Positive thinking and a happy life.

Over the last two or three days I've been having a bit of a rethink, and trying to work out where I stand on a lot of things, but most particularly on myself, my desires and my achievements and ambitions. This has been prompted by a two day sports psychology and motivational seminar.

I was expecting it to be a load of vacuous nonsense. Surprisingly, it wasn't, it was very interesting and thought provoking. The main thrusts were about looking at things positively, not using any negative language and also taking absolute responsibility for our own actions and decisions. Some of you may be familiar with NA, and notice one or two similarities. If so, you're quite right; there are many similarities between the NA creed and the psychological techniques we were shown last week.

As you'll know, I have a major downer on NA; the concept is great, but the people are generally losers, and although personal responsibility is preached, it seems to be devolved to a poorly defined higher power. Anyway, my intention isn't to rail against NA, or those that benefit from it, but to talk about the initial impact this training course has had on me.

In my initial post here, I mentioned that I had a tendency to melancholy, I've known I have many good things in my life, but they've never seemed to matter. I've never really appreciated what I have, but have bemoaned what I don't have, and have lingered on my mistakes and compounded them. Every problem I've ever had has been of my own making, and I am now of the opinion that I was never properly depressed (for a brief period 5 years back I was on anti-depressant meds) but merely wasn't dealing with my problems properly. I've never lived in the moment and savoured it, it's always been "what's next, what's next?"

I've always accepted responsibilty for my actions, but have seldom accepted responsibility that my choices are my own, and not made for me by others. It's changed my outlook over night, and I have a very positive  view on my future right now.

Work, and money, is mine for the taking. I could very well own an Alfa Brera by the end of October, outright own it, not on credit.

My home life can be tidied up, and I can have what I want, if I simply have the courage to make some difficult decisions.

Simply, my attitude and approach to things will determine it's outcome; if I look for the positives rather than dwelling on the negatives, life will be easier to manage and I will have a higher chance of getting the outcome I want.

And the effect of this on my habit? Well, I'm 48 and a half hours clean! I've had a couple of MSTs (less than half what I usually take daily for joint pain). I'm not desperate for a hit. I'm lucky - I use about 2-3 bags a day, when I have dough, and although I do rattle and cluck, though I do get the sweats and the tiredness and the inability to function properly, I'm never completely debilitated. I get through it. I'm not trying to clean up though, I just didn't have any time free, I was busy with my family all weekend (which is much more important). However, before I hit the gym tonight I shall be making a detour to see a friend (well, more some idiot kid that doesn't really know what he's doing), picking up some heroin and putting it into my new favourite vein. And I am visualising a lovely hit, so that, using my newly acquired positive thinking, is what I shall expect to have.

I can't wait.

EDIT: I sat down earlier. I was warm, and relaxed, with an edge of anticipation. I unwrapped the little black bomb and tipped half of it into a steri-spoon. Tearing open a sachet, I added as little citric as I could get away with, shook the spoon and created a nice powdery blend of yellow and brown. I took a moment to look at it, added some water, began to cook and savoured the moment as the scent worked it's way into my nostrils, just as the liquid would soon work it's way into my veins and my soul. I filtered, flicked and readied myself for what was to come.

It took a while to find a vein, mine aren't prominent. I tapped and pumped, eventually locating my new favourite entry spot. Bang. In first time. Plunger out a little more after loosening the torniquet, just to make certain I'm still in (I don't want to miss!), then shoot through nice and quick.

Lovely job.

A big day (part two)

I never made it to the police station. Just didn't happen. I felt too rough to go. I'd shaved, or rather plucked my face with a horribly blunt razor before vomiting and going back to my duvet. I didn't feel as though I was in any condition to surrender myself to the police; I was barely there mentally, and my focus was on getting through each two minute task. I was preoccupied with my meeting with my boss, and really, I just wanted a bit of time unconscious, and warm, so I slept.

The only reason I went to see my boss was because he owed me two thousand pounds, in bonuses and salary. I knew I was going to be fired. Two thousand pounds is a decent sum of money; it's a flat, for months, plus food while I find  a new job. I'd be lying thoug, if I said I was thinking of that. I was thinking of leaving with a load of money, getting warm, and getting smashed out of my brains. It would not have lasted long, and then I'd have been worse off than before and I'd have been on the rob and scrounging, ticking gear and hustling, a tightrope slip from real trouble.

