KENTUCKY'S METH PROBLEM TAKES A TOLL ON USERS AND THEIR FAMILIES

This column is in response to John Dixon's column yesterday, "Drugs don't
seem so tantalizing when you meet users' children."

I've never understood drug use, even in the recreational sense.

It's not that I'm a self-righteous, straight-laced Pollyanna.

I'd like to think that it's because I possess a rational mind, and I'm
capable of intelligent choices.

But the methamphetamine problem slowly miring Kentucky in a cesspool of
strung-out junkies desperate for their next fix, even in my tiny hometown
in the south central part of the state, makes me wonder if I'm not missing
something, after all.

I mean, any substance that mixes Drano, lighter fluid, striker pads from
matches and antifreeze has got to be fantastic, right?

Not to mention the lure of the drug's euphoric side affects: nausea,
twitchiness, paranoia and the possibility of emulating the Human Torch if
you make a mistake putting together a batch in the bathtub of your
apartment. You can blow your backwoods lab out of existence with one false
move - there's a marketing plan that's sure to reach the masses of bored
teenagers languishing in suburbia, or trophy wives with nothing better to do.

Clearly, I have no pity for addicts, though I do realize some people do
draw the absolute worst lot by no fault of their own, and it's easy to want
to find an escape - any escape - from reality and its inherent problems.

But there's certainly no excuse, or reason, to lose yourself, and, in
effect, your free will, to such a dangerous substance.

Maybe I sound cold and out-of-touch with my peers. Maybe my intolerance for
drug users makes me a terrible person, and getting high is OK and fun and
socially acceptable.

But these reasons ring hollowly in my ears when I glance at my older
brother's left hand, my eyes riveted on the splotchy scar across his knuckles.

It's the remnant of a two-year-old chemical burn, a painful and obvious
souvenir from a botched attempt to cook meth at 3 a.m.

I've seen the anguish my mother has gone through and barely survived,
certain that if she'd only "raised him right," this wouldn't have happened
to her 28-year-old son.

I've argued endlessly with her, talking in circles, trying to make her see
that in the end, he is his own person, a product of his own choices, and
nothing - absolutely nothing - she could have done would have made any
difference. She didn't put the glass pipe in his mouth. She didn't push him
into the life he chose.

I watched him enter rehab last year, almost daring myself to hope.

I shouldn't have been so stupid - I found a used needle crammed under his
mattress two weeks after he came home.

I've dealt with my own rage, angry at his poor decisions, at his blatant
disregard for everything but his craving for the drug. I didn't speak to
him for a year, while he served his 16-month prison sentence.

It's hard to trust someone after they've violated your confidence so many
times. It's going to be difficult, when he finally comes home, to accept
that he's decided to make positive changes in his life.

The signs are there: He's been clean for nearly 16 months in a place where,
if he wanted, he could get his hands on illegal substances. He's gained
back the weight he lost - his 6'5" frame shrank from 240 pounds to an
emaciated 165. He wants to take college courses and help me care for my
mom, who has multiple sclerosis.

Still, it's a tentative trust at best.

Sitting with him and managing to have a "normal" conversation - well, as
normal as a conversation can be during visiting hours at Louisville's
Dismas of Portland just off 15th Street in the proverbial ghetto - I'm
beginning to believe there's life after meth.

The cost, however - physical, psychological and psychosocial scars for the
addict, and untold emotional trauma for their loved ones - isn't something
anyone should wager - "recreational" or not.

Crystal Little is a journalism senior.