There’s nothing more to it, it seems. I admire those who settle in with religion because at least they have something to believe in, something to look forward to. Death might mean the pearly gates for some, but for me, it means deafening silence and eternal blackness. The idea is jarring enough, I can’t even imagine how it would be to experience the inevitable. If I think too deeply about it, I just may faint.

Yet the anxiety can’t catch up to me now, thanks to these orange pills that will cure any part of the human condition. At least, for a night. It’s been almost 6 months since I last had an illegal stimulant. I’m relapsing and there’s nothing in me that seems to care. I also had a coupon code that was soon to expire, so I had to grab that deal. One hundred meth pills for eighty-five dollars. Who knew the black market had such a great loyalty program? The vendors claim the pills are Adderall, but real Adderall usually goes for twenty a pop. I knew what I was getting myself into, and again, I felt numb about it. But it wasn’t like I was smoking or injecting the meth. It’s all oral, sometimes nasal. Harmless. I have this under control.

Tearing into a package that is stealthily packed by a dark web vendor veteran is like tearing apart the layers of a leather onion. I appreciate these boys doing their job in making sure no one ends up in prison, but double-bagged, vacuumed sealed, and wrapped up in ten feet of paper is rather extreme. Then again, so is ripping up the packaging several times over before wrapping it up in a trash bag and stuffing it deep into an already full trash bin out in the garage. Since Victor still believes I stopped smoking three or so months ago, I checked to make sure I hid my cigarettes in the car’s center console and sprayed the interior down with Febreze.

I was now able to focus on accomplishing my next goal: Getting upstairs as soon as possible and stashing the stash. Keeping meth pills in my pocket would only make me uneasy. I have a dreadful fear of one of the pills falling from my pocket and into my 2-year-old’s hands. I had to make sure everything was locked up immediately. I couldn’t beeline it straight to the staircase, though, that would be sketchy. That’s why I just walk in with seemingly no cares or worries and in mid-conversation with Victor, I exclaim “Ugh, shit, I forgot to take my medication!” Victor and I both know I suck at remembering to take my pills. He also knows how lethargic and unstable I am without them, so without hesitation, he says “Well, go! Go take your meds.” And that’s my in, easy as pie. Up the stairs, I go.

I step into the bedroom and close the door slowly behind me. The handy dandy plastic safe that I had paid $16.95 on Amazon for was good enough to lock up my narcotics. With my private code in place, the safe clicked open revealing a mess of bottles – my daily anti-depressants and anti-psychotic medication – strewn about haphazardly. But it was the empty bottle in the back that drew my attention. I grabbed it and opened it eagerly and without hesitation, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a vacuum-sealed bag filled with bright orange pills. I know the risks, I heard the stories, but the high is worth it – especially tonight because tonight is now. As I poured the contents of the bag into the pill bottle, Victor’s voice suddenly broke through the tense silence of our messy room.

Startled, I slammed the safe shut and attempted to tidy up before he was able to reach the top step. Panic set in when I realized I had left the bottle of pills out on the nightstand. When Victor reached our room, I plastered a smile and opened the door with feigned innocence.

“Oh, hey there! Just doing some cleaning up,” I said nonchalantly, trying not to give away my heart that I thought was about to burst out of my chest.

“Well, Keaton is ready for bed. Are you coming down?” Victor asked, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

I nodded absentmindedly, watching him walk away before practically sprinting over to the nightstand where the pill bottle sat innocently. In one swift move, I snatched out two pills and scampered over to the bed, where a 2-pound dumbbell was tucked underneath. Using it as a makeshift pestle, I crushed the pills into fine powder before dividing them into three lines with precision. With the plastic halved straw, I expertly snorted each line with practiced ease, feeling an immediate sense of relief wash over my body. After wiping my nose clean with a baby wipe and meticulously cleaning up any remaining residue, I took a deep breath and left the room to join Victor and our children downstairs, trying to act as if everything was normal.

But inside, I knew that this was just another piece in the puzzle of lies and deceit that had consumed my life since I first started using drugs. The guilt weighed heavily on my conscience, but in that moment of escape, it all melted away - replaced by a numbing sense of euphoria that I craved more than anything else.