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Struggling With A Meth Head

Methamphetamine is a violent and volatile drug. While I may not completely understand the nature of drug addiction, the appeal of meth boggles my mind. Aside from the various psychological effects it can have, why take a drug that literally causes your body advanced decay?

It destroys the normal function of essential neurotransmitters leading to profound physical effects, raises blood pressure, and causes liver and kidney damage, uncontrolled muscle contraction, heart palpitations and dysrhythmias, as well as rotting teeth and hair loss. Then there are the effects on the brain. The decaying neurons there lead to paranoia, hallucinations, and abhorrent behavior that makes them dangerous and potentially violent.

It's always an experience attempting to take someone hopped up on meth to the hospital. It's an exercise in controlled chaos. There are anywhere from eight to eighteen people attempting to control one person who is usually screaming, spitting, biting, crying, pissing, flailing, and completely deranged.
When a user does become violent, this one person is a juggernaut. He pushes the word violent to the limit. Their physical strength peaks to superhuman levels, throwing sheriffs across the room with one hand climbing to their feet from being pinned by two plus two hundred pound grown men. Not to mention invulnerability to pain. I've seen a man take a taser to the chest and shake it off, strain against handcuffs to the point of tearing flesh, and punch into objects breaking bones in the hand and arm quite visibly only to continue punching other objects. 

We found our patient handcuffed and restrained to a chair by two sheriffs. He was screaming nonsense about alien conspiracy and how he knew the truth. Hallucinations and delusion had convinced him that we had come to take him away for experimentation because he knew too much. The maddened cries for help and curses of revenge periodically interrupted by outburst of attempts to harm us were indicative of behaviors we've come to associate with meth overdoses. 

As the emergency medical personnel entered, his drive to fight escalated as if our presence confirmed his belief that he would be taken away for torture. Bruised and exhausted, eight of us wrestled him to the gurney and struggle to restrain his arms and legs. I left my sunglasses on because it was sunny. It was a mistake, I realized while attempting to restrain his kicking legs when one heel found it's way to the bridge of my nose cracking my new and beautiful polarized Oakely's. 

He was tazed him twice to gain control to strap him down. Sedated three times. All attempts to subdue him were less effective than pure manpower to securing him to the gurney. By the time he's in the ambulance, I'm barely strong enough to hold the wheel steady, I'm drenched in sweat mostly but not entirely my own, and I'm annoyed at the crack just on the edge my field of vision. But as tired and broken as I feel, I imagine the terrible discomfort that poor bastard in back will be feeling when he sobers up and realize: it could be worse. At least I have healthy teeth.