Sleepwalking Toward Extinction

A former heroin addict tells his story.

Sleepwalking Toward Extinction

Every story about drug addiction ends up, perversely, sounding like a love letter to destruction and chaos. I never took that perspective when I look back on my own decisions. The broad strokes are always the same: the theft from both loved ones and strangers, the unforgivable betrayals, the lies we tell ourselves and others. The details are what distinguish these stories and all grow from the tree of the opioid epidemic.

I began using heroin when I was fifteen. I was privately educated, suburban, White, and had a bright future. This was not so uncommon among the drug-addicted, as I would later discover. There seemed to be no discernible reason why I would use drugs or derail my life so completely. But it all makes sense in context: take a changing America, overrun it with the refuse of the world, add a competing job market in which, as a White male, I was considered a relic of the past, and add to that a more and more disconnected and isolated national community.

Capitalist America and advertisement convinced me that any problem could be solved by purchasing a product. The discontent I felt as a teenager could be cured. This is where the mistake happens. Instead of digging a little into the pain and discovering a sense of true identity in an ever-changing world, many people find it so intolerable that it reaches a fever pitch that obliterates any cons associated with bad decision-making. People generally feel more comfortable being the architects of their own prisons, rather than living in a paralyzing world in which everyone convinces you that there are no bars, there is no prison. There seems to be a universal misstep in the addict’s thinking: “well, if the plane is going down anyway, I’d prefer to be the one in the pilot’s seat.”

After a few slip ups, I was finally able to get sober at 24. I was lucky it even happened. I then began working with addicts in a futile effort to cure myself of being such a cynical prick. The picture was grim and the stories were heart-breaking. The tennis prodigy who tore his rotator cuff, his surgery leading to a pill addiction, which in turn lead to a heroin addiction; the construction worker without health insurance who began taking Percocet to ease his bad back from long hours of breaking concrete; the girl who used to be beautiful and had an academic scholarship who got involved with the wrong guy. I remember sitting with her while she was high out of her mind and crying because the rehabs we had called for her had no available beds for weeks. I later convinced her to come with me to one I knew that had to admit her if she was suicidal. We walked in and told them she was going to kill herself. She was admitted, but the quality of care she was receiving was so poor that she ended up leaving early. She’s dead now.

The whole ordeal of working in the field for awhile left me both empathetic and jaded, a strange combination, but one that I believe would work for the alt-right. On a more national level, I began to see the epidemic more clearly. When I managed a recovery house, I cared about the well-being of those in my care. I discovered that all of the owners of the houses were Jewish and, like so many other things, viewed it as a business. They would constantly scream at me to make the rounds collecting money from people, usually people struggling to hold jobs, and then kick them out the day after they paid rent to make room for fresh victims. Their expulsions were usually under the false pretenses of a minor rule violation.

I also realized the full extent of the Jewish role in the epidemic: namely that they were tapping the barrel at both ends. Pharmaceutical companies were flooding the country with poison and then people were opening up rehabs and recovery houses to “clean up the mess.” As an add-on, the tribe was also legally representing the minority communities that are selling heroin on the streets, and pleading in court to get them right back to selling.

The business disgusted me. It became clear to me that this epidemic was one geared toward White people. It is an explicitly White problem, which I am happy to hear the alt-right address often. This is the soft form of White genocide that we need to fix to save the future of our race. Jews are working to get people hooked on drugs, and Blacks and browns are then pushing Whites to sink to a criminal level. Nobody seems to show any remorse, except the addicts who truly want to change. The police can’t do their job to clean up the streets without being called racist, and nobody can bring down Big Pharma because they have the lawyers and the money.

I recognize that it’s hard to sympathize with junkies, especially for the alt-right because so much of the problem is tied up in degeneracy. But I would recommend a new way to look at it. When I see addicts on the street, I’m smart enough to ignore their bullshit stories about needing money for the bus, I suggest that others do the same. My suggestion is to take up the cause by viewing it nationally, or at least viewing it in the abstract. There’s nothing that will extinguish goodwill quicker than an active drug-user. Think of it more that there is a genocide being inflicted on our people and we need to save ourselves. Don’t have sympathy for the junkie on the street; have sympathy for who the person used to be, or who they could be. Think of them as a father, or son, or mother, or daughter. Think of all drug users as those things. Because at some point, someone close to you might become addicted to drugs, and you shouldn’t have to wait til then to feel the heartbreak that you should be feeling for your race now.

Related Posts