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Down a Dangerous Road 
By Sharilynn LaMay
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| Photo: Aleksandar Bracinac |
"Hey Matt, want to get high?" My older friend, Brian, the next-door neighbor whom I had always idolized, held open the passenger door of his first car—a dented but serviceable old Ford. I hesitated only a second before jumping in.
I saw Brian only during the summers when I visited Mom. Two years earlier, Dad had split and Mom had sunk into depression. I turned rebellious, skipped school, and eventually failed seventh grade. So Mom sent me to live with my married sister in Florida. My grades went back up, and teachers placed me in honors classes. I even started winning achievement awards.
But I missed Mom and wanted to live with her again. It almost happened that summer. She was proud of my grades, and she bragged to her friends about her smart son. Then I did a stupid thing: I experimented with "huffing," breathing in chemicals to get high, and I got hooked on the euphoria that followed.
When I hopped into Brian's car that day we headed for the nearest shopping center's computer section. My buddy handed me a can of computer cleaner. "Dusters!" he said with a grin. I grinned back, unaware how lethal this product could be.
"Duster" came in an aerosol can with a spray nozzle. Back at his house, Brian showed me how to inhale the spray through my mouth, hold it until I felt light-headed and heard a noise like wah-wah-wah-wah. The resulting buzz could last from 30 seconds to two minutes. I put the nozzle between my lips, pressed the button, and waited.
Suddenly I had total comprehension of my surroundings, but was unable to react to them. Totally cool, I thought. I didn't know I was stopping the flow of oxygen to my brain. Without that oxygen, my brain was losing cells that I could never get back!
I was so excited with this new experience that I learned to hold the inhalant in my lungs until I passed out. Both Brian and I delighted in doing this—until one day I vomited all over myself and his car. That should have been enough to make me stop, but we had a special occasion coming up: a weeklong camp-out. Three of us were in the same tent. When we thought that everyone else was asleep we hit the dusters. Unfortunately, a chaperone heard the hissing noise and investigated. The next morning we were kicked out. Mom didn't waste any time telling my sister.
When I moved back to Florida, Sis grounded me for months. That made it easier to quit "using." Then one day in history class, the teacher left the room. Two boys pulled out a can and inhaled. I watched, and they offered me the chance. I took a hit, then another, and yet another. I was hooked again.
Before long, one can a week at home wasn't enough. I started bringing "duster" to school. It was easy to hide the habit when I sat in the back. As soon as the teacher turned around, the can came out. Eventually I didn't even try to hide it. I set the can on my desk. (After all, it was computer cleaner.) When the teacher left, I inhaled.
Then one day I took such a big hit that I passed out and fell, slamming my head on the rug-covered concrete. When I came to, I checked the clock. Only two minutes had passed. I got back in my seat and acted as if nothing had happened. When the teacher reappeared she didn't suspect a thing. "What a trip," I giggled. But I didn't realize it was a trip down a dangerous road.
Several weeks later I was found out and expelled. For the next two months I just hung out, took hits alone or with my "buddies," most of whom were high school dropouts. Fortunately, my sister and my girlfriend saw what was happening. "You don't want to be like them," they warned. "You don't want to wind up 10 years from now with a dead-end job—that is, if you can keep a job at all!"
So I enrolled in night school and decided to prove to the "losers" that I could wean myself away from chemical use. But it was too late to get my grades high enough to earn scholarships. The toxins had not only affected my ability to think clearly, but they had taken away knowledge that set me apart from the average student.
Playing with inhalants is like playing with matches. They can burn out your mind and destroy your future. I often wonder how successful I would have been if not for my experiment with an innocent-looking can.
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