[personal profile] sinnamongirl
There are a lot of ways to roofie a person, but one drug that gets a lot of blame (or attention) is GHB. GHB is a liquid that can be poured into other liquids and should cause anything from drowsiness and confusion to straight-up passing out. What people don't realize about GHB is that the dose is extremely variable from person to person - there's no guarantee that what you give someone will actually have an effect. Also, GHB is very salty. I didn't realize that myself, not until dad gave me some GHB, and I had to choke down this salty (and oddly oily) liquid. More and more of it, as it had no effect on me.

Luckily this isn't a horrific story that requires a terrible trigger warning - Yes, my dad gave me GHB. But I knew it and consented to it, and went off to my bedroom alone and unmolested to, quite emphatically, not sleep at all. After dad started drinking again, he branched off into other drugs as well. He was chasing something, and despite his assertion he was going to "smoke his way to heaven," I'm not sure even he knew what he was chasing. Sometimes I see my dad in myself and my own decisions, and I grasp vaguely at his end-goal, but it floats away. Me, I'm chasing self-worth and confidence; I think it would be too arrogant to assume the same for him, though in the end we're all chasing those things - some simply to a far greater extent than others. Some of us have a much larger void to fill; some will never fill it, perhaps especially the ones who try to fill it with drugs and alcohol.

One of dad's tricks was to look overseas for his substances. Codeine from Europe, Turkish poppy pods from Canada ("for dried flower-arranging purposes"), GHB from... wherever it was from. I think also Canada, but I'm not sure. As long as it didn't get confiscated by Customs, it was smooth sailing (besides that one summer there were odd clicks on the telephone line, but nothing arose from those). So, one night when I complained of insomnia, dad gleefully went to the cupboard and pulled out a large mason jar of clear liquid - relatively odorless too. He gave me his own usual standard dose, and that's when I discovered it was salty. Gross salty. We waited; nothing happened. I took more. We waited longer; nothing happened again. Finally we maxed out the amount he was willing to give me - not because he was concerned about safety, simply because he didn't want me making too big a dent in his supply. I finally went to bed but never went to sleep, so scratch GHB off the list of insomnia remedies for me.

Another time, dad told me that if you took a sleeping pill (in this case Ambien) and stayed awake on purpose, you'd have some great hallucinations. He figured they were the dreams you were supposed to have, but you'd tricked yourself into being conscious of them. I was uninterested in this but was desperate for sleep, so I took one of his Ambien and went to bed. Again, I didn't mean to stay awake, but as it turns out, my particular type of insomnia is rather resistant to drugs. As I did all sorts of other relaxation exercises, I prayed for sleep, it didn't come, so I thought, well, if I'm not going to sleep I may as well see about these hallucinations. As I contemplated my sad existence, a crack in the ceiling wiggled. Just once, like a worm shuddering, and then it stilled.

That was it. That wiggle was the hallucination. I was unable to sleep the rest of the night; too tired to get up and move, so lay there and lay there, but all I saw was that wiggle.

Conversely, there was one night I slept the best sleep I've ever experienced. Dad had gotten his hands on about a foot of San Pedro cactus and whipped up a batch of mescaline which he wanted to share with me. As before, my partaking was a combination of interest and being unable to withstand his pushiness. We prepared - showers, clean clothes, clean house, some meditation - and then split the dose in half and alternated swigs of mescaline with swigs of orange juice. The mescaline itself is gross, but it melds with the orange juice in your mouth to make this deliciously indescribable flavor. We parted ways, dad and I. I ended up sitting on the couch, felt tired, laid down, then next thing I knew I was waking up feeling refreshed, happy, energetic, pain-free, knowing that I'd had vivid and wonderful dreams the night before but not able to remember any of them. I was excited, optimistic, balanced emotionally... it was, frankly, amazing.

I'm sleeping better these days - the PTSD isn't as present, I'm learning mindfulness to handle the anxiety and panic attacks, valerian root for the chronic pain, and I'm not in contact with my father. Often in life it's the little things, but in some cases it's also the very big things - the lack of drugs, the lack of fear, the lack of strife. Sometimes I like who I am in the context of all these random things; sometimes I struggle to remind myself that without these experiences, I wouldn't be who I am today so should be grateful, at least on some level, that I had a dad who'd feed me GHB. He tried, in his own way, to help with my problems and to share his knowledge. In some small way, too, it expands outward - if you're ever out at a bar or a pub and have left your drink unattended then take a sip, and it tastes weirdly salty - put it down. I don't know how to identify all the other roofie drugs out there, but I can do GHB. In that sense, at least, I am roofie-proof, thanks to dad.

April 2017

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