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Not sure how I feel about doing so, but I thought this would be a good way to explain myself as to why I do what I do, and why I have this toxic relationship with journalism. The story begins with a lot of cocaine. Before I even tried to be a journalist I was a coke-head. I started early. The first time I tried cocaine I was My first assignments were already interesting: I traveled with a group of activists across Texas and Arizona fighting against an anti-immigration law that would have hundreds of thousands of migrants arrested and deported. Amongst the activists were people who fought back to back with Malcom X. The feeling of seeing those stories published on paper had probably the same effect on me as cocaine on a good night. I slowly started drifting away from that life as journalism wanted more from me. Working all day and night, going to college and years-old, I became an international correspondent in my own hometown, covering the very beginning of the cartel wars. This was the first time journalism would save my life by taking me away from a third and probably last overdose. The war against drug cartels and between cartels turned my shitty industrial city into a violent shithole. The Sinaloa Cartel was violently trying to take this city from the Juarez Cartel. And they were not backing down. They both fought with all the manpower and gear available. At the same time the Mexican army, marines, federales, local and state police were all fighting both cartels but also between each other. The chances of getting killed, kidnapped or wounded were high. At nights I had to do homework and drink like a year-old divorcee, just to start all over again the next morning. One night after reading some of my texts I was outside the place having a smoke when I bumped into my best friends at the time: four skinny addict streetwise kids with their girlfriends. It had been awhile since I parted ways because I was trying to become a journalist. I grabbed my motorcycle and rode back home. After submitting my last story and wrapping up my homework I fell asleep, still dressed, wearing my work boots, in front of my computer. At around 3 in the morning I got a call on my cell phone. I noticed that I had three more missed calls from my editors in Spain. They alerted me of several men killed at a bar not far from where I was living at the time. I jumped on my bike again and arrived at the place. The bar was packed with all sorts of policemen and military and yellow and red tape. I asked him if he knew something about the killings. He said it was five men, three girls. Show me the photos. Their girls were also killed. I was supposed to be there that night with them. I was too busy writing, meeting deadlines. I was too tired. I was trying too hard to be a journalist. Once again, journalism saved my life. After these experiences my skin grew thicker. But also something died in me. The stress, the anxiety, the adrenaline, the alcohol, the loneliness…and finally the deep depression I fell into. I would drink and cry every night watching my burning deadly city from afar knowing I probably would never be able to go back. My family was all there. I had no friends now. My city was ripped from me. The only thing I had, again, was paper, ink and a violent desire to write. During the toughest of my depression I sheltered in journalism. Writing would keep me going. Finding stories, talking to all sorts of people struggling in life. The little joys of journalism kept me through. I eventually was able to go back to my city feeling somewhat safe. I made new friends. Got my family back. The streets of Juarez were mine again. Journalism paved my way out of suicide. It is a toxic environment, a shitty industry, an ungrateful son of a bitch. And I need to pay back my debt. I owe my life to this overrated job. Will I die a journalist? I hope not. Bad ass storyline about yourself Luis Saludos desde Chicago keep up the awesome work your legit with your facts! You have been galvanized by your experience and driven by the passion of truth. You and I know people like this get what we deserve. And that is why we do it anyway. Share this post. Copy link. Luis Chaparro. Mar 22, Discussion about this post Comments. Expand full comment. Ready for more? Start Writing Get the app. Substack is the home for great culture. This site requires JavaScript to run correctly. Please turn on JavaScript or unblock scripts. Expand full comment Reply Share. Jay Apr 4 You have been galvanized by your experience and driven by the passion of truth.

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Ciudad Juarez buy coke

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Ciudad Juarez buy coke