Citation: The Midnight Tweaker. "Confessions of The Midnight Tweaker: An Experience with Methamphetamine (ID 8324)". Erowid.org. Jun 28, 2005. erowid.org/exp/8324
Confessions of The Midnight Tweaker: The Finished Paper
Written in late July, 2001, by an 18 year old white suburban Phoenix male.
I have been using crystal meth regularly for approximately seven months. Collected here are my memories, my experiences, my knowledge, all that I have found out, the truth as I know it. This is written and distributed with two intents:
1) Liberating myself from methamphetamine addiction.
2) Providing information for those unfamiliar with meth
3) Start a path of recovery for those who are trying to get off it themselves.
3) Helping others through their addiction by providing personal support
4) Talking to people about not doing it to begin with.
Confessions of The Midnight Tweaker is a long story, but it's my story, it's my time on the soap box. Might take you twenty minutes to read, but I promise you it's one of the most important things you could read and may hopefully put you on the road to a total recovery if you are addicted or provide self-enlightenment so you never have to be where I am now. Would that I could remove all meth from the Earthen face, but in absence, I can only provide you with information. It's up to you where you want to go from here. I didn't have anything like this when I started tweaking nor did I really bother to look. Now, I have provided more information and hope it assists you in making a choice.
This is a true story, a story written sparing no detail, a story written from my heart, a story for the compassion of my fellow man. It's a story I hope everybody reads. It will be shocking, unnerving, gross, frightening, unbelievable, but it's the dirty truth.
But before we begin, I'd like you to think about anybody you know that might be using amphetamines. I want you to replace them as the subject of this story as you read and think hard about what they're going through. Amphetamine addiction is very serious and we do no favor to our victimized friends by casting them away as dirty tweakers. Read them this story, show it to them, make sure they know about what I write.
In closing, I'd like to remind you all that a little faith in God never hurt anybody. He's there for us all in our times of peril--just before I wrote this paragraph I prayed a bit and I now feel he will help me out of the crystal chasm. Seek strength in our Lord, and you will be better for having done so. The funny thing is, I'm not religious.
Unlimited distribution of this paper in its uncensored entirety is encouraged. Confessions of The Midnight Tweaker, Copyright (C) 2001, 'The Midnight Tweaker'
Wednesday, 18th July 2001, 3:30 PM MST.
[Note: I edited this paper for clarity and made considerable additions since I first composed this section. --TMT]
I don't really remember how long I've been up but it looks like it's gonna be another night for me. Crystal methamphetamines are so fucked up it's funny. You keep doing it over the course of the whole day or two--like I do--and for the first little while it's fun, but for the next two, three days--70 hours is my personal stay-awake record; five or six days is not uncommon for the seasoned tweaker. The third day, you're burned out, itch all over, tired, aching, sick to your stomach, getting stalked by the shadow people, you swear to yourself you'll never touch it again. You wonder why it came to this, you pray to God hoping He'll get you out of this mess, and you finally manage to get some sleep, not before swearing it off for good.
The next day, you do it again.
As you wake up, the tweak is the first thing you think about and it's on your mind till you get some more--Hearing or reading the words 'ice, glass, crack, speed, fast, tweak, crystal, meth,crank, rock' drives you crazy because you can't have any. Being out of your lifedrug sucks SO much harder than tapping-out the keg too early or cashing the bong.
There's nothing more hopeless than getting a kick in the groin by the sober world at 4 AM as your speed dealer's voice mail picks up for the hundredth time during the night. That was three Saturday nights ago for me. There's nothing worse than scrounging up the tiniest powders of what I think was glass off the bathroom floor or my desk or my mirror or whatever surface before I give up and drive some 50 miles across Phoenix in search of my dealer, ultimately
killing five hours to no avail. That last night my car and my cellphone battery died on me in a scary part of West Phoenix on a night I wish I spent doing better things.
I cannot face reality. Sobriety is so boring, so slow, so unnerving in its repitition, so mind numbingly dull. I immediately remember how good the power felt of the previous nights' speed highs and the concept of an extended period without it is both foreign and ... too much to bear. I'm sick of this drug. I gotta get off it. I gotta get off it. I gotta get off it. I gotta get off it. I gotta get off it. I gotta get off it. I gotta get off it. Tip: Repetition reinforces your true desire. I have every reason to. I need to. I want to. This is why I write this paper--to counter my cravings with why I don't want the ice. But if my efforts as an author go in vain and I'm back on the shit next week--a possibility I entertain but nevertheless work against--if one person finds this document helpful to free themselves from the methamphetamine prison, I
will be happy.