I have a phrase for this sort of behaviour, borne out by friends who get their giro (state benefit), splurge, then eke a living/habit from nothing thereafter - I call it "King for a day, Cunt for a week syndrome."

Things didn't pan out like I thought., My boss said he wasn't going to pay me, and there was no job for me, unless I cleaned up my act. I love what I do. It's a niche field, but I'm in the top 5 or 10, worldwide in my sector. I am very very good at it, and I thoroughly enjoy it. My job gives me self-respect, identity and purpose (and because I determine my own income, and I am always cash hungry), it focuses me like nothing else. I was shocked - I expected to be fired, which was bad, but I thought I'd be paid off, which was good (for a little while). This was bad news. I then got told that my company would front me the grand a week needed for a residential rehab, on condition I repaid it. No-one expected me to complete rehab; they expected tonot get the money back, I expected to mess it up, and wasn't convinced I needed help (or couldn't admit it to myself, being proud [but not too proud to hustle and rob - I took pride in being able to survive doing it]).

It was fixed that the next day, I'd answer bail and then check into rehab.

That night, I went out on the beer, met a mentally ill (paranoid schizophrenic) man who was also an addict, and frightened of demons. He'd just got a £160 giro; I, with the help of a friend, convinced him I was a devil, and dead behind the eyes (I've had several people tell me that there is nothing behind my eyes, that I'm soul-less and potentially a monster. I disagree, all the girls I've loved, and been loved by, tell me my eyes are bright, lively and mischevious - maybe both groups are right, or maybe people just project their thoughts onto what they see). Anyway, I took his money, and his phone, and got high.

The next day, my bail was answered, I was officially charged with fraud, and I began rehab. After telling porkies and getting an excessive methadone script, free of charge (which was ace!)

Three months later, I was 100% clean. For a bit, anyway.

Big day ahead (part one)

I woke up on the sofa that I had been calling home for the past two months, feeling pretty rough. I'd been sofa-surfing for that long since being evicted from my previous flat with zero notice, as a result of multiple complaints from other residents of the building. They'd quite reasonably become fed up with the constant noise and parties, and things had come to a head.

I'd been caning whatever drugs I could find for a long time, but had a real problem with crack, using until I ran out of money, then thieving and defrauding others to get more. I'd also got a heroin habit, although it was pretty minimal (but growing rapidly).

This time, when I woke up, I had to face my boss. I'd not been in the office for three weeks or so, the stories about me were legion, and lurid, and I'd been called in for a last minute meeting as to my future. I was their top performer, but this was counterbalanced by my unreliability and ever more ludicrous excuses as to why I was absent (when I bothered to make one up).

It took me a while to get out of my duvet; it was late September, and the flat I was in was on the top floor of a block; a sauna in summertime but, due to the shape of the complex acting as a wind tunnel, a freezer in autumn and winter, my breath clouding in front of me and leading me through the flat.

I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with water, cold, of course. I had no money, and no power. Light was by candles, warm washes and baths were a thing of the past, and life was pretty much not worth living. To add to everything, not only was I trying to shake off that washed out, thick headed, heavy feeling of a crack comedown combined with a hangover, not only was I beginning to rattle, but I had to meet my boss, and as if that wasn't enough, I had to answer my bail, to be charged with fraud.

I leant into the sink, washed with watered down shower gel, improvised shaving foam and, as I scraped several weeks beard from my face with the bluntest of razors, I looked to the day ahead with little enthusiasm.

The extra mile makes all the difference

I live in one county, but work in another. I usually pick up clean works in my hometown, from two or three different chemists, but recently I had cause to go and get some pins in the city I work in. I was amazed at the difference.

I would have thought that a needle exchange was a needle exchange was a needle exchange, but apparently not. In my hometown you ask for everything you need, as you need it, and it's provided for you in individually sealed, single use, sterile, packages. I get pins, vit c sachets, sterile 2ml water bottles, alcohol wipes, and a spoon with filter. Everything the healthy heroin user needs to remain that way.

