I’m waking up. It all looks familiar. This time is different. Everything is worse.

My legs and arms are tied up by the Accident and Emergency Department staff. There are a bunch of police officers around. They’re not frightening me—but they make me wonder: what have I done? Did I hurt someone? I can hear familiar voices next door chatting. Some are almost crying.

I’m thinking to myself: F*CK.

I’ve done something wrong. Something illegal. Something very, very wrong. And I don’t feel good about this.

I’m not wearing my glasses. I’m not wearing any contacts. Given that I’m, figuratively speaking, partially blind, the grimness of my situation without visual aid is even worse. It all feels like an early Hitchcock thriller.

I’m severely dehydrated. Every inch of my body aches. It’s sending urgent dehydration signals to my brain—or whatever’s still functioning in there. My voice is absent, and communication with the black-and-white humanoid shades running around is next to impossible. I manage to growl for attention—like a dog or a wolf, minus their majestic natures.

“May I have some water, please? Just that. Some water.”

That’s all I manage, in the voice of a junkie just pulled up from a crevice. A nurse comes in holding one of those disgusting, nosocomial plastic cups. You know the ones—with the flimsy plastic straw fused to the lid like a punishment.

In better times, I’d have just said:

“Dude, I wouldn’t even wipe my arse with this. BOTTLED WATER. GO.”

I would have said that, because that’s the sort of ignorant bastard I can be sometimes. But this time? This time, it looked like god juice.

“Water is better than no water,” I thought, slurping it down in an instant.

I don’t think I’ve ever tasted water that good in my entire life. My vocal cords—slightly more lubricated—murmured a “thank you” and a hopeful:

“Can I have some more, please?”

She dismissed my request. Said she didn’t want to risk me throwing up. Interesting. I should look that up. Is that a thing? Can that happen? The location is still unknown to me. I mean, I know I’m not at home. I also know I’m not dead. But the situation? It’s very well ingrained into what’s left of my brain.

This? This is the third time I’ve ended up in hospital with psychosis.

Welcome to the grim world of Crystal Meth.

She’s got plenty of cutesy names floating around. But for this blog, I’ll use her real name. No code words. No shame. I did it. I own it. Crystal Meth.

Do you know what it is?

If yes, I sincerely hope not by personal experience. If no, please read with caution. And try—please try—to leave judgment out of the reading process. This is my personal space. I want it to be graphic. I want it to be real.

Because if someone stumbles upon this and chooses to read it, there will be no room left for prettying up the process.

Zero margin.

That was my last psychosis. The one that doesn't ask for permission and it doesn't leave quietly

This blog—my blog—is a product of my own experience with addiction. Addiction to the worst drug ever invented.

Just for comparison - Cocaine? Cup of tea. Weed? Herbs.

I could go on, but I won’t. Not because I don’t want to. Only because my drug use started at the lowest lows. That’s part of who I am. Why bother with weed or coke when I could go full abyss?

So I did. I dove into it. I found the worst drug in history, at the exact time it was becoming popular across every community. And the worse part is that I stuck with it—until I came face to face with death.

Not once. Not twice. Three times.

This blog will be confusing at first. I don’t know the structure of it. I know places. I know events. I know how it felt. That’s what I plan to communicate.

This is an important story. Not because I’m the onetelling it—but because addiction needs to be seen clearly. Brutally. Especially addiction to Crystal Meth.

They found me on a roadside, missing for days—headline-level missing. I walked out of my life on a Monday and came back in on a Thursday, surrounded by police, nurses, and the echo of a dozen bad choices.

That was my last psychosis. My third. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission and doesn’t leave quietly.

So here’s the truth: I’m not just telling this story to exorcise it from my head. I’m writing it because I’ve made a decision.

A final one.

I’m going into long-term, closed-community rehab. A year or more. No phone. No distractions. Just time.

Time to survive this. Time to try.

It’s terrifying. I am terrified. I don’t have a criminal record like most people I’ve met so far in the program. I do have lots of tattoos, though. Not the kind that scream “my cellmate did this for free". The other kind. The “nice” kind that screams "I am a molecular biologist". Hipster enough for you?

I have massive anxiety. Massive guilt. And a very popular LinkedIn profile. But that didn’t save me, did it?

This post is the beginning of a map. For me. For anyone who wants to understand how you end up here. For anyone trying not to.

Post by post, I’ll tell it. Before I go in. Maybe while I am in. While I’m still able.

Because this time?

This is my last chance.