When I was 23, my life was spinning out of control. I had become addicted to methamphetamine, and injecting it intravenously had become my daily reality. My days were a blur, filled with reckless decisions and a constant chase for the next high. It wasn’t living, but it was the only way I knew how to get through the haze I’d created for myself.
There was this guy I was hanging out with at the time. He was just like me—lost, addicted, and doing whatever it took to keep going. One particular day, we were out running around, getting syringes like it was just another errand. We didn’t care about the risks. We didn’t care about the consequences. We just needed the tools to keep feeding the addiction.
We drove to a place where we could grab the syringes, trying to stay as low-profile as possible, even though, deep down, we knew we looked like trouble. After getting them, we headed back, thinking it would be another quick stop-and-go. But things took a turn we hadn’t planned for.
Suddenly, red and blue lights flashed behind us—a cop was pulling us over. My heart started racing, not just from the meth pumping through my veins but from the panic setting in. We had a car full of empty syringes, no excuses, no lies that could save us from what was about to happen.
As soon as the officer walked up, I felt it coming. The familiar dizziness, the shaking—I felt like I was about to have a seizure. It wasn’t unusual for me back then; my body couldn’t handle what I was putting it through. But this was the worst possible moment for it. The guy driving didn’t even have a license, and now I was sitting there, with no control over what was happening.
The officer noticed something was wrong and pulled us both out of the car. I was struggling to speak, my body dizzy , trying to explain what was happening. He saw the syringes scattered in the door and the look on his face said it all—he knew what we were doing.
“I have seizures and diabetes,” I managed to say between the tremors, hoping for some kind of mercy, maybe even help. But instead of sympathy, the officer leaned in closer, his eyes cold, and said, “Did your meth mess with your diabetes and seizure medicine?”
His question was loaded, and I wasn’t in any state to handle it. He kept pushing, “What kind of medicine do you take?”
Panicking, I blurted out, “Home Lynn,” hoping that somehow, it would pass as a
legitimate answer. But he wasn’t buying it. His eyes narrowed, and he wasn’t letting this go.
“What type?” he asked again, this time more sternly.
I was trapped, grasping for straws. “Type B,” I muttered, hoping it sounded believable.
That was it. The officer looked at me, shaking his head, a smirk forming on his face. “You know your lieing , and I know I know you’re lying ,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “There’s only Type 1 and 2, not A and B.”
I had nothing left to say. He’d caught me in my lie, and any hope of talking my way out of this was gone. The reality of the situation crashed down on me hard. I wasn’t just caught in a lie—I was caught in a life that had spiraled far beyond my control. The officer’s words stung, not just because he’d seen through my desperate attempt to cover up, but because, deep down, I knew he was right. I was lying to him, lying to myself, and running from the truth of the damage I had done to my life.
That day had marked my rock bottom, it was one of the moments that stuck with me. I can still see the officer’s face, hear his voice telling me I was lying. It wasn’t just about the medicine—it was a reflection of the lies I was telling myself every day to keep living in the chaos!