In the city I work in, things are different. You ask for works, you get a nice grey resealable bag, a leaflet explaining briefly about safe injecting, ten pins, some swabs, and a sharps bin. No vit c, no water, no spoons, no filters. In short, absolutely the minimum possible. From my limited experience in London, I believe that it's the same there.

There's a huge difference in the two services; my hometown gives everything you need to be healthy without having to mess about trying to get vit c, spoons, filters, and all the rest of it. It makes life really quick, and really easy.

I doubt it costs a massive amount more than just giving the minimum, but providing everything we need to be healthy makes a big difference to me (and other users). Sure, it makes life simpler, and the time from picking up works to getting a hit is minimised (and I won't play down the importance of that), but in addition to that, it makes me feel as though I'm human.

I know it's a bit of a hobby-horse of mine, but I get really pissed off by people looking down at me, as though I'm some sort of lowlife because I use gear. The fact that my local council values users' health enough to provide sterile equipment really impresses me, and almost makes my council tax worth paying.

Caught by the fuzz (it's better than being swung round by the tits)

I so regularly have something illegal about my person that I regularly forget that I'm doing something that is not only prohibited, but is also regarded with contempt by many. I see nothing wrong or unusual about my use of or possession of heroin and, strange as it sounds, I just forget that I shouldn't mention it, should hide the marks and keep it on the low.

My habit, and the tools it requires, is entirely normal to me and doesn't interfere with my career or family life, so I forget what stigma it carries in the broader world.

I raise the point because over the weekend I got pulled over. When I first started to use I was very very careful about hiding gear up, stashing syringes or foil beneath carpets, all the usual paranoid precautions that keep you safe if you get stopped. I've been pulled many times, but this time I had works all over the place (I'd spilt the bag when I exchanged), I had bits of foil on the floor, lighters aplenty, and a few bags in my ashtray (I'm a non-smoker, I think it's a dirty habit). When I saw the blues go on behind me, I just thought "Shit. Here we go."

It was fine, in the end. I'd been on the phone, but my astonishingly lucky run with the police continued. Four times I've been pulled recently; once doing 90 on a 50 stretch of dual carriageway on my way to work at 4 am, twice on the phone, once as a result of cutting through a road at a prohibited time. Every time I've been carrying drugs. Twice the car has had a decent search, and they've missed it. Twice I haven't hidden my bits, I've been there for the taking, and they've not looked.

I've not even got a ticket. Nor have I been breathalysed. I think that this may be down to the way I dress and speak. I'm always tidy, and I also speak respectfully to the police. I see them as doing a job, and there is no cause to give them a hard time. When I've been nicked before (aggravated TWOC, fraud, theft, drink driving, assault), I've always been as helpful as possible, without dropping myself in the shit. I find it makes your life a lot easier, and ensures your tea isn't spat in.

It's taught me a valuable lesson though; I will always plot my bits up in future. Nor will I conspicuously break the law while driving. For a little while, anyway.

When I have been pulled, my life hangs by a thread - my family, home, job are all at risk of being destroyed. And for what?

Am I not a more useful person as I am, than as a prisoner or a homeless, jobless hustler, anxious to scrape by? I pay my bills, pay my taxes (51% of my income, inc N.I.), look after my family, maintain a job, do all the things a good citizen does, why should I be criminalised?

Why should anyone? Even those whose lives are chaotic, those who don't look after themselves, losing teeth and limbs, replacing them with abcesses and disease, sprinting from department store to crackhouse, stolen designer labels trailing in their wake - drug use is normally an effect of this sort of life, not a cause of it. What benefits does prohibition bring?

I guess we all know the arguments, but I absolutely fail to see any positives in the way things are right now.

Nuts and drugs

I follow a blog by a guy named Gledwood. I found it when searching for info about the recent UK heroin drought, followed the updates and then started to read his posts. I'd be lying if I said I thought he was a literary genius or a great writer, but his posts are compelling. They're very raw, and are completely unpolished. When I say that, all I mean is that there is no real self-censorship, he lays himself completely open and he documents a hellish situation.

