Experimentation

Experimentation

The first time I ever did an illegal drug was when I was about fourteen or fifteen years old, and I had taken some speed pills from my mom’s stash, and I took them with one of my friends. Nothing really happened, except that we stayed up all night long. It didn’t seem like a big deal to me. I didn’t see what the big fuss was all about.
I grew up with drugs in my household. My step-dad sold marijuana, and probably other drugs, too. I remember that when my parent’s friends would come over, me and my two older sisters and my brother were sent to the basement and told not to come upstairs until we were told we could. We could smell the stale stench of pot and hear the adults coughing. We weren’t stupid. We knew what was going on.
As we got older, my parents hid it less and less. Their friends would break up their weed infront of us, and pack their bowls or roll a joint. I watched as my step-dad brought home huge black garbage bags stuffed full of dried pot plants, and dump them on the bed in my parent’s room. My mom and some friends would sit around the bed breaking it all up. I never cared. It never bothered me. It was just something I grew up with. It wasn’t a bad thing to me, although it was a “secret” and I wasn’t supposed to talk about it to anyone.
Though it was common knowledge in our household that our parents sold drugs, as well as did them, my parents still were very hush-hush about it. One time my step-dad’s scale was sitting out and I asked my mom what it was for, and she told me was to weigh envelopes to see how many stamps to use. And it very well may have been for that, but that is not what they used it for. She knew I knew the truth, but she still did not want to admit it to me.
One time at our cabin, I needed a pair of socks and my mom told me to just grab a pair from her dresser drawer. Right in plain sight in her drawer was a mirror, razorblade, and a little vile of cocaine. I knew what it was, but it didn’t bother me. I just grabbed the socks and shut the drawer. I heard all kinds of bad things about drug use, especially about cocaine, from school. We had the DARE program. It should have scared me, or at least made me try to talk to my parents about it. But it just did not bother me.
I remember the night the police came to raid our house. I was asleep in bed, and a man came into my room and shined a flashlight right in my face. I just thought it was one of my parent’s drunken friends, and I told him the bathroom was the last door down the hall, not this one, and rolled back over and went to sleep. The cop left without saying anything, probably not wanting to scare me. The next morning I saw the search warrant on the kitchen counter. My step-dad was taken to jail, regardless of the fact that the police hadn’t found anything at all incriminating in our house. But one of his so called friends ratted him out.
The raid and all kinds of information about our family was in the local newspaper. All my friends and neighbors knew about it, but no one ever said anything. It just did not seem like a big deal.
The first time I smoked weed was with one of my sisters. I was about sixteen, and we sat in my bedroom blowing the smoke out of my window, afraid our parents would smell it. I didn’t like the taste of marijuana, and it didn’t do much for me except make me giggly and tired. Soon after that, my boyfriend smoked weed infront of me. I did not care. I did not like to smoke it, so I did not do it much, but every once in awhile I would take a hit. It wasn’t a big thing to me.
After I figured out that my boyfriend was doing more than just smoking weed, I was angry. He was doing cocaine and not telling me. I had never done coke, but figured if my parents did it, and my boyfriend did it, and my friends did it, then it probably wasn’t so bad. I did a little from my boyfriend’s fingertip. I did not really get the effect, nothing happened. So I did a line, and I liked it. Everyone I knew, and everyone I kept meeting, seemed to be doing cocaine. And these weren’t like druggies or low-lives. Just normal people, some even very respectable people. Cocaine became my drug of choice.
I tried acid once. I don’t think I will ever do that again. At first, everything around me seemed to glow. Then I thought I was the strongest person ever alive and I started to rip stuff up. But when the TV started talking to me, I flipped out. I scared my boyfriend so much, that he made me swallow some sleeping pills and get into bed. He was trying to comfort me, and rub my forehead, but every time his hand would brush my forehead, I saw claws on his hand and I freaked out even more. I would not ever do that drug again.
I’ve done a lot of different drugs in my life, and experimented like a lot of people do. I grew up with. I lived with it. I am not saying it is a good thing to do drugs, not even once, but in all my experiences it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing either.
I do not do drugs anymore, and haven’t for a number of years. I will never do them again.