I'm coming down/partially spun as I write this. That's how fucked up this drug is. While on it, I write about how much I hate it. I cannot learn from my mistakes. I am rendered helpless by it's scourge. But I blame myself--in the narcotheque, you are responsible for you.
Some nine months ago, at an afterparty somewhere I've never been, my soon-to-be-first significant other was offered a bit of 'Tina' from a guy I never met. In the incarnation of lovestruck naieve stupidity I said I'd do it if my S.O. did.
And so, my madness started that fateful October day.
My morning was flooded with amazement and euphoria and such awesome pleasure like nothing I had ever felt before. Not unlike the first huff of crack cocaine (as I've heard), I never experienced a feeling of that intensity. I was up for 49 hours on a wee bit of tweak that wouldn't phase me today.
Dearest reader, I ask of you, no, I beg of you to realize my words, to realize this drug, to realize that this shit is NOT worth it--even for that first time. It changes you. Don't make the mistake I did--this is the most addictive, plentiful, and cheap substance I know about--especially if your town is the World Methamphetamine Capitol. Nobody ever told me about this drug because nobody wants to talk about it. Don't let that silence ruin
Twenty dollars worth of crystal may spin you for four days--$20 of cocaine will buzz you for four hours. Check your dealer's prices. And I have just begun to describe the world of hurt in which I writhe for letting my guard down just once that day. It's THAT addicting--sobriety just isn't the same after that first spin.
Amphetamines bring about what's known as a 'sober high.' When you're spun, or feeling the 'amp' of the tweak, it's not at all like being drunk, stoned, or rolling--the effects of these three are distinguishably intoxicating compared to sobriety. The meth high, on the other hand, is more or less an enhancement to normalicy. Your spin starts within minutes after snorting, almost instantly after smoking, and about ten to twenty minutes after swallowing. You will feel very good, you will have confidence, motivation, drive. You will be overly extroverted, making conversation with just about everybody. Your words will be fast, and with most people, you will go on a fit of cleaning. Tolerance develops over a few months. I used to go by the one bump, twenty four hours awake rule, (when I had control over this drug) but now I could easily do .2 grams ($20 worth) of crystal in a single two-day setting. The amp can last up to several hours if you're just starting or even be not evidently noticable, depending on dosage and tolerance. The longer you don't do it, the greater your tolerance is when you do it next. While the amp is immediate and provides for an early peak, the come down is VERY long. Meth (with a fair amount of caffeinated beverages) once kept me up for 70 straight hours before I *forced* myself to go to bed. The more and longer you do it over time, the more hours total you will stay up on end. Veteran tweakers can easily hit six days with no or very little sleep. I haven't heard of anybody staying up longer than that. Whatever sleep they do get recharges them for the next binging session.
This is why meth is so addicting; couple the above stayawake scenarios with the drive you get with the spin and your daily course of actions, and you'll be doing it all the time. Especially more so if you're the lethargic/lazy type like me and do not usually have these feelings. Addiction recovery combined with finding a natural replacement catalyst for the methdrive is very difficult. It's why I'm on it--I've honestly felt this has done good in my life. But it hasn't. So many times have I sat myself down all spun out to work on a project for work or for myself or do some homework and I'll just end up procrastinating more or getting sidetracked or whatever. So few accomplishments can I pull from my nights I was high.
Regardless of the final result, meth can feel like a wonderdrug, designed especially for you. It is very easy to let meth be a part of your everyday life, and many people who try it more than a few times let that happen. It will let your guard down, it will elude you with its infecting sense of pseudocontrol, and it will cause so many problems for you as the months (God help you if the years) fly by.
Do it a couple more times, just TRY and be only a weekend tweaker, do it during work, do it during school, do it 24/7. Before you know it meth becomes a crucial ingredient for simply going through life. Chemically-assisted living is very bad practice--I learned this the hard way.