He's clearly pretty bright, learning languages off his own bat, he writes pretty well, and what he provides is a stunning insight into mental illness, crossed with addiction. This honesty is incredible and it makes his posts things that contain a certain beauty. When I read his posts I just wonder how he copes at all and I want to offer some sort of tangible help, or reassurance would be a better way to describe.. Of course, I don't know him, he's not my friend, but I find that by reading about how he's suffering, it makes me want to reach out to him in some way (I guess this is maybe the initial concept of NA).

The reason I've brought him up and mentioned him here is to just mention how common dual-diagnosis is - addicts that are also mentally ill. I'm very lucky really in that I've never suffered anything worse than mild depression. My crack addiction began as two things - an extension of my pre-existing powdered coke habit and a way to self medicate and try to make myself feel better about myself. It didn't really work, in the long term.

The rehab I went to was a dual-diagnosis centre (The Diana, in Mundesley) and catered for those that had additional problems. Almost everybody in the centre (excluding me, and a couple of others) had a damaged history; parents that were alcoholic or drug addicts, abuse through neglect, physical and sexual abuse, violent partners, all sorts. Many of them had a very obvious reason for their mental problems and their addiction, a pain that is extremely hard to externalise or discuss, with the obvious consequences.

I'm an exception to this rule; I began using drugs like weed, speed and E to fit in, and because they broke down barriers between other people and I. I just went out of control; I have an idea why and I'm sure I'll explain it at some point. What I observed though, in rehab and on the street, from gutter to crackhouse to nightclub is that, although many addicts are just shitbags, many more never had a chance, or have arrived at rock bottom through just one or two bad choices. It's frightening to realise that your life; your possessions, clothes, cars, everything, are as fragile as jade and have little more substance than the smoke that curls from the foil.

What I'm trying to say though, is that many of these people that are criminalised and pushed to the margins of society without any of the help they need. I am a bit right wing in my attitude to behaviour, but I am torn between the way my instinct sees things (be strict!) and the way my head thinks, which is to ID those that need help early, and help them towards a life in which they don't have to fill themselves with drugs, put themselves at the mercy of criminals and in general have a life full of fear and pain. Many people just need to be heard, or to be given the correct diagnosis of their illness and treated correctly.

As Gledwood and Shane have said elsewhere, Mental Health nurses seem reluctant to address the underlying mental problems of those that are dual diagnosis, and even rehabs seem keen to make sure the addict suffers for their treatment.

I think we need a rethink maybe, and a bit more compassion and understanding for troubled youths, then maybe we could avoid a lot of the pain people have to put up with.

I believe this, but I am selfish, impatient and I'm not understanding or tolerant. Like so much else in me, with almost everything I think and feel, I have two people inside me fighting for supremacy and control of my actions.

NA - Praying or preying?

I was in a residential rehab at the end of 2008, trying to clean myself up from a nasty crack habit and also get myself out of the way of gear. I'd hit rock bottom, was on the verge of being jobless, I was actually homeless and I was completely out of control.

The rehab itself was pretty good in a lot of ways, but the thing I want to address is NA, and it's success or lack thereof. I know it's a good organisation, and that it does a great deal of good for a lot of people, but I've never really taken to it. During the rehab, we had twice daily group therapy sessions in which we could argue and explore the reason's for our using and how we could break the cycle. These were augmented by single counselling sessions, and by weekly NA and AA meetings.

I felt like a bit of a fraud when I went to rehab. I didn't consider that I needed to go (my office gave me an ultimatum), I considered myself out of place and I sure as hell didn't want to quit drugs. However, I was certain that my life couldn't carry on as was. The group sessions were valuable; there were a few tense moments, but I found them broadly helpful - the details of all this can wait for another time, but the point that I'm really trying to make is that, as a result of seeing a bit of success (and enjoying) group sessions and shares, I was keen to go to NA and AA meetings. These were special meetings that included external clean addicts coming to the centre, sharing, and trying to offer encouragement.

