the shadow people

I’ve been talking to someone recently who, while not new to recovery, is newly sober again, and new to town. And in our relatively small community, he is very happy, as a drug addict, to talk to someone who understands the shadow people—the others who come visiting addicts such as myself when we happen to have been up way too long and taken way too many drugs, and not had enough food or water.

He has a very developed understanding of the shadow people—he firmly believes they are real. He cites specific instances (proofs) where the shadow people interacted with him in real and positive ways. (My only “real” interaction with the shadow people was one night when I had an extensive conversation with a leafy shrub that told me law enforcement was on its way, so I called my mom at 3:00am to let her know I was about to be arrested—turns out that shrub lied).

He believes the change in body chemistry makes drug users better able to connect with the spirit world &etc, ie, some drugs enhance your sense of smell, some enhance your sense of taste, some enhance your ability to communicate with the dead. Peyote, blah blah blah.

I won’t say I haven’t ever believed those things. I don’t actually disbelieve them today—my psychotic episodes were just too real to be unbelieved. I was frequently in states of drug-induced psychosis where my mind could not limit itself to the realities of the physical world. I can’t un-ring a bell, even if I know the bell really never rang, or even existed—the memory of the sound remains. What I do believe is that it doesn’t matter.

Whether or not there are swarms of spirits (and/or aliens, and/or law enforcement) monitoring me at all times, my life is significantly better without the thought of them. I no longer wonder who is behind (or in) my house when I hear a limb break, or a board creak.

I don’t write about this stuff much, because I don’t find it useful to relive those delightful moments of my life hiding in closets and peeking out of blinds, but I realized when listening to my friend that it might be useful for others to know that it really does stop. It took my psychosis over a year to abate entirely after I stopped using meth. But it did stop. There is hope. I have a real spiritual life, instead of drug-induced phantasmagoria. Hope and despair are equally intangible, but they are not equally valuable.

I know today the only person who was ever out to get me was me. The only shadow people who were ever there were both me—my shadow in front of me that I was always chasing, and my shadow behind me I was running from.