In this candid monologue, Dallas Bragg reflects on the intoxicating allure of the chemsex ("Tina") scene, describing it as a parallel universe of amplified connection, endless parties, and a fearless version of oneself that feels larger than everyday heteronormative life. He explains why returning to ordinary gay life—brunches, regular jobs, Monday mornings—feels gray and why recovery is uniquely difficult: it requires not only quitting meth but also grieving the drug‑using identity that seemed powerful yet was slipping into psychosis and isolation. Bragg argues that letting go of that version does not mean loss; it creates space for a sustainable, authentic self to re‑emerge. He reframes recovery not as settling for a smaller life but as discovering a lasting, amplified existence that surpasses the temporary highs of the crystal scene, allowing for lasting connections, meaningful creation, and a version of oneself that can endure beyond the high.
Chapters
Hey, if you've been a part of the Tina scene, you know it opens a door up to something that feels bigger, more intense, more connected than anything in the heteronormative world does. It's like there's a whole universe running parallel to regular life. Parties, hookups, experiences that feel electric and limitless. Everyone else is going to their jobs, having their coffee dates, living what looks like small lives, and you know about this other reality where everything is amplified, where you can be whoever you want for hours or days at a time. That's what makes recovery from chemsex so fucking hard. Coming back to regular gay life, going to brunch, having actual conversations, dealing with Monday mornings— it all feels gray and flat at first. You sit there thinking, this is it? This is what I'm supposed to be satisfied with? But here's what I've learned. You have to make peace with burying that version of yourself. Not just quitting meth, actually grieving the person you were when you were using. The fearless version. The version who could party for 3 days straight. The version who felt like he could connect with anyone, do anything. It's okay to miss him. It's normal to feel like you're losing something real and important. But that version of you was also disappearing into psychosis, into dangerous situations, into isolation that looked like connection. Letting him go is not losing yourself. It's making space for the person you actually are to come back and arise. Here's what they don't tell you. Recovery isn't about settling for a smaller life. It's about discovering that you can become whoever you want to be, but not just for a weekend. But for real, you can amplify your life in ways that make the crystal scene look like a cheap limitation. You can build connections that last, create things that matter, become the person you glimpsed in those fleeting moments when the drugs worked. The difference is this version is sustainable. This version gets to stick around. This version doesn't disappear when the high ends. Recovery isn't about settling for less. It's about finding out who you are when you're not running from yourself, and then becoming more than you've ever imagined possible.