These meetings were where I was introduced to the concept of a Higher Power, and immediately I felt uncomfortable. I was also shown that recovery seemed to be a frozen state, with no end in sight. The idea of addiction as illness is one that I wasn't comfortable with, either.  My initial feelings were that NA required you to push the responsibility for your actions onto an illness, ascribe your success in overcoming addiction to a benevolent Higher Power and then spend the rest of your life frozen in recovery, aware at all times the cancer could return; also you need to take your metaphorical meds regularly at NA. I felt like a man with a hell of an illness being told I'd have to be on meds for life, and would only ever be a step from disaster.

I just don't buy the whole thing.

My drug using is my responsibilty, and my fault. Whatever problems I have had, I chose to use drugs. Sure, my crack addiction cost me everything pretty much,  and my actions were very much out of character, random and irrational, but it was my fault. I could've signed myself into a hospital, moved, done something, if I'd have cared enough about myself to want to. Addiction isn't an excuse for anything; I kind of buy that it's an illness, but not that it excuses our actions. I also like the idea of making amends as part of the cure, but I do not believe you need to attend NA for life, or even be an addict for life.

Despite this, I persevered. I "kept coming back" but gradually became more and more estranged from the group. It was dominated by the same old faces every week. It didn't feel a safe place to share or be anonymous or to avoid judgement - it felt hugely cliquey. It wasn't just me that felt this, but several other friends who are similar in age and lifestyle. It felt phoney, judgemental and patronising. The Big Book was patronising, new age babble; the steps were unclear, the structure was poor, the sponsors didn't take things clearly or elaborate how the steps worked. I felt those that were clean seemed smug about it, and worst of all, I think that spending a lot of time hearing the same old stories from the same old people who see a successful day as being one in which they didn't have a hit/boot/pipe, whatever, is not inspiring. It's  sad. A successful day to me involves work, success, being busy, seeing my family and friends and enjoying myself. Staying in thinking about gear, but not doing it, seems a fucking waste.

I left the group.

Maybe my negativity says more about me being paranoid, tetchy, resentful, than it does about NA, but I don't think so. I think it's a way for addicts to deflect responsibility, although NA preaches otherwise, and I think it ain't for me. If I want to be preached to, I'll go to Church.

*group hug*

Dropping in at teatime

Last night I went to meet my friends, my closest pal Ricky, and another friend, his girl Kelly. We'd scored at lunchtime, did so again after I left work and then we made our way to Kelly's. We were in a huge hurry as I had other commitments, Ricky did also, and Kelly wanted to get to her Mum's house. It's always the way though, isn't it, that when things have to be done quickly, and on a tight schedule, something happens to throw everything off kilter.

We pulled into Kelly's driveway, got out of the car and went to the door. There was major damage to the door and to the frame, a new lock had been fitted and a note was taped to the door in an evidence bag explaining that the new front door key was available at the local police station.

The drive to the police station was pretty dispiriting; we were trying to work out why the door had gone through, why a new lock was fitted and what the hell was going on. The most likely thing,  after all had been considered, we thought, was that the Electric Board had forced their way in to disconnect the supply and to fit a pre-pay meter. But in that case, why was there no Electric Board tag on the door?

Clearly, Kelly was a little apprehensive at the possibility of being arrested and spending a night in the cells, so we fixed up and she went to face the music and collect her keys. The police gave them to her and said nothing about why the door had been put through. She asked if there was any record of what had happened and why, but no reason was forthcoming.

The drive back to Kelly's was much more relaxed. Having not been arrested, having been told the police had no information on what had happened, the assumption was that the power had been cut. We got back, opened the new front door and were shocked to see the house had been spun that afternoon. Things were all over the place, and there on the table were papers explaining a warrant had been carried out pursuant to the Misuse of Drugs act; the police had been looking for controlled drugs. They found none, but Kelly's home was a mess. They had found a Cash Converters receipt though, which was seized as evidence (clearly they're desperate for some sort of result). Naturally, Kelly was greatly upset, and we tried to reason why the raid had happened.

There are a number of factors, none of which we feel are directed at Kelly. She is a well known user, and is seen everywhere. Her phone was seized recently and some texts from people were on there. The police tried to push this as her being knowingly concerned in the supply of drugs, but searches found nothing and there is no real evidence.

