Speed Bumps

We’re pleased to be able to offer a view from a former Tina user in the serial feature ‘Speed Bumps.’ We hope you enjoy this series.

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Shit happens

Taking a dump in a stairwell was probably the most perverse and unusual thing I ever did under the influence of methamphetamine.

My dealer was a speed user himself, and thus was chronically disorganized. He and his business partner would frequently miscalculate the timing of their meetings with their supplier, meaning that they could sometimes be out of product for a week or two at a time. (At the time, crystal use was not widespread here, and I didn't have many other sources from which to choose.)

This caused minor inconvenience for the weekend partiers, but for hardcore addicts; our lives were thrown into chaos. We needed crystal meth to supply enough energy to force our way through each disjointed day. Our lives were organized around patterns of meth acquisition and use, so when Kevin and Rob had a dry spell; it was as if a rug had been yanked out from under our feet. Every few months or so they would run out, and I'd have to take several days off work because I was too weak to get out of bed.

I'd lay there with the phone right next to my pillow and redial Kevin's number every sixty minutes. (His voice box would be full, because everyone was trying to reach him.) Once he had the chunky translucent prize in hand, he would finally pick up the phone and, instead of ‘Hello,’ simply say ‘Yeah, you can come over’ or ‘How many do you want?’

Then life would begin again. One minute earlier, if I tried to stand up I would literally have fallen back into bed. Now I'd suddenly be slowly dressing, methodically tying my shoes, and walking toward Bleeker Street at a pace that would incrementally increase with each short block. The brain remembers meth's effects and starts to mimic them in anticipation. By the time I was almost there, I'd practically be running.

After four or five methless days, my metabolism and digestive systems, accustomed to being constantly overamped, would have slowed to a crawl. But all of that was about to change.

After visiting Kevin, my first stop would be the landing of the nearest stairwell. This was the closest more-or-less safe location to get high. If I were feeling paranoid though, I'd climb several flights up and smoke some crystal there. My rationale was that the higher up you went, the greater likelihood that residents on that floor would ride the elevator rather than descend the stairs.

When meth is smoked it reaches the bloodstream and the brain within five to seven seconds. It's like lighting a match in your brain that instantly heats up your entire body. Finally awakened, I started to bound down the stairs with vigour. But within seconds, I was rocked by the abrupt, urgent need to take a shit. Everything that had been holed up in my system for the past few days suddenly demanded release.

By the time I reached the third-floor landing, I knew that the unavoidable was about to happen so I pulled my pants down around my ankles, squatted and emptied my bowels right there. (A friend who visited the same dealer that morning was confronted by my turd at the bottom of the stairwell. He immediately knew who had done it, and why.)

It was a symbolic moment that still holds meaning for me on multiple levels.

-ACT Volunteer