15/05/2025
"I am finally free from m**h," I said to my mum while standing in front of the mirror in my room. Beaming with smiles—it had been a long journey and I must say I felt good. I felt better. More in control of my environment. I felt saved.
Two months ago, I was in a rehabilitation centre in a neighboring town. I can barely remember what I looked like then, but from what my mum told me, my eyes were sunken, my face drawn and hollow. My skin had turned pale and dry, stretched thin over sharp bones. My lips were cracked, my hair unkempt, and my hands shook even when I tried to keep still. I had sores on my face from scratching—scratching imaginary things that crawled under my skin. My clothes hung on me like they belonged to someone else. My voice was hoarse, my speech scattered. I was always muttering som**hing under my breath, reacting to things no one else could see. I looked haunted, like the ghost of the girl I used to be.
Mum said all this with tears in her eyes. To think that I became a m**h addict under her roof was appalling to her. The fact that she didn’t notice until it became that bad—she calls it her biggest regret in life.
I was sixteen when I sniffed m**h for the first time. Quite young, if I do say so myself.
"I was curious to know what it smelt like. I wanted to see if I’d get addicted. I sought it. I was bored." I screamed. On the day my parents found out. They were not always around they travelled a lot so when they came back and saw me. That’s what I told them. A part of that was true. But that was after I had already gotten addicted. Before I was exposed to it, some other things happened.
The real reason? I fell in love—with him.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. The day I met him. I was in JS3. I remember walking into school after resumption and the first person I saw was him.
I hadn’t seen him before. I was quite popular and knew almost everyone, so I guessed he was new—and I was right. Turns out he had just moved from Abuja. I knew because our principal introduced him to the school during assembly.
I remember rolling my eyes. She only introduced influential kids, and from experience, I associated them with pride—a trait I couldn’t stand. I was sure I’d hate him.
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I was in SS2 when we started dating. Don’t get me wrong, don't even judge—he wasn’t all bad. I mean, he did many things that made my heart skip. He knew how to make a girl blush from head to toe.
Somehow, I looked past his flaws. Besides, no one’s perfect, and I had so much empathy for him. He came from a broken home, and his family was deeply troubled. The more I learned about him, the more I wanted to help. Empathy turned to sympathy. Sympathy turned to love.
I loved him.
I wanted to help him. That’s why I stayed, even after I discovered he was a bad influence.
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When I was in SS3, I caught him sniffing a powdery substance during a visit. I asked him what it was.
He shrugged. "It’s nothing," he said.
I frowned. "You can tell me. I swear I won’t judge." I stepped closer and looked into his eyes—the eyes I had come to love. Hazel, mixed with silver. ( _Not important, forgive me.)_
He smirked. A smirk I would later learn to hate.
"Methamphetamine."
"I’m sorry—what?"
"Methamphetamine," he repeated, smiling. He leaned closer and whispered, "Do you want to try it?"
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Three weeks later, I wasn’t an addict—yet. I hated the smell of m**h. I hated the feeling associated with it. I loathed it. One second I’d feel on top of the world, the next I’d crash. I didn’t want anything to do with it. But he was persistent. Henry—my ex—was relentless. He kept pushing.
And I gave in. Like the "good girl" he wanted me to be.
I cried after taking it. He smirked. To him, it was a game. But I knew I was loosing it—my senses. I felt like I could die at any moment. I don’t like to remember those days.
I’d rather talk about rehab.
Rehab was hard. It felt like being locked in a war with myself—my body screamed for m**h, but my mind begged for freedom. For days, I was convinced I would die without the drug. But I didn’t. I am so grateful I didn't.
I didn’t think I’d survive—but I did. And I vowed never to speak to Henry again.
He had turned me into a shell of myself, and yet he looked strong, untouched by the damage he caused. As though the drugs didn’t affect him at all.
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Post-rehab days were bleak. I didn't know what to do with my life again. Life felt worthless. I thought so much I thought I would one day walk out of my body and on one of such days I found God . And I realized: life isn’t with much without him. I realized how much he loved me. How he was so intentional about me.
The day I left rehab wasn’t the last day I used m**h actually. I still snuck around for it. It was poison that tasted like bliss. I yearned for it. But God helped me through it all. Till I eventually let go completely.
Henry left too. I didn’t have to break up with him. After I went to rehab, everyone turned on him. They knew he played a role. He couldn’t handle the heat. So, he left.
Good riddance.
