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288 pages, Paperback
First published November 10, 2010
I was like a zombie. For up to eighteen hours I’d sit on a chair and stare at the floor or the walls, my gun propped next to me [thanks to paranoia] for quick access. The only time I moved was to put more dope in my mouth.
By the end I didn’t get out of bed unless I needed to get more meth - I rotted on the mattress for two or three days at a time.
A drug addict always blames their problems on something, or somebody, else, never on the drugs. I didn’t want to accept that it was the meth making me sick.
Meth robs people of the ability to love and feel compassion for other human beings, whether it’s your children, your wife, your mother or your father. I had no problem hating and wanting to hurt people when I was on it, but I could not love myself or anybody else.