America's Next Favorite Pastime!

DISCLAIMER: While my brothers permitted me to tell our story, I was asked not to use real names to maintain anonymity. Because of this, all names in this post are aliases. Also, this story (while not given in graphic detail) discusses substance abuse and addiction.

Meth releases 1,250 units of dopamine in the brain.

Well, that's just the base level. If you aren't a neuroscientist, there's a good chance that you have nothing to compare this number to, so it probably means jack. For reference, shooting heroin or sniffing Stephanie will raise these levels to about 350. Spending a night with your old lady will put it at about 200. Sinking your teeth into your favorite mediocre Sonic cheeseburger after a long day working at the local Casey's convenience store will release about 50 units (or 100, if your shift was that bad).

The amount of times I mention this not-so-fun fact in conversations is borderline insane, almost as insane as the fact that it doesn't seem to phase any of the people I tell it to in the slightest. Maybe it's because every person I happen to talk to about drugs is secretly studying to get a doctorate in biopsychology, or perhaps it's because we live in a state whose largest city is one of the meth-use capitals of the United States.

To say that growing up in Kansas is underwhelming would be the biggest understatement of the millennium. Other than understandably cheap rent and, I don't fucking know, wheat(?), there's not much this god-forsaken bland rectangle of a state has to offer that's stimulating to any degree. Even our tornadoes are fucking boring. It almost makes you want to move to Oklahoma to see what all the hype is about.

Since there's virtually next to nothing for people to do in 95% of the state (or the rest of the Midwest), chasing highs has practically become America's second favorite pastime. Even if you don't personally pick any poison, you're guaranteed to find it anywhere here. It could be the baggy of suspicious-looking basil that a freshman accidentally dropped in the hallway or the fifth crack rock you've seen in the grocery store parking lot this week alone. The shit's everywhere, and for some reason, no one ever seems to talk about it. Seriously, the only time most of us ever got the drug talk was from the wrapper on the back of our school lunch burritos that said: "Say NO to drugs!" Yes, that was a real thing.

A majority of what we learned about addiction came from those P.S.A.s made in the early 2000s that told you not to do drugs because either your teeth would fall out and you'd become ugly, or you'd end up dying alone. Or both. Usually both.

I'm a bit embarrassed to say, but I somewhat subscribed to this ignorant view. After all, I had the most upstanding examples of addicts as parents: a 6'2 man who used beer as meal supplements and liked to come back home at ungodly hours of the night ready to reenact M.M.A. highlight compilations, and a mother who couldn't give less of a rat's ass. However, I couldn't comprehend why the words "loser" and "low-life" never quite seem to suit the sweet old cashier or the tragically gorgeous woman working 6th street like her next meal depended on it (because let's be honest, it did).

It finally clicked when everyone started applying them to my brother.

Mason was born in Kentucky back in the '90s, roughly two years after our eldest brother Jason was born and only a little under a year after said brother was given up for adoption because our dad and their mom couldn't take care of him. If you couldn't tell by the one-letter difference in the names or rapid-fire conception dates, Mason was supposed to be "the replacement." But he was always more than that, even if his parents were too stupid to realize it

Mason was like any normal boy his age; messy hair cut into Bieber-style bangs, a profound passion for football that could not only rival but tackle your old man's, and a goofy, barbed-wire lined grin that could pierce through the coldest of hearts. He also had the worst case of pepperoni face I have ever seen in my entire fucking life. No wonder why Pizza Hut started in Kansas; they had a walking advertisement right here. He was as sweet as the dickens, as most kids are, and while he in no way the smartest kid in school, he was certainly wise beyond his years. His mom's accident happened pretty early on. Apparently, she and our dad had got into one while in the car, and dad, as drunk and angry as always is, got so pissed that he forgot he was driving and crashed. He was okay, but Mason's mom was never the same after. Severe brain damage. She's not much of a person anymore… just someone who exists, and with our dad being the way he is, Mason didn't get much of a childhood. Hell, he was already starting to grow up before everything happened, but he never let anything crush his spirit; he took every figurative and literal punch thrown at him with a grace that would make the best of ballerinas turn green.

There was hardly ever a moment where that dorky ass smile wasn't lighting up his whole damn face while he talked your ear off about Peyton Manning or whatever video game he had managed to get his hands on that week. His optimistic attitude didn't stop there; the kid was jumping at the opportunity to talk to everyone about anything, which was most likely probably part of why all of us were closer than most siblings, despite him being quite a few years older.