And if you think this is some clever grassroots trench-expunged DEA/PDFA/ONDCP-designed propaganda campaign--go find about crystal. Find out the truth to this diatribe. DARE may've spewed untold quantities of bullshit scare tactics about marijuana and what have you, but I swear to you, this is the ONLY drug I've read about of which nobody will say good things. It is the ONLY drug where government-grown propaganda and stories from those who have come before me coincide exactly...except those drugged authors like me share personal experience, whereas the pheds will tell you what they have read and what they've been taught--from us. And we don't exactly encourage anybody to do this godforsaken drug. At least, I'd hope not. Never again could I will this prison on another human.
Crystal's not fun stuff. And if you know somebody hooked on the shit, read them my story, email it to them, have them drop me a line at email@example.com if they want to know more.
But please, be there for them when they hit rock bottom. Addiction is a nasty disease that makes monsters out of men. They'll need your help every step of the way through recovery. The menace can be fought by the compassion. Tweak's a nasty drug, and nobody likes a tweaker, but realize they're victims of the methamphetamine epidemic. It is very sad what this drug does to those who do it. But don't let it win. Save your friends, your family, the strangers from it while you still can. Show them this story.
Right now I'm spun/coming down as I write this, it's not so bad, it's been worse ... fuck that, this sucks. Meth does this to me...miserable second day after miserable second day it continues to wreak havoc upon my best judgement, intuitions, and inhibitions.
I can't see straight--this meshy cloud of fog and phantomic objects fades my vision as I stare at my computer screen. I look at something 15 feet away but my vision caliber is a few orders of magnitude worse than sober sight. Inanimate solid objects wander in and out of this dark room's haze as they come alive and leap ever so briefly out of the corner of my eye, taunting my sanity. The size of whatever object my brain fails to keep immobile grows as time passes while my mind's ability to comprehend its surroundings fails.
My eyes are dry and I consistently blink but they've been open for so many many hours they cannot rehydrate themselves. My Visine is in the other room, and I really should get it, but ... CHRIST this sounds so stupid I feel as if I'm like held down to the chair--I've been sitting here for 13 hours and I've stood up maybe twice. Eating is nearly impossible--who knows how much I'd weigh right now had I never touched this. I'm afraid to weigh myself, but I've been told by many that I've lost a good deal of weight over the past few months. I'm six feet even and I'm 'normally' 140 pounds (63.5 kilograms) I'm probably weigh in at 120 (54) now. Not to mention the vitamin deficiency and the mushy pulps my internal organs and cerebrum must be like...
Getting a drink or even *opening my water bottle two feet behind me* or cracking open a cold Dr. Pepper sitting eighteen inches away is too much work, besides, I'm so buried in my work I actively ignore my pangs for thirst and hunger. A nasty phlegm flavored somewhat worse than morning breath that won't go away complements a heavy set of mucous in the back of my throat. So many times I have hackingly expunged massive solid chunks of phlegm and struggled to keep from doing so. Nausea while spun is common. My teeth are yellow, they hurt, and feel brittle. They are covered in white gunk--I haven't been to the dentist in a while and I'm afraid to go. I'm lucky this time, my tongue is normal. Other times it has literally swollen to a point of not fitting in my jaw, where it then rubs against my teeth and open sores later form. I haven't had much to eat... a slice of ham in two days perhaps, I honestly would have to think about how long I've been torturing myself with this. 'How long have I been up?' I ask myself. My actual thought process right now: When did I start? It's Wednesday now so that means I woke up ... what did I do yesterday, or rather, the expanse of time before five hours ago, no wait, it's 5:30 PM, not 9 AM. Maybe I've been sitting here for 20 hours ... 30? I don't know.
As I stop my typing to think about the next sentence I must'nt dare let my fingers wander from the keyboard. I resist their seemingly autonomous travel--else the nastiest part of the spin is upon me. Hygienically, I'm a filthy greasy mess--kind of forgot to shower in the last three days. Aggrivated by a thick coating of grease and clothes-moistening sweat in turn produced by my body's glands on overdrive and my lost ability to regulate my core tempurature, I am covered in acne. Not just easily Clearisilized blemishes but festering mountains of oil, pus, and blood. They are all over my back, my legs, my thigh, my buttocks. Repetitive involuntary hand motion is a bitch--give my fingers enough slack and they lunge for my lesions with thumb and forefinger in the lead ... Hours can be spent picking and popping and squeezing and prodding and poking ... It's fucking disgusting. Sometimes I've gone to bed having no control over my hands--I doze off, my fingers plow my skin relentlessly. I shit you not. Urban legends of tweakpicking to the bone have been recanted and they're true.
