The crack smoker who came in from out of the cold

It's lonely in an addict's headspace.

Sorry if you meet me and I happen to get a bit... handsy. The warm embrace of humanity just feels so new to me.

When I was using, the last thing I wanted was to be touched. Smoking crack is, in every sense, the filthiest thing you can do. For one thing, the tools of the trade are so unsanitary, you might as well be sucking smallpox through a straw. The pipe gets dropped a lot. It’s always chipping and breaking, until it’s just a miniature replica of a pipe. Sometimes you step on it, usually with bare feet because it makes for a quieter footfall. It’s bacterial black, lava-hot and effortlessly burns holes in the user’s flesh.

Sheets, too, frequently catch fire. Then there’s all the rooting around on the motel room floor — picking up bits of bug and mouse droppings — in the neverending search for fallen pieces of dope.

And the steel wool used as a filter will invariably give you a micro-cut that seems may just bleed for the rest of your life. As a result, walls, sheets and pillows are often finger-painted with blood. Kind of like those ancient cave scrawls attributed to our ape-like ancestors. Only a thousand times more primitive.

Stop me if I’m glamorizing drug use.

But I’m hoping this will give you some sense of the drug-doer’s lair — and why many of us aren’t compatible with cuddles.

Given the choice, I preferred to get high in the tub. At least you’re kind of being cleaned while you’re being dirty — with the minor inconvenience of fishing out crack chunks that tumble into the murky waters.

Still, what remained in the tub always reminded me of what my eternal soul might look like — an imprint of despair and isolation.

So, you can imagine the condition of addicts, after many years of getting filthy high, when we return to civilization. We’re malnourished — no, we’re starving — for touch.

Keep in mind, human contact is the soul’s air supply. It keeps us sane. Connected. I don’t have to list all the studies suggesting myriad health benefits from the mere act of touch. Okay, maybe just a few.

It’s proven to ease pain, depression, and anxiety. Even sleep is more restful when someone receives the recommended daily intake of touch.

At this point, my fondness for feeling might merit an intervention from Hugaholics Anonymous.

But honestly, it’s their fault.

They get you started on all that touching at the first Narcotics Anonymous meeting. There’s always someone to greet you at the door. No handshake. Straight to hug.

You’ll be lucky to get through that gauntlet without putting out for half a dozen strangers. Then there’s that precious ritual at the end of the meeting when these charming cultists form a circle, hands intertwined. Someone mumbles a prayer or a meditat— oh, I don’t know, I’m just thinking about how cool it is for a bunch of junkies to come together in a grubby basement and exalt in human connection.

Recovery culture, bless its heart, is hug culture.

And this ex-crack smoking creepazoid can’t get enough. So, if you’re out there in the cold depths of space, feeling uncomfortably numb and disconnected, give yourself a little grace and attend a meeting.

It doesn’t mean you have to surrender the pipe and embrace the program. It just might mean that, for one night at least, you’d really like to surrender your spacesuit and embrace a little humanity.