So before we start, I should let you know that I have a long history of abusing any drug I can get my hands. I have at different times addicted to meth, prescription opiates, cocaine, DXM, and of course marijuana.
I still struggle with substance abuse, but at this moment my biggest problem is alcohol. My first experiences with spice were around 2010, and at the time I had easy access to weed.
I was 23; I had already been addicted to painkillers and methamphetamine before all this and had been able to kick those. At the time I was only blazing, and I saw it as a joke and didn’t care for it.
Over the next three years, I learned to shoot pain pills and eventually ended up in rehab. That is where my real deal with Spice began. In rehab, I made a friend with someone who went on and on about his addiction to spice.
Nobody, including myself, took his claims seriously since most of us had been suffering from opiate addiction for years. Eventually me and my rehab friend, Tim, both graduated the program and were going to meetings together.
That lasted maybe a month before I started drinking again. Over time, Tim convinced me that since he couldn’t drink, we should smoke spice.
He took me to a small smoke shop in West Cleveland, and we bought a gram of something called Death grip. I quickly learned that all the stories he had been telling me were true, I can’t put into words exactly how it felt when I took those first hits.
It was far stronger than any drug I had experienced before, and I had experienced a lot of drugs. It immediately became a daily ritual, and by the third day, I had started vomiting and having mild hallucinations.
From here it got bad. Tim would throw up all over my bedroom and have violent seizures. I would constantly try to slow down how much he smoked, but at the same time, I was falling into the same addiction.
After a month of daily use, I had given up on controlling him and just did my best to smoke as much as I could before he smoked it all. We thought it made us talk to the demon world and we would speak of all demonic things we heard.
He would brag about being Death, and I would say I was the Demon King. We had lost all touch with reality in just under a month.
We would both smoke until we couldn’t remain conscious, lay there for however long it took for us to come out of it, talk about whatever it was we experienced in that time, smoke some more, and then repeat that process till the bag ran out.
Eventually, our consumption escalated to about 5 grams a day, and this was when we started stealing from our families to support the habit. It’s also when the extreme withdrawal symptoms set in.
We devised a system where we would smoke just enough to get us where wanted to go and then wait till we started throwing up. Once we have begun sweating through our shirt, we knew we were about to start throwing up, and that was time to smoke.
Both of us agreed that we had lost most of our motor coordination whether we were high or not. Our muscles just stopped moving right. It’s so hard to explain, but we would have mini seizures that made walking and just moving our body usually impossible.
When we ran out Tim would start balling up the tin foil pipes we had been using to smoke out of, and we would smoke the foil. Eventually, I bought a glass pipe because I couldn’t stand smoking foil, so what we did instead wiped the inside of the pipe with a rolling paper to collect the liquid that had accumulated and smoked that.
We would crawl on the floor and try to find anything that had been dropped. Just anything to stop the withdrawal from setting in. Roughly four months from when we started, he was kicked out of his house and had to move into a homeless shelter.
At that point, we were spending roughly $100 a day, and his family couldn’t deal with it anymore. I had lost my job and was on the verge of homelessness myself. He stopped at that point; I kept going.
I was running out of money, and the shop we used to buy from had been closed down. I started going to another place 45 minutes away to buy stuff that, quite frankly, wasn’t nearly as potent. It stopped the withdrawal, though.
In a way, the lack of money and places to buy it forced me to give up. I lost my apartment, moved back into my mom’s house, and detoxed in her basement.
Detoxing was living hell. I would throw up every 30 minutes. I literally couldn’t sleep. I just laid in my bed and put together for almost a week. I would try to drink water because I knew I needed to survive but would almost immediately start to throw it up.
After about four days the vomiting became less frequent I started being able to sleep with the help of Seroquel my mom had given me for maybe an hour at a time. I don’t remember what I dreamt, but I would wake up in a panic at regular intervals.
Most of the time I would wake up screaming, look around, then lay back down and fall asleep. I still couldn’t eat or drink without throwing up. At one point, I felt the house was collapsing around me, had a panic attack, sprinted into the back yard, threw up, then went back inside to fall back asleep.
All in all, I would say it took about two weeks to fully be the return to what could be called a routine, but even then I still had cravings for spice and felt as if the experience had permanently altered my mind.
It was roughly two years ago, and I still don’t think my brain functions the way it did before. I still drink more than anyone outside of a frat house should, and I smoke weed now and then.
Tim has hit me up a few times asking me if I wanted to smoke it again and at times, I’ve been tempted enough to make plans but never followed through with it. Last I heard he had found a job and was doing the same as I am these days, but we don’t talk much anymore.
All I can say is this: Whatever you do, don’t smoke spice.