#track marks

4 years ago - right after my last post - I was diagnosed with a neuromuscular disease called Myasthenia Gravis, or MG. Similar in ways to Multiple Sclerosis and Muscular Dystrophy, MG damages the receptors that allow your muscles to get signals from your nerves. Over time it causes severe muscle weakness and fatigue, and sometimes loss of muscle function entirely.

For me, that meant losing much of the fine motor function in my hands and arms, as well as chronic double vision from the muscles around my eyes being affected. Consequently, I lost my career working as a surgical assistant and I lost my ability to play guitar, which I had been doing for almost 15 years.

MG progresses differently for every person, and mine went from “Start” to “I’m going to take everything you love” in less than five months. For most people, this progression takes years - but mine unexpectedly progressed quite quickly, and that became the catalyst for a very, very dark downward spiral that I still haven’t been able to wrench myself out of almost four years later.

I had dabbled in illicit drugs here and there in the months leading up to my diagnosis, but the day I discovered I could no longer play guitar, I made the worst decision of my life: I picked up a needle for the first time, assuming it would also be my last. I just wanted to escape the sadness for a bit, and I was curious about the effects. But as soon as I pushed that first dose, I knew I was fucked. I immediately wanted more.

It went from 1 or 2 doses a day to 5 or 10, to 20 or 30, until at its peak I was dosing over 100 times a day. Yes, the math is correct - I was injecting every 10-15 minutes, all day, not sleeping for days at a time, not eating for weeks at a time, and not showering for months at a time - simply because I couldn’t stand the sight of the track marks covering my entire body.

In a year and a half, I went from 290 pounds to 170 pounds, simply from not eating. On the rare occasion I would leave the house and see my friends, they would immediately ask, “Dude, when’s the last time you ate anything?” Most of the time it had been so long, I couldn’t give them an honest answer. My mind and body had ceased to even register the sensation of hunger - the only thing it wanted was more C.

I had a few stints in rehab and might string together a few weeks of sobriety, but I always went back to it. I managed to avoid overdose until this year… February 4th, 2024. It put me into repeated seizures and respiratory arrest, they were able to revive me and I was in an induced coma for 4 days.

I wish I could say it was a wake up call, but I went back to it within hours of being discharged from the hospital. I despise withdrawals, and they just keep getting worse the longer I’m on the shit. Then just over a month later - March 20th - I OD’d again. Once again threw me into seizures and I almost stopped breathing, but thankfully this time the paramedics arrived significantly faster and I didn’t die - again.

I can’t remember the last time I showered, because just the thought of having to look down and see all the scabbed, bruised, and heavily scarred track marks on my arms and hands is sickening. I’ve been wearing long sleeves for almost two years straight - even on 90° summer days - and I put makeup/concealer on the back of my hands every day where the scars are the darkest so I don’t get disapproving looks from family, cashiers, and waitresses. I’ve gotten better at eating, and have managed to get back up to 205 pounds. But that’s the only thing that’s gotten better.

No one wakes up and decides to become an addict. It begins with one small seemingly meaningless choice to escape what’s in our head for just a few minutes or hours, but very quickly becomes an all-consuming downward spiral into our own grave. I wish I could go back and show 29 year old me what I’ve become, and take the needle out of her hand. But I can’t take any of this back, and right now, I still haven’t found a way out.