He had the seemingly care-free personality and was beyond easy to talk to, not one topic existing that couldn't fall subject to our six-hour two-way T.E.D. Talks. Most visits to dad's place would feature him excitedly nodding while he listened to me regurgitate facts about some low-budget space documentary I had just watched. The stars that glittered behind his eyes confessed an anxiousness to hear more, even if he hadn't the slightest clue what in the hell a gamma-ray was. This dynamic was uncharted territory for me; the only time my mom ever liked to let me talk was when she had a couple of shots in her system and could at least pretend to listen. I can't blame her. I was annoying and couldn't shut the hell up once you got me started), so naturally, I returned this new energy ten-fold. I was the same way when listening to him, thinking that anything that stumbled out of my big brother's mouth was the most mind-blowing thing I had ever heard. A small part of me still does.

He became my role model, teaching me and our little sister Sarah not only how to throw a ball and shoot zombies in Call of Duty but also how to maintain some sanity while living in our hellhole of a home. Countless nights we woke up at 3 am to door slamming and falling glasses. Mason and I would trip over each other as we scrambled to Sarah's room to try to calm her down before dad could hear her crying too loud. She was still daddy's little girl back then, not yet used to seeing him that way since he started trying to hide his problem more when her mom threatened to leave him. His little act didn't last long, not after his stash of beer bottles was found in the basement. We already knew he never stopped drinking anyway. He was a shit liar. It broke Sarah's heart to bits, but Mason was there to put it back together.

Well, he tried to, I mean. That's what I admired most about him, that he always tried even if it was a fat chance that he'd succeed.

He proved everyone wrong, at least for a while; he graduated high school when none of his teachers thought it would happen, made enough money to rent a trailer home, got a job at some factory he kinda liked and didn't feel like leaving after two and a half weeks. Sure, he downed a little too much Fireball every other weekend, but who's perfect? We were proud of him; he seemed to be making somewhat of a decent life for himself.

Then he started picking up the pipe.

It all happened so fast that we weren't sure what the hell "it" actually was for a hot second. One day we were deciding when he'd be coming over next for dinner, then he was A.W.O.L. for weeks. Those P.S.A.s weren't messing around; meth isn't like alcohol or any other drugs that shed their status as strangers overtime and slowly stitch themselves to your nervous system; it only takes one hit.

I didn't have to be fucking Einstein to put two and two together when I ran into him while shopping at the thrift store months later. He was jumpy and jittery, and while you usually wouldn't question his animation, it completely juxtaposed his appearance. The grown beard, last weekend's clothes, eye bags so dark at first glance you'd think he got molly-whopped that same morning. He looked like he had walked just right out of a Montana Meth Project commercial. He looked like shit.

I like to think of myself as a tough girl, but man… that hurt. It really hurt, and I knew it was written all over my face even though I tried to hide it. The poor dude couldn't even look me in the eyes.

We kept up this little dance going for a couple of years, having unplanned, excruciatingly awkward reunions at random places, exchanging weak half-hugs and new phone numbers. When we'd get to our houses, we'd send a few dry texts to each other. The conversation, if you'd even call it that, would end when he'd stop answering. Then it'd be another six months of radio silence. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

The part that hurt the most was that no one other than me seemed to be surprised, like they had expected this from him and were sitting around, Budweiser in hand, waiting for it to happen finally. I played along with it for a long time. Everyone told me that he had no chance, you know, growing up with parents like that and that he was bound to get caught up in something at some point. I repeated the sentiment over and over and over, like some demented mantra, attempting to convince myself that it held some truth.

It didn't, and the more I said it, the more I realized it was bullshit.

I used to go over all the different scenarios in my head, trying to find ways we've could've prevented this. What if dad had gotten arrested whenever we dialed the police? What if C.P.S. had actually done something? What if Mason had gotten treatment for the P.T.S.D. and A.D.H.D. he clearly had? What if, what if, what if… the possibilities are endless, and it's devastatingly depressing. If you fixed one issue, it might've not done a damn thing. Regardless of what exactly drove him to it (because as much as we probably have a decent guess, only he and the lord know precisely why), it's not like he can't always get help. If anything, he has a better chance at recovering than a good portion of the other poor souls that have strayed.

