We Never Talk About the Joy of Drugs

Only ever the deaths, and the Zombies.

You often hear how drugs ruin lives — but no one talks about how they save people, even if it’s only for a moment.
How a high can be the first time in weeks, years, ever, that someone felt joy.
Escape.
Not just from pain, but from the grey drag of days. The weight. The blankness. The slow march to death.

No one tells you that sometimes a hit is the only thing that makes the world feel in colour again.

Drugs can bring joy, relief, and meaning — but society refuses to admit it.
The narrative only focuses on harm, fear, and criminality — erasing the truth that, for many, drugs are a source of survival, connection, and agency.
The war on drugs isn’t about safety. It’s about control — of euphoria, of bodies, of who gets to feel good and how.
And the people who suffer most under that control are the poor, the marginalised, the ones who can’t afford their joy the “approved” way.

We’re supposed to pretend the only stories worth telling are the cautionary ones.
From government ads where one puff leads to ruin, to zombie drug media hysteria (why is it always zombies?).
Drugs are always the demons, always peering out from shadows, waiting to strike.
And by extension, everyone who uses is broken or bad or both.

Those stories exist, but they’re not all the stories.

You rarely hear how some people only get through the week because they know Friday night is coming.
That when it comes with a few bumps and a pill or two, the rave and the relief are what keeps them going.
They never talk about the people who stop drinking because weed gave them something gentler.
Or how MDMA helped someone realise they deserved to be touched with tenderness.
Or how ketamine paused the loop of suicidal thoughts long enough to breathe.

You never hear about drugs at the end of life either — when they’re not just helpful, they’re holy.
When morphine softens the edges of pain, or a bit of cannabis brings back an appetite and a laugh.
When someone dying gets a chance to feel good again — to listen to music, to taste food, to smile without wincing.
Why not break out the crack pipe to the dying? Let them have a final night of joy.
But we don’t talk about that, because that version of drug use doesn’t fit the scare campaign. It’s too human.

We never talk about that.
Only the deaths.
And, of course, the Zombies.
We pass new laws. Add more cops. Shut down the festivals. Ban the bliss.

They're taking the joy out of drugs.
Not because they're trying to protect people, but because joy is dangerous when it’s not bought through their systems.
Because if we can make our own heaven, even fleetingly, we’re harder to control.
We’re harder to sell to.
Harder to shame.

But not all drugs, of course. Only the ones that make you feel too much — not the ones that numb you just enough to go to work.

Why are antidepressants doled out like mints while MDMA is demonised, when the only difference is one makes you productive and the other makes you dance?
Why is medicated misery fine, but euphoric agency suspect?

The war on drugs was never about safety.
It’s a war on euphoria.
On exploration.
On the poor.
On the Other.
On anything that can’t be taxed, surveilled, or slotted neatly into a policy briefing.

A failed war.
Today, the drugs are stronger, easier to get, and more dangerous than ever as a direct result of the prohibition that they say is meant to protect us.

It was never about keeping us safe.
It was about keeping us obedient.

And keeping us afraid of the Zombies.