SPEED BRINGS PARANOIA TO USER

Editor's note: The Edson Leader in conjunction with the Edson and
District Drug Action Coalition is publishing a six-part series on a
local meth addict. This is the third article in the series. These
articles are based on the actual interview of an Edson resident
involved in the use and dealing of methamphetamines. The purpose of
the articles is to educate and create a public awareness of the extent
of methamphetamine use in our community.

An idolized brother who had left him angel dust. I waited to hear how
betrayed he must have felt. But didn't.

"Yep -- angel dust." His grin was merry. "Still the worst trip I ever
had."

And with that his childhood chapter was effectively closed. But still,
I had to know -- "Where is your brother now?"

"Oh -- dead." He lit up a smoke. "Finally o.d'd five years
ago."

'Finally'. As if it was somehow inevitable. Some sort of
goal.

I surveyed him again. As clean-cut as a banker. As white-bread as ...
as me

But not like me. For his eyes were far, far older than the 30-some
years he claimed to be.

"So when did it stop being just pot?"

For an accidental foray into angel dust could hardly have led to the
hardcore use he was partaking in now -- right?

"Well, when I was about 20 I had a good buddy -- he made lots of
money. He got me a good job, too. And, him and his friends ... well
.," he shrugged. "They were all using speed. And y'know, it didn't
seem that bad. Those guys were responsible. Hard workers."

"Speed in the oilfield," I mused.

"Back then, yeah. It was a working-man's drug. You could get lots done
- -- stay up for two or three days -- not go to sleep. Maybe need to
shed a few pounds? Works good for that, too."

"And this was back in the mid-eighties?"

"Yeah, that's right. And it made you a good worker. A really hard
worker."

Work hard. Lose weight. I couldn't help but ask the obvious. "How's
that bad?"

"Well ... that first day ... that first day you're just high. Flying.
But second day? You start hearing things. Third day?"

Fear flitted cross his face.

"You start seeing things," he said hoarsely.

"Seeing things?"

Fear danced on his face again.

"What sorts of things?" I asked and for the first time since we
started the interview it was he who looked uncomfortable instead of
me.

"Flashing lights," he said. "Off in the periphery. There and gone so
quick you'd never be sure if you'd actually seen 'em."

He took a parched swallow of water. "Hear stuff -- horrible stuff --
and say stuff, too. Except ...you'd never be sure if you actually said
it or if you'd just think you said it -- know what I mean?"

Sure I did. It was paranoia. Maybe not the clinical definition, yet
what he described couldn't be anything else.

.to be continued