I avoided its name for as long as I could.
Not because I didn't know it—but because names make things real. And once something is real, you can't pretend it's misunderstood or exaggerated or temporary.
I called it stress.I called it coping.I called it survival.
Anything but what it was.
Methamphetamine.
Crystal.Ice.Dope.
The word itself is sharp. Ugly. There's no softness to hide behind once it's spoken. No romanticism. No confusion. Just truth—cold and unforgiving.
Meth doesn't crash into your life all at once. It doesn't announce itself as destruction. It shows up like efficiency. Like energy. Like the version of you that gets things done.
At first, I thought it made me a better mother.
I had more energy. Less sleep, but more hours. I cleaned harder, focused longer, moved faster. I could do everything—laundry, meals, smiles, obligations—without stopping. Without feeling.
And that felt like strength.
No one talks about that part.
No one warns you that meth will lie to you by rewarding you first. That it will hand you productivity and confidence before it ever asks for payment. That it will make you believe you've finally unlocked the version of yourself that everyone else seems to manage so easily.
But the cost is never upfront.
It collects quietly.
It takes your ability to rest—then convinces you rest is weakness.It takes your hunger—then tells you food is unnecessary.It takes your reflection—then dares you to recognize yourself anyway.
And eventually, it takes your presence.
Not all at once.Not dramatically.Just enough that your children start watching you instead of running to you.
Meth didn't make me stop loving my kids.
It made me believe love alone was enough.
That as long as they were alive, clothed, fed, and kissed goodnight, then whatever else I was losing didn't matter. That I could outrun consequence with intention.
I couldn't.
Because meth doesn't care about your intentions.
It doesn't care that you cry in the bathroom after snapping at your child. It doesn't care that you promise yourself this is the last time. It doesn't care how badly you want to be better tomorrow.
It only cares that you come back.
And every time I did, it took something else in return—my patience, my softness, my reliability, my credibility. My children learned my moods before they learned my truths.
By the time I finally said its name out loud, it had already woven itself through every part of our lives.
And the worst part?
It didn't look like rock bottom yet.
It looked like survival.