In Palm Springs and all over the country, crystal meth isn't hiding. It's in motel rooms, pool parties, and vacation itineraries. It's in the hands of those trading meth for sex. Escorts carry it in, hand it off to new arrivals, and pass it down like an invitation. Everyone knows. And no one in power will talk about it.Crystal meth is tearing through the queer community throughout the nation, and we have normalized it. Casual meth use is practically an initiation in some circles. It's discussed openly in the gym, over brunch, and while making plans for the upcoming tea dance."Just once" becomes twice. Then a weekend. Then a habit. Then the disappearance. Then, too often, a funeral. And we, a community that once fought and bled to survive, are now complicit in the silence.But this is not new. Queer men have always been asked to lie. To hide. To perform respectability while enduring violence, addiction, or shame behind closed doors. Meth, in this sense, is just the latest chapter in a much older pattern.We have seen this before.When the police stormed the Stonewall Inn in 1969, queer people revolted. Not because they were radicals but because they were tired of pretending they were safe.When Harvey Milk was assassinated in 1978, men took to the streets, grieving loudly, refusing the lie of dignity without justice during the "White Night" riot. When AIDS came, and no one would help us, we helped ourselves. We created clinics, buddy systems, meal services, and hospice care in our own homes. We did not wait. We did not ask permission to fight for our own lives.And yet here we are. Meth has infiltrated our community, and those in power look the other way, or worse, protect the system. In Palm Springs and around the country, we see users being shamed and shunned while watching large-scale dealers operate with police protection. Not a rumor. Not a conspiracy. Many cities survive on tourism. On fantasy. And meth fuels both.Some refer to it as "party culture." But let's name it plainly for what it is: an epidemic.There's an underground railroad in gay vacation culture. Visitors arrive. They hire an escort. The escort brings meth. They all use. When they want more, they're given the name of a dealer for the rest of their stay. It's seamless. It's accepted. And it is killing people.Dating profiles scream out, "NO TWEEKERS." Yet, I've never seen a profile declaring "NO ALCOHOLICS" or "NO PILL POPPERS." Shame forces users into silence. Shunning turns relapse into disappearance. Services are few. Beds are scarce. Judgement is rampant. Even those who want help often lie, not because they're dishonest, but because they've learned that honesty gets them rejected faster than meth ever did.And so we lose them.In our shame, we say it was a heart attack. Or depression. Or just someone who "disappeared." The truth is, meth destroyed them, and silence buried them.We owe them better.This is not an attack on our community. It is a plea to remember who we are. We've fought before and we've won. We've stared down shame, grief, and systemic failure, and we've built life-saving networks from ashes. We are capable of more than silence. So I ask: where are the forums? The task forces? The beds? The housing-first interventions? The inclusion of addicts and former users in leadership and decision-making? Where is the acknowledgment that the queer community cannot afford to lose another generation of men to another preventable epidemic?What we need is what we've always needed: Truth, compassion, and action. We don't need to be perfect. But we need to stop pretending this isn't happening. Because the lie we ask queer men to live is that they're fine, welcome only if clean, and that meth is just a phase.Only it's not, and it's killing them.Cosgrove Norstadt is a writer, activist, and living archive of love, loss, and survival.Voices is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and impactful opinions from the LGBTQ+ community and its allies. Visit out.com/submit to learn more about submission guidelines. We welcome your thoughts and feedback on any of our stories. Email us at voices@equalpride.com. Views expressed in Voices stories are those of the guest writers, columnists, and editors, and do not directly represent the views of Out or our parent company, equalpride.