

You can’t comprehend what it’s like living in this society and not having sex. It’s a hard situation, and so in that small way I don’t try to justify having drugs in my life, but I do over it up for a helpful explanation of why a high was something I could enjoy alone without the stress of having to ask a woman out. Secret drug life was my replacement in a way for secretly NOT having a sex life.

I come to the end of this writing. I’m still suffering the effects, blowing my nose every few seconds, changing sweaty shirts three times a day, drinking water and apple juice, and wondering what will happen now that my sisters know I’m a user. Maybe this piece will comfort them slightly in that I am a druggie… but not as bad as they perhaps dreamed last night.
I’m still Jeff Goebel.  I’m still crazy. I’m still creative. I can still make you smile..

I just like to get high now and then.

Post Revisions: