I’m Coming Out of the Closet

I am a drug user. And probability states that you probably are too. So why are so many of us remaining silent about it?

17 min readOct 16, 2021

Every day, countless of individuals around the globe utilize some form of psychoactive substances to enhance their lives in a myriad of ways — to lift their mood, to alleviate their physical or emotional pain, to expand their minds, to boost their productivity, to socially bond, to connect with loved ones, to build community. This makes sense, given the fact that drug use is one of the most ubiquitous traits of the human species. Throughout history, legal or not, people have always pursued pleasure and happiness through the modulation of their consciousness with the assistance of drugs. It is one of the fundamental characteristics of our humanity, on par with our proclivity toward eating, sleeping, and having sex.

Many users get to consume their drug of choice legally and with social acceptance. In our workplaces, the productivity drug caffeine predominates with Keurigs that dispense the lifeblood of our office. Many of our social interactions are facilitated through the use of recreational drugs like alcohol or cannabis. Some of us choose to relieve everyday stressors or reap mild performance benefits using the stimulant nicotine. Doctors can prescribe us certain drugs to treat a host of maladies that plague the human condition, such as opioids for those suffering from pain or benzodiazepines for individuals struggling with anxiety. Drugs have such a beloved position in our society that we even provide them to our children. Any parent will attest to the power of the “sugar high” on their kids after too many candy bars on Halloween night. Beyond that, however, we also unquestioningly administer them powerful mood and mind-altering drugs like SSRIs or amphetamines for bouts of depression or inattention at school. Undoubtedly, drugs are widely and frequently used as a tool in daily human life, for better or worse.

It’s just that as a collective, we love to use drugs.

While a portion of us are given the liberty to consume our (legal) drugs of choice, there is another large portion whose right to pursue happiness is impeded on multiple levels. Socially, nearly all people who use illicit drugs are viewed as pathological addicts in need of rehabilitation. Legally, they are perceived as dangerous criminals who must be punished and incarcerated. In reality, many of these “addicts” or “criminals” are otherwise law-abiding citizens and productive members of society who do not have a chaotic or disordered relationship with the drugs they use.

I am one of them and chances are that you or someone very close to you is, too. There are a lot of us in the closet.

I was sixteen when I got arrested.

I was in possession of cannabis that me and two other friends had pooled our money to buy. Given the technicality that it was in my bag, it was also my bud. In due process, I was given my day in court and sentenced to nine months of probation. This was my first direct encounter with the criminal justice system and I was constantly reminded that I was “getting off easy.” Little did I know that the “justice” for my criminal offenses would be some of the most dehumanizing and traumatizing experiences of my life.

Once a week, I had to leave school early so that I could attend my court-mandated activities with fellow juvenile delinquents in Detroit, Michigan. One by one, we took the stand during a makeshift “hearing” where we were subjected to interrogation and scrutiny by a judge about our past week’s activities, drug screening results, school attendance, grades, and any transgressions reported by our parents or probation officer. It was also during this time that punishments were dealt for any slip ups, which for some of the attendees resulted in extended probation or stays in a juvenile detention facility, others additional psychological services or visits to a psych ward. This practice seemed much less about rehabilitation and more about public humiliation and control. Upon reflection years later, I still believe that my adolescent observation was correct.

After the hearings, we were corralled to the courthouse basement for our weekly drug screening. When our name was called, we followed a staff member to the bathroom with one stall that had no door. Sometimes they would stand outside the stall with their back turned, other times they would watch us intensely as we urinated into a little plastic cup. If we protested, we were threatened with “non-compliance” which would certainly result in repercussions during our next hearing. At one point, additional random drug screening through a private company was added to our requirements. Every morning, we would call a phone number and a robotic voice would list various colors. When our assigned color was named (mine was aqua), we had to get to the closest testing location within 12 hours to “drop.”

One trip to one of these facilities stands out most in my mind. I stood in line, a small-framed teenage girl, surrounded by grown men who didn’t even stare at me as I would have presumed they would when I walked in. Everyone looked defeated, and all eyes were focused on the floor directly in front of them. The waiting area was silent, punctuated only with names hollered from the front desk. Eventually I was led to a doorless bathroom with a small cove featuring a single toilet. It was surrounded by mirrors.

There were mirrors on all the walls at seat-level and one on the floor that was tilted upwards so that your crotch was clearly visible to the supervising staff. The woman watched me with intent as I coyly lowered the cup between my legs. “Spread ‘em,” she said coldly, “I need to be able to see.” I complied. When she saw the string dangling from my body, she ordered me to remove my tampon first. Now with little protest, I complied again and provided a urine sample. Unprepared and freely bleeding, I waited for the results of the test strip to prove my innocence. I left the facility with a deeper understanding of the defeat I saw in the eyes of those adults, and with a noticeable blood stain growing at the seat of my pants.

As an additive to our probation, we were all required to attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings, group therapy, undergo a psychological evaluation, and subjected to random breathalyzer tests on the weekends. To further the disruption to our lives, we would receive home and school visits from our probation officer. Multiple times I was removed from class so that I could meet with my PO. Sometimes this notification would come in the form of a phone call to my teacher. Other times a police officer would come to the door of our classroom to escort me out. Regardless of discretion or lack thereof, my peers quickly took notice and asked me what was happening. It wasn’t long before everyone knew and I was viewed as a criminal. At the time, I outwardly leaned into the bad-ass persona that these visits created. In reality, I was just a scared kid whose heart would pound each time the teacher’s phone rang or there was a knock at the door.

Despite these personally traumatizing events, the most egregious occurrence during my time in probation was the striking difference in treatment given to members of my probationary cohort. Although I felt victimized by the system that claimed to exist for my protection, I continued to recognize the privilege that I received as a young white woman. If I had any indiscretions, my most severe punishment was a referral for court-ordered therapy or a psychiatrist required anti-depressant prescription. This was not true for my black male counterparts. Many of these kids were given much harsher punishments, some being sentenced to overnight stints in jail while others were placed under house arrest with an ankle monitor. The experience overall left me with a firsthand understanding that the system for criminal justice was biased in favor of people who looked like me.

All of the teens in attendance were there for drug-related crimes. For most of the program, I was the only female in attendance. Of the eight to twelve minors subjected to this treatment, there were never more than two or three individuals who were white. Even at the time, I was disgusted by this disparity. Coming from a predominantly white, middle-class community, I knew all too well that nearly all of my peers were experimenting with illegal drugs. The stark contrast in the enforcement of these drug laws haunted me each time I entered these hearings, and becomes even more evident when examining the statistics of drug use versus drug arrests. The drug war has always been at least in large part racially motivated, but its harms affect not only people of color, but individuals of all backgrounds. None of us really belonged there to begin with. We were all just curious kids who they attempted to scare straight.

No one should be subjected to the treatment we were simply for using drugs.

I was locked in the closet during my probation.

The single benefit of my time under court supervision was its facilitating my introduction to psychedelic substances. Since routine urine screenings do not (and typically cannot) reliably test for drugs like LSD (acid) or psilocybin (magic mushrooms), I began seeking and using these drugs instead of cannabis. To be clear, cannabis served as a purported gateway drug only in the sense that my forced lack of access to it required that I “escalate to harder drugs” (sarcasm intended)

Being under close judicial scrutiny did not change my desire to take mind-altering chemicals; I only learned how to effectively subvert detection. This illustrates the fact that prohibition doesn’t prevent people from using drugs, it just requires that they be creative in their drug use to avoid getting caught. While this may lead to the use of potentially more harmful “legal highs” ordered off the web by teens today, I was fortunate to be introduced to a healthier alternative.

My period of self-experimentation with this new class of substances was life altering. Like many others, some of my most profound spiritual experiences have been under the influence of psychedelic drugs. I became embodied during these times, seeing my teenage self and the world from a new perspective. I realized my undeniable interconnectedness with the people in my life, with all living beings, and with the planet itself. I emerged from these trips with a deeper sense of gratitude, joy, empathy, and love. They sparked my interest in art, science, activism, Eastern philosophy, meditation, yoga, healthy eating, and wellness. The perceived rehabilitation and behavioral improvements that allowed me to complete my drug-related probation early were initiated by illegal drugs.

Using psychedelic drugs during my formative years made me into a better person.

I continued to use these substances even after my probationary period ended, and I still occasionally take them even now as an adult. I don’t misuse these drugs, nor am I an addict. I utilize them a handful of times yearly with the utmost care and respect. They have been a catalyst for meaningful personal growth and an important tool for me to process much of my childhood and adolescent trauma. Years of failed counseling, diagnoses, psychiatrist visits, and SSRI drugs left me fearing that I was broken beyond repair and doomed to a life of misery. My adult use of psychedelics has renewed hope in my ability to heal myself.

Almost all of my psychedelic use is done alone from the safety of my own home. I notify friends and family of my plans for the day, letting them know that I may reach out for support. I have never had severe physical emergency or mental/emotional distress that required I seek outside assistance. I haven’t lost touch with reality for extended durations of time, suffering from paranoid delusions that I’m being maliciously poisoned by the government or having my blood stolen by the aliens or turned into a pitcher of orange juice. Not once have I encountered a “bad trip” that resulted in me perpetrating violent acts toward others, nor have I put myself in danger by wandering into a road or off the roof of a building as media reports may have once led you to believe. I haven’t taken a dose in months and I’ve not been “itching for a fix” like a fiend. They have not turned me into a mentally unstable and addicted criminal deviant, nor have they done so to the majority of healthy individuals who take them.

