My life went completely to shit in the past 4 years to the point where my failing mental health lead me to ending up homeless and losing everything but what I could carry.

I showed up at the hospital a few times, begging for help, unmediated, and got dismissed and/or treated like a criminal without ever getting help.

At one point I was living in a trap house for a few weeks. I came “home” one day to find my room cleared out of anything of value I had left. Something snapped in my brain, and I’m told I was found by the police walking on the freeway.

That’s the time I was told “getting in isn’t an option for you. There’s nothing the ward can do for you anyways”.

I went back to the trap house. There was a half dozen or so sitting in the living room passing a meth pipe around.

I had nothing left to live for.

I sat down in the circle, and as the pipe made its way to me, I figured “fuck it” and took a hit.

I felt pure euphoria.

I no longer had any desire to kill myself.

My problems became irrelevant.

Where have you been all my life?

I stayed in the trap house a couple more weeks, and would partake whenever invited to.

I managed to secure stable, safe housing, and spent the first few weeks detoxing and withdrawing hard. But I made it. Without help from the healthcare system.

I met my now girlfriend a month and a half later, and life has been on the upswing since. She’s amazing.

I finally got help back in January of this year, after a particularly bad episode and attempt, but only because my girlfriend and a close friend refused to let them turn me away.

Since then I’ve had a chance to reflect on how truly fucked up everything I experienced at the hands of the health authority actually was.

I’ve gotten noticeably cold and bitter in the past few months.

PTSD attacks the second my mind starts to wander.

I’ve been struggling to stay focused at work, and have been taking advantage of the slow season at work and cutting out whenever I have the chance.

My cheque this week is pathetic.

I was clean almost a year.

Till May Long Weekend this year.

I hate long weekends.

Wow! An extra day to sit around and be reminded of everything and everyone I cared about that cut ties with me because, as one person put it:

“if you were actually trying to get help, you would have gotten it by now. You need to stop lying to the doctors and those who care about you”.

I started to spiral BAD mentally.

I became actively suicidal.

But this time was different.

I was craving meth.

Then I realized that the last time I was that low was when I was living in the trap house, and the euphoria it gave me.

It took a bit of work, but I got my hands on some.

I felt pure euphoria.

I no longer had any desire to kill myself.

My problems became irrelevant.

(Yes, I copypasta’d that part).

I lived to see the sun come up.

Mission successful.

So I made a promise to myself.

It can’t become a regular thing, but I know that when I start craving meth, I know I’m starting to get bad again.

I have no intentions of humiliating myself in the ER begging for help again.

Can’t rely on the healthcare system.

The mere thought of setting foot in that ER ever again only serves to accelerate the spiralling.

So what can I rely on?

Yup.

Technically it’s less harmful than eating a shotgun or stepping in front of a bus.

Less dramatic and drastic too.

And a good chance I’ll live to see the sun rise.

I’ve had a few more of those nights since then.

Not proud of myself, and I know it can’t be a long term solution, but I’m still alive, aren’t I?

I’ve made it perfectly clear to my doctors that it’s going to take a lot of work with medication and therapy before the ptsd gets to a more manageable level where I’ll be willing to give up Meth.

The healthcare system doesn’t get to ignore my cries for help as long as it did while my life burned to the ground and I lost everything I cared about to suddenly get to shame me for struggling with drugs and alcohol.

When and if I want help, I’ll ask.

But don’t you fucking dare look down your nose at me for the negative coping mechanisms I may have picked up because of the healthcare systems’ own negligence and outright refusal to lift a finger to help me.