A reader writes:
I don't have a compelling narrative to relate regarding crystal meth, only this: In 1987, I visited my sister in Phoenix, Arizona and spent a meth-fueled night reminiscing with her about our childhood in Minnesota. I have not seen here since. Somehow, by the grace of God or genetic luck, I walked away from the drug unharmed after only a very brief period of experimentation. She never stopped, and that insidious addiction destroyed her life.
She was once a vibrant and joyful person. When my mother saw her about ten years ago, she was 80 pounds and a mere shell of her former self. My mother was devastated. And now my sister, the one who took care of me as a child so often after my father left and as my mother worked long hours to take care of five children, is gone — forever. I cannot write that without crying.
No one has heard from her in years, and we don't know if she is dead or alive, but with meth there is really no difference. My sister died a long time ago.
The Dish 