Manivelle (Crank, #1) par Ellen Hopkins

D’accord. Il est temps pour une autre critique brutalement honnête et très personnelle de votre humble serviteur. Gee, j’ai l’impression d’écrire beaucoup de critiques personnelles ces derniers temps, n’est-ce pas ? Comme certains d’entre vous l’ont peut-être remarqué, je n’ai pas passé beaucoup de temps ici ni même beaucoup lu cet été. C’est parce que j’ai eu affaire à beaucoup de merde personnelle dans mon assiette. Une partie de cela a à voir avec le travail. Certains avec l’école. Mais je suis, pour la première fois, admettre à vous tous que la raison principale est b

D’accord. Il est temps pour une autre critique brutalement honnête et très personnelle de votre humble serviteur. Gee, j’ai l’impression d’écrire beaucoup de critiques personnelles ces derniers temps, n’est-ce pas ? Comme certains d’entre vous l’ont peut-être remarqué, je n’ai pas passé beaucoup de temps ici ni même beaucoup lu cet été. C’est parce que j’ai eu affaire à beaucoup de merde personnelle dans mon assiette. Une partie de cela a à voir avec le travail. Certains avec l’école. Mais j’admets pour la première fois à vous tous que la raison principale est que j’ai passé la majorité de cet été à me battre avec mes démons personnels. Dont j’ai une tonne. 99,9% d’entre vous ne me connaissent pas non plus dans la vraie vie, mais si vous le connaissiez, vous sauriez que je ne suis pas une personne qui aime aérer mon linge sale pour les gens. Ou partager mes sentiments. Ou faire connaître mes batailles de démons au public. Cependant, j’en suis venu à la conclusion que parfois je dois recourir à des méthodes de combat peu orthodoxes afin de tenir les démons à distance. Et l’une de ces méthodes est l’écriture. Parce que je ne vous connais pas en face à face, j’ai vraiment l’impression que je peux être honnête. Et moi-même. Et peut-être utiliser cet espace, mon propre bloc de cyber-écriture personnel, comme moyen de sortir mes déchets intérieurs. Parce que c’est là. Griffant les murs de ma psyché pour la libération. Et j’écris cette critique autant pour moi ET pour toutes les personnes qui ne liront peut-être jamais ces mots, autant que j’écris pour vous qui les lirez. Alors sois indulgent avec moi. Cela peut être une course cahoteuse.

De plus, je spoile tout en taguant tout à partir de maintenant, simplement parce qu’il y aura des trucs sombres ici, donc ceux d’entre vous qui ne sont pas à l’aise avec le matériel sombre et sinueux et personnel n’ont pas besoin d’entrer du tout.

(voir spoiler)[As you may have guessed by the title, this is a book about Crank. The Monster. Glass. Shards. All known as a little drug called Crystal Meth. A young girl, fighting with her own demons, visits her long lost father one fateful summer and her life collides with the monster. And this is her story. Written in verse. I know there are people who didn’t like this book. I understand. There were parts I didn’t like. But it hit me so hard and so fast that I had no choice but to five-star this bitch. It has been a long ass time since I read anything that made me cry this much and for this long. But that’s for later.

8 years ago I lost the man I was going to marry to Crystal Meth. And I lost our daughter because I was using other drugs to try and deal with the fact that I lost the man I was going to marry to Crystal Meth. I had taken a job in upstate New York for the summer, and he was going to reconnect with his long-lost father in Detroit. Instead of reconnecting with his father, he met a girl. And that girl hooked him on a drug that, until recently, I did not understand. I did not understand its power, its substance. What it makes a person do. How it changes your core until the last shred of the person you were before you met this drug dissolves before your eyes. I did not lose the man I loved in death. I lost him to the monster.

There is a man still living who looks a little bit like the man I loved. Still answers to the same name. Receives his mail. Wears his clothes. Lives his life. But this is not him. This is someone else entirely. The man I loved died the minute he met the monster. And the person who rose up to take his place is an impostor. Somebody I don’t know. Whom I don’t want to know.

The monster took a man who knew how to love and taught him to hate. Took a man blessed with kindness and made him mean. Took a man who looked at me with gentleness and love and showed him how to hit and bruise and scar. Turned a man who worked into a man who stole. The monster took away his beautiful brown eyes and left him with those that are tired and bloodshot. It blanketed those eyes with dark circles. Took away his smile, his muscular frame, his strength. It made him someone who doesn’t sleep for days on end. Doesn’t eat. Doesn’t live. It killed his fire and his passion and his will. The monster, in turn, created a monster.

But this isn’t why I picked this book up. I picked this book up because this summer, the monster tried to select another victim. Another person whom I love and care about. But this time I was stronger. And though my friend’s road to recovery will be long and hard, together, we fought the monster and won this particular battle.

And though I am beyond thankful and grateful that in this particular case, I did not lose another person to this horrible drug, so many people are not that lucky. This is actually a very unique case and involves a violent battle that doesn’t usually get won. This book describes everything from the victim’s point of view, so it was very hard to see any other character objectively. However, it gave me a much deeper understanding of things that have happened to me and to two people I love.

This is a novel. However, it is a fictionalized version of a true story. Ellen Hopkins’s daughter did become addicted to Crystal Meth and all of the raw and biting descriptions of the addiction, the emotions, and the physical manifestations of that addiction are very real. Here is another confession. I am a drug addict myself. Though i have never nor will ever do Crystal Meth, I have fought other addictions for years. I am proud to say that I am clean, and have been for quite some time. My passion has turned to helping people whom the monster (as well as its various partners in crime) has tried to destroy. And I can say with 100% honesty that addiction is a lifelong illness. I still battle the urge to use, particularly when the demons of addiction start partying with the demons of loneliness, depression, anxiety, and life in general.

And so this book made me cry. I cried for the lingering pain of a long-lost love. I cried for the agony of a friend. I cried for those I don’t know who struggle with the illness. I cried for my own child whom I will never know. I cried for parents who have lost children. Friends who have lost friends. Siblings who have lost siblings. I cried for myself, because I desperately needed to cry.

The answer is yes. (hide spoiler)]