Tim Pursell calls himself “a highly educated, articulate tweaker.”

He has a master’s at the University of Indiana and a doctorate from Phillips University. He was a professor teaching European and World history at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. And, at 48 years, it appears he has taken good care of himself. But Pursell is something else.

“I am the face of crystal meth use today,” he says. “I look good, don’t I?”

Methamphetamine use is nothing new in San Francisco’s gay community. But, as pervasive as it is, it is less evident than ever.

You know the stereotypes about meth users, particularly those who inject — toothless, bone-thin tweakers gibbering to themselves on city streets. What we are missing are the nicely groomed guys with full-time jobs.

“They are not the people you expect,” Pursell says. “Most of the guys I was with weren’t toothless scumbags. They were really good-looking guys with money.”

Kevin Mosley, director of clinical operations at the Stonewall Project, which counsels gay men with drug and alcohol problems, hears that often.

“It’s like, I’m fine because everything else is fine,” Mosley said. “I am doing this, but I’m still working so. ... There’s the veneer, and then there’s the inside.”

And sometimes “managed use” works. At least that’s the theory. Methamphetamine isn’t physically addictive, but users can easily become emotionally dependent. Pursell insists the average person has no idea how common meth use is.

“I would guarantee you that every person in America knows someone in their life right now who is actively using meth,” he said. “You work with them, they go to your church, and they may be part of your family.”

‘It felt so good’

Pursell won’t say there is no such thing as “casual” meth use. All he can tell you is his story.

“I started using in 1997,” he said. “I was at a bathhouse in Germany, someone offered me some and I tried it. I knew from the first time I was hooked. It felt too good.”

He became an incredibly unlikely drug addict.

“That’s when I started having a lot of emotional problems,” he said. “So did meth contribute to those or was meth a way of coping?”

He was on his way to full tenure at University of Alaska when he fell in love and moved to San Francisco. He went through a meth-free period, but then suffered a series of setbacks. He was attacked by a meth user at his job in San Mateo. His mother died. At nearly the same time his partner fell ill; he died five weeks later.

Series of bad decisions

Emotionally adrift and suffering from chronic depression, Pursell relapsed. He’d inherited money from his mother and used it to set up a dark, drug-fueled trip.

“You invite people over to have sex and do drugs with and they take things,” he said. “Somebody stole my wedding ring and the hard drive that had my dissertation notes on it. One guy stole my mother’s silverware. I have been with some truly evil, horrible people.”

Still, he prided himself on being in control. He was the one who bought the drugs, he booked the hotel for hookups. His arms have no needle marks and made a point to take care of his teeth. It all worked fine — for a while.

“I was making some bad decisions,” he said. “But I had some really awful consequences. I blew through all the money and was absolutely bankrupt. I started hearing voices.”

There was another factor. Through the trials in his life — revealing he was gay, losing his mother and his partner — Pursell had always gotten support from friends. But when it was clear he was not only using, but injecting, “people dropped me.”

“If you inject, you are just the scum of the Earth,” he said. “I don’t think it is worse than any other drug, but there is a stigma attached to it. I was pilloried.”

Almost exactly one year ago he hit bottom. He lost his apartment and had nowhere to go. His emotional problems made him feel he couldn’t hold a job. And he was HIV-positive.

“I went to Stonewall,” he said. “And I said, ‘I don’t want to die.’”

The counseling helped. He broke out of the cycle of meth use and abandoned his drug friends. He began to read again, took up yoga and knitting and found solace in church. He now considers himself a devout Catholic. But he’s far from stabilized.

“My friends keep saying, ‘Oh God it is so great that you are sober,’” he said. “I’m like, I’m homeless. I’m unemployed. That isn’t fixed.”

‘A hidden disability’

He’d love to get a job, but admits that “my mental health issues are like a hidden disability.” He’s getting welfare, but it isn’t enough to afford housing.

Still, he says, “Christmas this year is a big deal. It is my first sober Christmas — ever.” And he’s committed himself to be open and honest about his addiction.

“I have survived this,” he said. “I have to tell people about it.”

C.W. Nevius is a San Francisco Chronicle staff columnist. His columns appear Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. E-mail: cwnevius@sfchronicle.com Twitter: @cwnevius