Her neighbours have called the police explaining that some black men from London stayed at hers (she lives in the country and black men are a real rarity) . The local paper is full of stuff about how blacks from London control our heroin and crack supply, so as well as having racial prejudice about a white girl and black men, the locals feel they are doing their civil duty.

Ricky is a black man from London. He's her boyfriend, but has a long criminal record. He was released from jail only recently and the local police believe that he is a major, active criminal. He is not, but the police are trying to pin something on him; there have been regular searches and so on.

The upshot is that we believe the police are trying to get something on Kelly to use as leverage against more important people.

Of course, we could be wrong. We could be paranoid and attaching to much importance to ourselves; we're little guys who use, nothing more. Not even Ricky (who has tried very hard to leave his past behind).

This whole thing was a visceral reminder on why this life is unsustainable for me. I like gear. I cannot afford to be busted though, and as much as I feel sympathy for Kelly, part of me is annoyed at being exposed to this. Not annoyed with her you understand, but a much more impotent sense of frustration at my life being at the mercy of others.

A little thought for the afternoon

I'm sitting at my desk, catching sight of myself in the reflection from the screen. I don't really look like what I am. I'm smart, well presented and clean, but beneath the freshly pressed shirt my arms are bruised and stabbed and slightly swollen. The bags under my eyes are partly due to overwork, stress and pressure but are equally down to the hassle of leading two lives. It ain't easy being a full time husband and father, manager at work and keeping up a junk habit also. Last time the stress split me in two and I ended up homeless, familyless and in rehab. I manage things better now, and hide things better, but it's a stress I don't need.

I like my habit. I like being doped, I like the needle, although I'm really more of a booter (especially as I'm a clumsy bastard). I just know it's not sustainable, which worries me. My best friends are criminals, my car got flagged, I'm a Known Associate. I can't afford to get nicked, I'll lose everything, and I know my time is coming due. I don't want to stop what I do, I like the stress and the frantic activity (at the same time as I loathe it), but I know I shouldn't. In the meantime, I guess I'll keep on procrastinating, keep on going and hoping for the best.

I'm not a junky. I'm not desperate. In times of no money or  no gear, I'm on my MSTs for a few days, rattle a bit, then I'm fine. It's a dreadful feeling, and one I always strive to avoid, but as my habit is only about £30 a day, I can survive.

I don't thieve (although I buy stolen goods), I don't rob (but I sometimes profit when a friend robs), I don't cause trouble. I just mooch along doing what I do. I'm stable, I maintain, I produce, I'm reliable, I'm responsible. I don't get why I should feel like a criminal, or be looked at in the same way as some toothless, abcessed, scruffy, thieving, lying fool who's content to be at the bottom of the pile, with no self-respect, living on handouts and taking, but never giving to the world while talking about how things are gonna change, they're gonna sort themselves out, only score on a Friday, all that rubbish.

This sounds harsh and unfair, I know, but I'm a user, not a junky, and I hate to be aligned with the hopeless. I sympathise with them, I've visited that place, but I'm not one of them. Not these days.

A brief history of me.

It's always tricky starting any new form of writing; I've contributed loads of little jokey stories to web forums before, and collected them on livejournal but having read a lot of Shane's writing, and that of some other, more serious bloggers I've been motivated to get off my arse and maybe try and contribute something to the world out there.

My life isn't really that remarkable; stable family background, stable relationship, child, job, but I have a history of drug abuse, dealing, rehab and all the things that go along with it. I still have a habit, which I am happy with but have to hide, and want to stop for that reason (so maybe I'm not that happy with it, after all).

I'm still prone to feeling bleak, lethargic, apathetic and melancholy, although the majority of my time is spent exhausted but bouncing off the walls with ideas and energy. Thing is, I'm rarely clear headed for more than a day or so; I am an addict, although my dependency is more psyschological than physical, despite my use of gear most days. Well, every day I have money, or my friend has money. If I have a day off, or if I'm not busy, then I tend to be smashed an hour after waking. I'm fortunate to have work and a family as they keep me as straight as it is possible for me to be.

This is hopefully going to be a way for me to recount some of the things I've experienced, explore them properly with a bit of hindsight and, you never know, maybe I'll be interesting enough for one or two people to want to hear what I have to say.