Rather, I spend a few hours of my weekend at home listening to music, creating, dancing, practicing yoga, laughing, crying, journaling, and telling my dog how much I love her. As before, I still leave these trips with a renewed sense of awe and appreciation for the life I have been given and they have undoubtedly helped me to shape my life in a way that is deeply fulfilling and full of meaning. I am happier than ever and more connected to my loved ones. I hold a full-time position as a research scientist and explore passions or hobbies during my free-time. I’ve even sought traditional therapy again to continue integrating the lessons that psychedelics continue to reveal.

Regardless of their legality, these mature and conscientious psychedelic experiences have been more facilitative for healing than any other therapy I’ve received and I’m not the only one. There is a growing body of clinical evidence suggesting their power in treating mental illness such as post-traumatic stress, depression, and addiction. Unfortunately, these drugs remain today in Schedule I defined by their “lack of accepted medical use and high potential for abuse.” While studies are currently underway through incredible organizations like the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies (MAPS), these experiences are legally reserved almost exclusively for individuals who suffer from severe and debilitating mental diagnoses and often confined to the clinical setting. I do believe that the medical model of psychedelics has an important role and value in shaping the future growth of psychedelics. However, I also envision a future in which all people are free to take these substances in therapeutic and retreat-like settings for the purpose of personal growth, transformation, and spiritual insight.

For me, psychedelics have been a gateway drug to not only increased personal wellness and fulfillment, but also a piqued interest in drug policy reform.

In college, I went to a festival with my partner.

Anyone who is involved in the electronic music scene will tell you that these festivals are like a sacred space and an outlet for expression, connection, enjoyment, and fun. At the time we were both upstanding students who actively engaged in our campus community, executed scientific research through the university, and held multiple job positions that we loved. Thousands of healthy, productive, and well-functioning adults like us attend these types of events each year to let loose and relax without the social constraints of stressful, busy, everyday life.

Many of these individuals also engage in recreational drug use at these events, and we were no exception. Prior to leaving for the festival, we acquired a small amount of MDMA (or molly, ecstasy) from a trusted friend. MDMA is a common drug in the music scene and many others were using it at the festival as well. Most of us were not pathological drug users, nor were we looking to create any trouble or disorder. We were adults making decisions about how we chose to pursue our own version of happiness. Just like many of the alcohol users in attendance, we simply preferred to utilize a chemical to enhance our experience of the festival.

On day one, we stumbled across a booth in the camping grounds with a sign advertising free drug testing services. In an attempt to use our drugs as safely as possible, we submitted a sample of our “molly” for testing. To our surprise, the Bunk Police notified us that what we had did not seem to have any MDMA present at all. With slight disbelief, we bought a testing kit to confirm these results on our own, trusting our chemistry training and experience to guide us. Nestled in our tent, we dropped the liquid reagents onto bits of our sample and using the analysis pamphlet, we concluded that he was right: we did not have molly in our possession. In fact, the results indicated that what we had was likely a bag of heroin.

Prohibition of recreational drugs does nothing to prevent people from seeking them out. Rather, it opens the door for street dealers to pedal their wares as whatever they choose to gain the highest financial return or make a sale with their target audience, with little to no regard for quality. Our friend, the source of the falsely identified drug, genuinely had no idea. He had been taking it himself for weeks. Low-level dealers who actually distribute drugs to the average consumer often do not know the content or purity of what they are selling. Many aren’t even aware that drug testing kits exist, and rarely would you expect them to test every batch of the product they sell. Most drugs on the consumer market have been through multiple sets of hands and at each step, adulterants and contaminants might be covertly added.

This is especially problematic when drugs are sold as one drug class (stimulants for example, like amphetamines or cocaine) but contain something entirely different (such as opiates like heroin or fentanyl). Users of these drugs may take a smaller, more responsible dose and upon not achieving the expected effect, could take additional amounts of the drug. This can result in entirely unexpected symptoms like respiratory depression, overdose, or death. The issue is compounded when this misinformation results in misinformed health treatment for those experiencing accidental overdose. If a festival medic is told that someone might be experiencing an “Adderall OD” when they actually took an excess dose of an opiate, potentially life-saving medical care might not be given in time.

The harm reduction service of drug safety testing is heartbreakingly considered by many festival event promoters (as well as government officials) to be “encouraging” drug use. Even worse, in some places one could be arrested for the possession of testing kits under the grounds of questionable paraphernalia laws. While the glacially-slow movement of drug policy reform drags on, it is foolish to deny that illicit drug use will still occur in the meantime. To discourage the use of drug testing kits is to discourage the health and safety of drug users while simultaneously sending the message that their lives don’t matter, purely because they chose to take drugs that were unknowingly impure. I stand with organizations like Bunk Police and DanceSafe who promote health of all people, even those who choose to use drugs.