Crystal meth eats you alive, I swear! It is Evil. Cigarettes--hell, ANY other drug pales in comparison to the multitude of effects--an agonizingly slow cerebral suicide--EVERYTHING! My brain is mush now. I stumble around, and even tho I may have felt altogether in earlier hours I was kidding myself. I'm fucked up, I'm cracked out--sleep deprivation has rendered me a binging moron. The mental drive lasts only for so long but will burn you out and screw you over before you even know it.
When you're on this hard of a speed, your track sprinter of a brain has a tendency to trip on its shoelaces. You think you're a good driver, enhanced by the drug's delivery of focus and drive. You're wrong! One or two nights ago while still on the amp I narrowly avoided two speeding cars while making a right on red from the middle lane. Normally, it's the freeway home but that night I was totally lost. In what epitomizes the brain fart, I once recorded out of frustration a bomb threat on a closed store's answering machine and went apeshit for six hours figuring every possible which way to get them to disregard it...I was going too fast to notice I left that threat on a fax machine that picked up the phone afterhours, not a voice recording device--this after I prepare myself for a 5 year prison sentence...I almost cry thinking about that day. Control, or the illusion there of, is lost just like that. That weekend I also backed into a Camaro, in a parking lot, while making a right turn out. Once, while rather amped, with three other people in my car, I took a blind left turn onto a major surface street--avoiding a 55 mph T-bone by only a few yards and then swerving into the suicide lane and a oncoming traffic lane to avoid a right-on-red driver that didn't anticipate me. I'm very lucky I made it out unscathed. Quarrels between friends (about this drug) turn into ten-hour stressfiascos as I'm split with an axe in half trying to comprehend the bullshit drama. I haven't spoken to at least four people because of what evil was brought forth as we were all amped out of our sanity six months ago. I called my dad and saying I'm bringing the car home twenty minutes late...three hours later I walk in the door and we got in a emotionally charged fight (for me) cause I have no concept of time and lied about where I was--so hard for the tweaker to tell the truth and speed is a nasty catalyst when the day doesn't go right.
No reason for it. So fucking stupid.
That was in January. It's July now. Jeezus, I've been doing this hard for seven months. This is the first time, as I write this, I shit you not, that I realize this now. Kinda conviently leads me to my next point about how this fucking drug provides the world's most deceptive and nasty illusion--the feeling of control.
You think you're in control. You're so fucking high you would think that. But in reality, your world is crumbling and you have no fucking clue. Makes me wonder where I'll wake up tomorrow. It's 6:00 PM--the last 150 minutes haven't made much of an impression to say the least. Notifying ahead and saying you'll get the car home 20 minutes late turns to a three hour disappearing act. Your whereabouts are backed up by an impromptu shaky lie about God knows where and what. Yeah, it seems they're going along in your manufactured perfect world, but in truth, they start to wonder about you. That is to say, if they don't already know. Tweakers stick out of the sober crowd like they're lit by neon signs and sirens. You will be spotted by anybody who knows this drug.
The 24/7 tweaker--which I have become--never I thought twice [later thrice] but, fuck, here we are... The 24/7 tweaker lives a lie. Why are you in such a good mood today? Did you sleep last night? You seem a little flustered, why are you talking so fast? You look a bit strung out. You sure I can't get you something to eat? You've had an awful long day, you really should take a break. Why are you still awake? Where were you last night?
I can only wonder how many people to whom I have lied or otherwise opened the door for doubt against myself. Crystal's the most disrespected, most hated drug in the narcotheque. One thing you'll never realize--they know. Even my sheltered lifelong-soberites friend suspect--I know it. I could never share my deepest darkest secret with the daylight people. It's not cool. I'm not proud of what I've become. Nobody likes a tweaker. Regardless of how decent I think I've been over the last seven months, I've come after a long line of shady, shady speedfreaks--whatever ill will I recieve is well justified. Better I get disregarded now than fuck them over later. Sure, at the risk of sounding conceited, I'll say I'm one of the last decent people--I've never screwed anybody over, I've never stolen to feed my tweak addiction.
