I first shot methamphetamine when I was 17. As an abused child seeking relief from trauma and stress, I’d turned to alcohol at age 12 and had used numerous drugs to excess before sticking that needle in my arm. In 1979, at age 18, I was arrested for possession of meth and syringes.
Knowing I was a good student headed to college, without a prior criminal record, the judge reduced the charges to disorderly person, which was below a misdemeanor. As a result, I was not incarcerated. And when he sentenced me, the judge ordered that my record be expunged if I did not get convicted for the next few years. I also was allowed to leave New Jersey to attend college in California, after a one-year delay, even though I still was on probation. The criminal justice system showed me mercy and allowed me to build a life.
I regained a bit of control over my drug use in college, until I succumbed to a severe meth addiction that lasted from my senior year until I was 32. During that decade, I carried meth with me every day. I was pulled over for tickets multiple times and was in car accidents that involved police response. But the police never searched me. Not even when I had been awake for days and looked like a tweaker, with a scabby face and twitchy hands.
