The title of this thread is pretty self-explanatory. My understanding is that drug deaths have now overtaken suicide deaths. In other words, drug deaths right now are a public health crisis. I had my own issues, which I will talk about in a second.
I am from an upper-middle class upbringing, so these deaths (usually heroin, fenantyl, oxy-related) have had almost zero effect on me or friends. With the exception of one friend.
The working class is some sort of meme to the leftists now, and so there is no sympathy for these people suffering... But it is not just the working class who suffers. There are plenty of middle class kids dying who started with an Oxy at a high school party.
Part of me says it's pharma's fault. I think it is. But part of me says it's society's fault. For them making us feel so empty. Because they've destroyed our communities, pushed globalism on us, addicted us to technology, and in the process manipulated our thoughts. And oh, put us in a precarious employment situation; there was some foresight given.
I had a strong love-hate relationship with alcohol because of binge drinking in college coupled with massive feelings of inadequacy. Several years ago, I was 100 percent alcoholic. The binge drinking progressed into daily drinking, because I could no longer suppress the shakes on off days. Hangovers were speedbumps to feeling normal, so hungover days were spent drinking to level out, so to speak. I lost count of the number of days I lost to hangovers, drinking, and feeling shitty. I got fat, really fat, but I was eating almost nothing. Two bottles a day ended up costing me 420 dollars a week (ironic, I know), or in other words, $1700 a month. Because I came from decent money, no one suspected a thing. I was fat because I stopped working out and because I really liked to eat nice food (very true).
Quitting the drinking (although occasionally I still have a couple) was not a problem, but after I quit I felt like shit. At the time I was out of the country. I bought some Xanax at the pharmacy, and continued to take them for several months. Full disclosure: xanax is horrible because it's just like alcohol, but I felt like I was at an all time low. I tapered off them, realizing maybe I had a dependency, but then again I had no issue getting off them, I'm sure I had un-diagnosed anxiety disorder too, but man, I can see how every substance can be a crutch if you let it be. Let me just say that although I don't condone xanax, it feels fucking incredible. As some people on xanax say, "you could watch your house burn down and you feel like Jesus." That description is not far off... Although I've never tried picking up women on Xanax, I can imagine that if it's anything like alcohol in that regard, you could kill it. There is no filter, it is just pure nonchalance. Completely outcome independent and not a care in the world. A pleasant buzz that is more accurately, a day in, day out haze that completely engulfs you. Nostalgia because you are unable to accurately remember the day before. Wasted youth. Suddenly, the xanax rap scene makes complete sense... You chase the pleasant buzz and before you know it, it's been three months of your life, with nothing to show, other than pleasant memories that you just can't quite recover.
I've never looked back since then. My point is that all these substances are fucking addictive (whether it maybe be a SSRI, Xanax, Alcohol, Heroin, Meth, etc). The pills are bad...
I feel some sympathy for these people although they're unlike me in almost every way--many of them tremendously economically disadvantaged-- because they're going through bad shit. If there's a bright spot to the Trump phenomenon, it's that I have some hope that Trump can help these people. If you want to read more on the subject check out "Hillbilly Elegy" by J.D. Vance, who was a hillbilly who made it out of Appalachia and went onto Yale Law School and the military despite the drug-addled nature of his community and family.
I've read one haunting account of the drug crisis that still sticks with me over a year after reading it (it's about a high school teacher--not your typical drug addict-- in northern California addicted to fentanyl--among other things), and it's stuck with me for over a year; it's not often i can find an article i've read over a year ago via a quick google search without remembering the title or the author's name; a few highlights:
I am from an upper-middle class upbringing, so these deaths (usually heroin, fenantyl, oxy-related) have had almost zero effect on me or friends. With the exception of one friend.
The working class is some sort of meme to the leftists now, and so there is no sympathy for these people suffering... But it is not just the working class who suffers. There are plenty of middle class kids dying who started with an Oxy at a high school party.
Part of me says it's pharma's fault. I think it is. But part of me says it's society's fault. For them making us feel so empty. Because they've destroyed our communities, pushed globalism on us, addicted us to technology, and in the process manipulated our thoughts. And oh, put us in a precarious employment situation; there was some foresight given.
I had a strong love-hate relationship with alcohol because of binge drinking in college coupled with massive feelings of inadequacy. Several years ago, I was 100 percent alcoholic. The binge drinking progressed into daily drinking, because I could no longer suppress the shakes on off days. Hangovers were speedbumps to feeling normal, so hungover days were spent drinking to level out, so to speak. I lost count of the number of days I lost to hangovers, drinking, and feeling shitty. I got fat, really fat, but I was eating almost nothing. Two bottles a day ended up costing me 420 dollars a week (ironic, I know), or in other words, $1700 a month. Because I came from decent money, no one suspected a thing. I was fat because I stopped working out and because I really liked to eat nice food (very true).
