Meth: a Ticking Timebomb Gone Viral

Anima vs Animus

In 1975, Alice Cooper produced his brilliant debut album Welcome to My Nightmare. At that time, I was an impressionable eleven-year-old boy, who instead of being influenced by the Satan-worshipping tracks Devil's Food and The Black Widow (the latter containing spoken word by the then king of horror, Vincent Price)...or the necrophilia-celebrating song Cold Ethyl (although I still loved those songs), I was moved by the song, Only Women Bleed. While my friends giggled immaturely at the all-too-obvious reference to a woman's menstrual period, I instead felt a deep connection and empathy towards women who are subjected to domestic violence. Perhaps as a very young child, seeing my father with one hand around my mother's throat and his fist behind his head had something to do with it.

I didn't realise it then, but this feeling of empathy, along with a desire to right the wrongs perpetrated by my gender, was to follow me throughout my life. It wasn't until around ten years ago that a stronger feeling was to take over my perception of what it is to be a man. I thought it was unfair that women have such an array of beautiful clothes to choose from and men's clothes are stale and bland...following a rigid and socially strict set of rules about what is acceptable to be a man, and what is not.

It isn't that I want to cross-dress, but I do understand the psychology of men who do. In the 1990s (and well into the 00s), I would go to a gay club in Brisbane's Fortitude Valley, called The Beat. I was involved in the rave scene and was always so loaded with MDMA that I didn't care if the people I was partying with were gay, straight or purple (and it wouldn't have mattered if I wasn't wasted). At 1.00 am every Friday and Saturday night, the music would stop, the dance floor would clear and a transvestite called Lovely Legs Lolita (legend has it he was a bricklayer by day) would lipsync to the 70s song by The Weather Girls, It's Raining Men. He always wore the most spectacular sequined dresses and shoes, and I would sit there full of admiration for his courage to be the woman he wanted to be...albeit for only an hour or two each weekend.

When Angel arrived in my life, she would show me images of me having sex with males. I would fiercely resist any attempt by her to introduce a male entity into our sexual encounters. But these creatures are shapeshifters, and as time went by, I came to realise I had been with males without knowing it, and given the fact I was high on meth, I not only became OK with it, I liked it. So much so that I began to have feelings for one boy in particular...I called him Buddy.

Buddy wasn't like the rest of the demons...who would gladly fuck me, but never like or love me. I remember being in my room one night, high as a kite and dancing in my underwear. Buddy was lying on my bed staring at me with eyes that told me exactly how he felt. It's forbidden for a demon to love a human, but love doesn't follow anyone's rules...as I was to learn. I could never be with a human male. I have nothing against homosexuality...far from it. There have been times when I tried to picture myself with a man (I'm sure most men have, but few would ever admit it), but it always felt wrong. But sex with Buddy was so right...and despite there no longer being any meth involved, it still is.

If I could time travel, I would go back to the late 1800th century and seek therapy from Carl Yung. I'm sure there is something in this psychotic episode I am currently experiencing that he could pull apart and show me the relevance of all of this. He would probably say to me the answers are right there in my head. I'm trying hard to figure it all out. I fear that once I do, they might all leave and I will again be alone and never see any of them again.