DanceSafe’s Mitchell Gomez said it best in his 2015 blog post:

“The bold truth, that we must all speak loudly, is that in a world where correctional officers cannot keep drugs out of prisons, there is simply no way […] to stop incidental, but inevitable use. No matter how sincere the […] effort, no matter how zealous and abundant the security and police, no matter how hard we try, those who wish to consume mind altering substances will always find a way to do so. However you may feel about this truth, it is reckless to deny. Once we accept that some use is unstoppable, it is our moral obligation to do everything within our power to reduce the risk of harm to those who do choose to use.”

In the age of #MeToo and #BlackLivesMatter, I think that it is time we recognize the wide-reaching scope of harms that drug prohibition has caused. The war on drugs intersects the divides of gender, race, and class. It affects everybody. Although the statement has been hijacked, all lives truly do matter, even those of people who use drugs. As Mitchell stated, “These injuries and deaths are real, and they are happening far too often.”

This year on Easter Sunday, my friend died.

We had become acquainted when I was in high school, before the days of probation. Admittedly, our group of friends was a little wild and we certainly enjoyed partaking in drug-related activities when we were together. He was a long-time drug user who preferred to take prescription narcotics, most of which he obtained from the illicit market. The last time I saw him, he opened up a small mint container and individually removed various shapes and sizes of pills, identifying each by name and dose with ease as he went. He smiled his contagious smile and joked that he always had a pharmacy with him.

We reminisced about the good old days and caught up about where everyone from our friend group was now. Most of our friends went on to have beautiful families, well-paying jobs, and full lives. He gifted me a few Adderall before he left (knowing they have always been my favorite pharmaceutical drug), promising that we’d get back together when he was in town again and invited me to stay with him whenever I visited Arizona. My friends were (and many still are) drug users, but never did it make them into selfish or violent criminals. They are normal people who lead normal lives. They participate productively in society, wish to lead happy lives themselves, try their best to help others, and kindly share their drugs when given the opportunity. They are your friends, your siblings, your parents, your mentors. In some capacity, most of us are drug users and I like to believe that most of us are fundamentally good people.

About a month later, a mutual friend of ours called me when I was at work. He never called me, nor did he have any reason to. I assumed it was an accident, so I ignored it and expected a “sorry wrong person” text shortly after. Instead I received a message saying, “Hey please call me I need to talk to you.” I returned the call immediately and was informed that he didn’t know the details, he just wanted to let me know as soon as possible, and he’d let me know when he learned more, but our friend had died.

Words can’t entirely describe the feelings experienced in the moments after hanging up the phone. Somberly, I walked back into work. My normally cheerful nature grew increasingly despondent as the news set in. I felt uncomfortable divulging any information to my coworkers, fearful of what I might say in my shock. Secretly, I hoped that his demise was brought about by something ordinary, like a car accident, not related to drugs. Most who knew him knew of his drug use and the last thing I wanted was for his death to be used as another fear-mongering example.

In the unfolding weeks, my fears were confirmed. I learned that he had purchased what he believed to be oxycodone from the illicit market. It was a counterfeit pill which turned out to have contained a lethal dose of fentanyl.

The widespread unavailability of harm reduction strategies and lack of public education may have been able to prevent something like this from happening. What if fentanyl testing strips could have prevented him from taking the adulterated substance in the first place? Could an anti-overdose medication like Naloxone have saved his life? Was he even aware that these resources existed? I have also since considered the fact that if he had safe, legal access to his drugs of choice, this would not have happened. To my knowledge he was a fairly responsible user. He was mindful of dose and knew his limits. I can’t help but wonder if he would have ever overdosed if he could legally acquire quality-controlled drugs. These are questions that will linger in my mind forever and it is unlikely I will ever receive definitive answers.

One thing is certain.

People will find a way to use drugs if that is what they want to do.

Yet so many of our social biases and moralistic policies indirectly state that drug users deserve to die simply for their choice to use drugs.

This is a fucking problem, and I won’t be silent anymore.

Prohibition does not prevent people from taking drugs, nor does it reduce the potential harms associated with drug use. In fact, it increases the odds of these drug-related nightmares happening to others. I won’t be silent anymore.

I’m coming out.

I cannot spend another day hiding in a closet packed with the millions of responsible adults around the world who are too afraid to speak up about their illicit drug use. I will no longer sit idly in fear of damaging my career, tarnishing my reputation, or losing my freedom because of my pursuit of happiness. I don’t believe that I should be prosecuted or persecuted for partaking in something that gives me so many benefits with so little harm, and is a pastime shared by so many others like myself. I refuse to remain silent when the war on drugs has so obviously harmed, ruined, or stolen the lives of otherwise happy, healthy, and kind people.

This war against us has had too many casualties and I am finally ready to publicly join the movement toward ending it.

Being out of the closet feels good. It was getting awfully stuffy in there.