TOXICOPHOBIA: THE TRIAL OF THE STITCHED LINES

There is a form of invisible selfishness among those who are sound of body and mind. A quiet condescension from those who have never had to lay a finger on a molecule to silence their own brains. They look upon addiction with a holy terror, but what exactly are they afraid of? Violence? Filth? Ruin? Deep down, their phobia is merely a reflection of their own ignorance. They fear the void they carry within themselves—a void they have never had the courage to explore.

The modern world suffers from a cruel lack of nuance. Society loves tightly closed drawers and crude labels. In its eyes, there is no difference between a severe poly-drug user on the edge of the abyss, a simple cannabis smoker falling asleep at night, or a bon vivant getting blackout drunk twice a month to celebrate existence. It is all tossed into the same vile sack. Yet the scale is immense; nuance simply requires an intellectual effort that the masses refuse to provide.

We are not wicked. We are not violent. Those who tip over into addiction usually know the list of their ghosts and the exact origin of their drifting by heart. We already suffer enough from our own dependencies, from the daily battle against our receptors, and from the raw aftermath of the mornings after, without needing the added weight of public shame.

The tragedy is that the judgment of others acts as a particle accelerator. How many of us have plunged even deeper into chemical stasis precisely because of that disgusting gaze? The contempt of others isolates, and isolation calls for anesthesia. It is a perfect vicious circle fueled by self-righteousness. People sometimes look at us like monsters, dirty beings, refuse destined to be nothing.

And yet, the reality of our lives destroys their stereotypes one by one. I have two baccalaureates, I have a degree, I live, I work, I produce, and I create just like anyone else. And if I were to be completely honest, I believe this recreational or therapeutic exploration of the mind's backstage has actually benefitted me in many ways: in sensitivity, in the understanding of the human condition, and in gaining perspective on the social comedy.

The hypocrisy of this courtroom is absolute. Your parents drink their glass of wine or their beer every day, sometimes several times a day. On paper, according to any serious clinical study, they are... alcoholics. But because it is legal, because it is cultural, you refuse to see them that way. On the other hand, the man who lights a joint at night to quiet the overheating of his day, or the one who takes a parachute of ecstasy on a Saturday night to elevate himself, to think differently and see the world from another angle—that man is banished from normalcy.

It is a matter of general knowledge and decency. When terms like "GABA receptor" or "neurotransmission" are totally unknown to you, when you have no notion of the fine chemistry governing your own moods, have the decency to stay within the fields where you possess at least a minimum of theoretical and practical knowledge. Drink your booze in silence, and leave us the hell alone.

We are not born equal. Some go through life with a linear neurological structure, without a scratch, without internal storms or pervasive disorders. Good for them. But others are born with tempests beneath their skulls, with hypersensitivities or torn-away pieces of childhood.

I, a boy destroyed and hacked by life, would never allow myself to judge a person who was lucky enough to follow an immaculate straight line. So, let those people respect my architecture. Let them respect the man who had to stitch his own life together, piece by piece, or take a detour for a few years into the abyss just to manage to reach the surface. Humanity should function on empathy and the resonance of pain, not on a tribunal of the ignorant.