I couldn't count the number of times Mason has tried to go cold turkey even if I wanted to, and it's not just because I barely passed Algebra 2. He does alright for a bit but manages to fall back into it every time. Old habits die hard, I guess, and meth is one of the hardest drugs to kick, even with help. Still, the fact that he refused to cross that last line floored me, especially since he was no stranger to astronomically fucking up and having to ask for help. Hey, if you didn't end up driving at least one craigslist car into a ditch as a teenager, you haven't lived life. That might be a good thing, though. And it wasn't like he didn't know that he always had somewhere to go no matter what. He knew that he could always ring me and crash at my place, give himself time to get back on his feet after rehab: you know, return the favor and take care of him as he had for us back in the day because that's what you do.

He was too embarrassed to, I eventually learned, not because he was too ashed to ask to help, but because he couldn't bear us seeing him like this. And I get it. I really do; the stigma is hellishly horrific, even if his has slightly improved in the past few decades. While most of us don't regard every junkie's existence as a half-stepped above that of a cholera-ridden cockroach anymore, that hasn't stopped us from grimacing when we see them. You know the routine, looking away as quickly as possible and clutching your keys a little bit tighter as you speed walk to your cars. I'm definitely guilty of it, and you're just as guilty of it too.

See, the issue with having the only media representation of addiction coming from YouTube drug P.S.A. compilations or shows like HBO's Euphoria is that you don't get the most realistic portrayals of addiction. You get two choices: either the highs (which can often contain more paranoia rather than ecstasy) are dangerously glorified, or there is a cheap, overplayed stereotype of the dirty, deranged druggie. Don't get it twisted; you'll never find me denying the importance of educating kids about the consequences of meth use, but sometimes these depictions do more harm than good, especially when they're the only resources teaching you the topic. A terrifying majority of the videos I saw growing up painted both the meth and meth-head as something to be feared, filming reenactments of unimaginably traumatic situations where the user may end up. While it may be applicable in extreme circumstances, it's just not true for most. They avoid telling you about how you'll get so used to the stench that registers somewhere between paint and a stale fart that you won't understand why people move away from you when walking by. They don't tell you about how you'll probably piss and shit yourself if you O.D. and die, or even if you get withdrawal. They don't tell you that the whole thing is more lonely than anything. And they especially don't tell you that it's not the end and that you could always get help. Instead, they reinforce generalizations that prevent so many users from accessing the support they need when available, which is the exact opposite of what they intended.

Not to mention that the stereotype isn't exactly true either. Of course, like every stereotype, there is a handful, or occasionally a considerable portion of people, it applies to. Still, there are a significant number of people who you would never guess are having at the rock whenever they find free time.

Meth-heads aren't just the homeless, crusty old men you find pacing abandoned parking lots during episodes of psychosis. They're single fathers trying to keep up with the five kids that run circles around him like Usain Bolt on steroids. They're the mom who wants to see her son but can't get the help to quit her habit. They're the fourteen-year-old party animal who doesn't know any better. They're the C.E.O.s who struggle to survive their chaotic daily schedules on pure motivation alone. They're teachers, lawyers, construction workers, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, etc., but most importantly, they are people, just as deserving of time and patience as anyone else.

Once we begin acknowledging the beautifully ugly humanity that exists simultaneously and as one with the addict, we open up opportunities to hold productive discussions that pave the way for progress.

Around a month ago, a woman near my mother's age started renting the apartment below me. She had the most charming smile I had ever seen in all its tooth-gapped glory and so much love to give. While I was heading out to get some groceries a few mornings ago, we finally got the chance to introduce ourselves and get to talking. After I situated myself in one of the broken lawn chairs on our porch, she started telling me all about how she ended up here, finally leaving the life that cost her not only her right eye but twenty years with her daughter as well. She told me that calling her a piece-of-crap mother (excuse her potty mouth) would be generous. For that entire time, she was a poly-addict, never earning an income consistent enough to have one drug of choice, so she settled with whatever she got her hands on.

Next to no one believed she would ever make it out, and she didn't blame them one bit. She didn't think she had it in herself either. The only person that held out any ounce of hope was her daughter; no matter how many times her mom stole from or abandoned her, she prayed that she would get better. It may have taken two decades, but she eventually stopped using, and she says that if it weren't for her daughter, there's a good chance she wouldn't be here today. Now they call each other in the mornings so they can make up for all the lost time.

I make sure that I pray for my brother every night now.