I don't know that, though. With glass, you never realize anything until it's too late. So quickly will you wake to the distant day your real friends are gone, you don't have any money, you've lost your job, your credit both fiscally and what represents your human decency are all shot, dead, buried, forgotten. Maybe never to come back. Even if you recover, you'll still have that stigma attached to your name, a life sentence that may haunt you till you die.
But recovery is much better than sickness.
Monday, 23 July 2001, 11 PM.
I ended that Wednesday night with a fat line composed of all I could pull out of my bag. I reasoned that if I didn't have any when I woke up that next morning that wouldn't be any shit I'd end up doing again for breakfast, and there wouldn't be a high I'd have to keep going as well. I also wanted to torture myself purposely--let my body know how vicious meth can be. I fell asleep on the couch for 18 hours literally moaning in pain, my ass kicked so hard. I was so weak I couldn't get a glass of water but I needed it. Every single bone and muscle in my body reverberated with pain. So there's a tip: Finish your bag the night you're ready to stop. I spent my next two or three nights sleeping 14 - 16 hours in between nonstop eating. Haven't eaten like that in--Christ, I have no idea.
It's six days later, six days since the start of Confessions--I owe Mr. Wells Fargo $160, and I found $47 in my pants pocket.
I bought a $40 bag--how I could ever justify spending whatever last dollar I have to my name ON A DRUG till I get paid again is FUCKING BEYOND ME! I spent a good chunk of money I didn't have. Never done that before. That's addiction, kids!
And although I've fallen down again for the umpteenth time--I think I've made progress. I got rid of my little bag, and I gave my very last little line away. Want not, waste not--I'm too dumb to flush it down the toilet and spare someone else from this narcotic. I've given speed away, but never with such resentment. Never done that before. I gave the numbers of people associated with the shit unique ringtones--hopefully I won't hear there calls. Never done that before. Another tip: Even if your best friend is your glass dealer, you'll have to shut yourself off from that scene if you
want to get off the drug. It may piss them off but you gotta do it for yourself. You are all that matters, and ultimately, it's only you who will liberate yourself.
At least, I think--I have yet to take heed of my own advice.
Sure, I've spent my last $20 on a bag lots of times--but never have I spent $40 while being in debt four times that. (my $840 credit card tab comes later ... who knows how many times I could've paid that off had I made the right decisions with my money.
You're supposed to get worse before you get better--rock bottom hits, then recovery starts. That miserable night--my second most miserable, wasn't rock bottom. Nor is my week of financial hemmorhage. Nor was my nightmare/vision of seeing myself a heroin addict before losing concious ... for good?
I remembered the first part of this story when my dealer called me up looking to sell stuff. Ten minutes later, I forgot about it as I called him back looking for shit, but I could feel something within me die--resisting tweak is such a pain in the ass, to say the least. I did two lines at work--yes--at work. If cutting a line on your cubicle desk and snorting it right there doesn't qualify for addiction, I don't know what does. Then, I did two lines at home. It will only get worse.
Maybe, God help me, and if I could only be so lucky, rock bottom is realization that there is no rock bottom--I will keep getting worse until my guardian angel saves my life or my dead-of-an-overdose-body is dumped in a ditch off some barren highway deep in the night.
I don't know what my future holds--whether I'm just fooling myself by thinking I'm getting off it or I'll kill myself doing this shit. Whatever feelings I have about getting off this shit I pretty much have to disregard--so many times I have failed, I'll just set myself up. I don't know. I wrote this to liberate myself from meth's firm grasp on my nuts. It didn't help for Monday night, but I've got Day 2 written, and I'm printing this out, and keeping it in my pocket. I will read it every day, and I'm going to NA meetings. I gotta get off the speed. No more broken promises to myself.
But what I do know is this--I've made serious mistakes with this drug, perhaps a compendium of mistakes I cannot make right. However, if this paper provides enough wisdom for just one person to not go down my mistaken path, than my seven month addiction to crystal methamphetamines will not have proceed nor ever will proceed in vain. There I can hold my solace. Keep your head up.
Don't make my mistake. Don't fall where I have fallen. Please, don't touch crystal methamphetamines.
Take care and good luck.
The Midnight Tweaker
An 18-year-old middle-class suburban-Phoenix white male with no run-ins with the law. Just to remind you all that addiction is where you least suspect it. Remember, compassion will win the war.
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