Quitting the drinking (although occasionally I still have a couple) was not a problem, but after I quit I felt like shit. At the time I was out of the country. I bought some Xanax at the pharmacy, and continued to take them for several months. Full disclosure: xanax is horrible because it's just like alcohol, but I felt like I was at an all time low. I tapered off them, realizing maybe I had a dependency, but then again I had no issue getting off them, I'm sure I had un-diagnosed anxiety disorder too, but man, I can see how every substance can be a crutch if you let it be. Let me just say that although I don't condone xanax, it feels fucking incredible. As some people on xanax say, "you could watch your house burn down and you feel like Jesus." That description is not far off... Although I've never tried picking up women on Xanax, I can imagine that if it's anything like alcohol in that regard, you could kill it. There is no filter, it is just pure nonchalance. Completely outcome independent and not a care in the world. A pleasant buzz that is more accurately, a day in, day out haze that completely engulfs you. Nostalgia because you are unable to accurately remember the day before. Wasted youth. Suddenly, the xanax rap scene makes complete sense... You chase the pleasant buzz and before you know it, it's been three months of your life, with nothing to show, other than pleasant memories that you just can't quite recover.
I've never looked back since then. My point is that all these substances are fucking addictive (whether it maybe be a SSRI, Xanax, Alcohol, Heroin, Meth, etc). The pills are bad...
I feel some sympathy for these people although they're unlike me in almost every way--many of them tremendously economically disadvantaged-- because they're going through bad shit. If there's a bright spot to the Trump phenomenon, it's that I have some hope that Trump can help these people. If you want to read more on the subject check out "Hillbilly Elegy" by J.D. Vance, who was a hillbilly who made it out of Appalachia and went onto Yale Law School and the military despite the drug-addled nature of his community and family.
I've read one haunting account of the drug crisis that still sticks with me over a year after reading it (it's about a high school teacher--not your typical drug addict-- in northern California addicted to fentanyl--among other things), and it's stuck with me for over a year; it's not often i can find an article i've read over a year ago via a quick google search without remembering the title or the author's name; a few highlights:
Quote:Quote:
For the more savory among you, a single Norco is the equivalent of two Vicodin, while Fentanyl is 20 times more potent than heroin and intended for use by terminal cancer patients. Before interviewing for the job I put four–100 microgram Fentanyl patches on my stomach (four times the prescribed amount) and washed down 16 or 17 Norco (eight times prescribed amount) with some blue Gatorade that looked like Windex.
They hired me. I beat out 3 other applicants, who I hope don’t read this story.
...
I use the term “high” loosely here, because the drugs no longer made me feel what the average person would consider “high.” By no means was I stumbling into class and nodding out. I was putting enough opiates into my body to sedate farm animals, but I no longer felt their effects. By the time I began teaching, I’d been hooked on opiates and benzodiazepines for about eight years. In order to just feel normal — not sick — my body required an ever-increasing amount.
...
Walking briskly after me, Tyler continued. “Hey, Mr. Smith, we need to talk.”
“Not today Tyler. It’s a really bad day,” I said, continuing my march toward the sanctuary of my classroom and my music.
Tyler looked around to make sure nobody was listening before proceeding. “Dude — Kyle’s hooked on heroin,” he said in a half-whisper. “He’s hooked on heroin and I don’t know who else to tell.” He paused. “He needs help.”
Stopping dead in my tracks, I put my head in my hands. Pushing my palms hard into my eyes, I ran my hands out to my temples and down my cheeks, where I held them and tried to think, staring off into the distance and wondering what in the hell I’d done wrong to deserve all of this. Or maybe what I’d done right. I wasn’t sure.
“Heroin, huh?” I asked, but not really.
“Yeah dude, fucking heroin,” he explained, speaking quickly. “I don’t know what happened. I mean, we used to fuck with oxies and shit at parties, but I didn’t know he was fucking with that shit.”
“Come on,” I said, “watch your mouth. We’re at school. If another teacher hears you talking like that around me…”
“Sorry, I’m just really scared. He fu- he can’t stop. He says he can’t stop.”
This presented problems for me on multiple levels, not the least of which was the fact that Kyle was the son of the assistant superintendent of my school district. My boss’s boss’s boss, in the grand scheme of things — his son had a secret.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“He’s waiting to talk to you.”
“To me?” I asked, frustrated. “Why the fu-… what is going on?”
Walking toward my classroom, Tyler sent Kyle a text, asking to meet in my room. As rain began to fall, I walked up the ramp and into my classroom where it was warm and the music had been left on, “This Velvet Glove” playing while I felt like a fraud and wanted nothing more than to tell someone all about it.
I hoped the Norco I took at the office would hit, bringing a warm blanket of euphoria with it, but deep down I knew it wouldn’t. I was stuck dealing with yet another secret while not quite high, not quite clean. I was in narcotic purgatory and I hated it.