It is very hard to say what will happen to you when you date a drug dealer without more context. Are transactions happening around you or is it totally separate from your existence?How high-end (pun intended) is this dealer's business?He was smart, he was funny, he’s sweet, caring, open, honest, loyal—you name it. Did you ever feel your life could have been in danger while with him? Like I’m sitting here and talking to you right now and there were times where I could have been shot. And then he took his own phone out of his pocket and gave both of our phones to his friend and he asked me to go on a walk with him. It’s weird to think back to it now—how I didn’t turn away at the first sign of trouble. He always dealt like petty drugs all throughout high school. Like, I would tell him a small detail, something so dumb that even I would forget I said it, you know? It wasn’t until near the end night that I saw him again.Reading that, I can’t believe how cliché it all seems. I tried the “I couldn’t handle it if you went to jail” angle, as well as the “I hate your asshole friends” angle. It was one of our good days; quiet, silence enveloping us, comfortable.And I guess it was; textbook smart-nerdy-girl gets seduced by the “dark” side. What I saw was a sweet guy, in touch with his emotions, trying to kick a bad habit. The troubles started when he got his own apartment. I think we were talking about our feelings for each other, something we hardly ever did.
But I didn’t, and there he was: A boyfriend with a car, tattoos, and a penchant for weed. The power dynamics in that relationship were so screwed up, I felt like I didn’t have a right to voice my worries. I wrote him countless letters, explaining how wrong I thought this whole thing was under many angles. We were laying on his dusty folded up futon, the ceiling fan blowing hair in my face.
No one can guess what the consequences for dating a drug dealer will be in your case specifically, but here are some things to keep in mind.
Reporting Crimes You have probably seen crimes taking place and not reported them before -- underage drinking at a party, people taking bong hits.
What he had instead was a futon mattress laying on the floor, upon which dust balls would find their way, sticking to the corners. It crept up on me, as I was a naïve and unaware kid.
Whenever he’d have “visitors”, he would fold up this mattress, resting half of it against the wall, building a makeshift couch. Four years my senior, I met him while we were baking pizzas in a small shop in the suburbs.