Time for a wash, and to get myself clean?

So, he we are again. I've don the months money on gear, and having a good time. I've no money left, and I don't want to borrow. Times are tough, I'm rattling like a motherfucker (although thank God for my MSTs, which I take at 4 times the prescribed dose. It's reached the point that I always knew would arrive; I've got a problem.

So; no drugs for the next few weeks. I'm skint, so they have to stop. I'm also getting grief for using morphine at work, so maybe I should taper down.

Is an opiate free life desirable? Do I want that?

There are pluses to it; no more hiding my arms, no more long sleeves, no more having works stashed about the place, no more worry about being pulled over, no more inappropriate nodding out, no frustration, no having to fuck about and meet idiot runners, loads more money.

The downside; no gear, no needles, no hustling, no excitement.

When it comes down to it, this was only supposed to be a passing thing; I only wanted to try the needle (but I love getting a shot in, my veins are hard work, so I always feel a sense of achievement), and before that I only wanted to have the odd smoke.

My habit has been rocketing (I've had a load of money recently), and I'm frightened of going cold. I'm not keen on a meth script, so I need to maintain and taper my MST use; do I have the discipline? Today, not so far!

I've always known I'd have to stop this at some point; it can't be for life. It's a bit of fun. But it's escalating and the signs are clear for anyone to read, even me. I've used daily for 3 years. Every day, more or less, and I've had no problems or financial issues. Now, this month, things are different. I always said at this point I'd have to man up and stop it, I have too much to lose in abandoning myself to drugs.

Also, and this is maybe a big prompt for me; I'm in touch with old friends a lot. I look at their lives, and they're better than mine. There's still drink and drugs involved, but they have their own companies, or are seniors in big organisations, or have porsches, or are in the US or Oz, they've lived the life I wanted and could have had; still going to festivals, having more stuff, having money available all the time; I've knocked myself to the kerb with my drug use; financially ruined myself (I have debts approaching £50k that I've just ignored, although they'll be simple enough to clear on my income), and maybe, just maybe, although I'm content enough as I am, and I can argue my position well with anyone, maybe there's more to life than this; maybe I should get rid of this monkey (who now steals from my legitimate life, dipping into family time and money), maybe I should start trying to achieve.

My friends kept drugs and partying in balance, and on the side. I let them dominate my life, ruin my education and finances, and then dropped that habit, said I was cured, and moved onto the next DOC...

I want financial independence, more kids, and I want freedom. I don't really drink, or socialise; I can feel myself becoming socially awkward as my interaction with idiots becomes more common; I find myself bonding with fools, while despising them. This ain't good.

I've always been insecure (which is maybe why I'm so driven to succeed), I 've often been a little awkward socially; drugs have pulled me off track. I loathe crack, and don't like coke (although I had a few lines for the first time in years, on Friday. It was fucking shit, not like what I used to sell. A proper disappointment).

I'v always tied my identity up with drugs; partier, then raver, then promoter, then dealer (and I'm talking turining over, on a decent week, 4 kilos of skunk, 2000 E pills, 500 acid trips, half a bar of coke {4.5oz, 126g} and a few ounces of ketamine), then ex-dealer, then coke and crack addict, the rehab, and clean, then heroin chipper, then functional addict, then being here, balancing on the edge.

I wish more than anything, I'd had the drive, or could have been bothered, to put this to one side; do it, enjoy it and not let it dominate me; Iwas fine until I moved into coke.

Still, I'm not apologetic; I'm not ashamed (although a little embarrassed), I sure as hell do not blame drugs.

Every bad decision has been mine. I have been educated, and counselled others as a University Senior, and my eyes have been open. My life, my fuck ups, my disasters are my own. I control my addictions, they do not control me. I have been weak willed, and maybe focussed on the wrong things. I do not accept that I am powerless, and I reject, with every fibre of my being, that I need the help of a Higher Power, or God. I will not excuse my behaviour by blaming the drugs; I will not absolve responsibility to an imaginary conceit. I am responsible for my actions, both good and bad.

Thing is, saying goodbye to heroin, well, that's like saying goodbye to a good friend with whom you have had a close, deep and true friendship with, but that has soured through minor betrayals and arguments. Something you'll miss, that you'll think of often, a relationship you'll revisit, reliving and replotting former events, mentally making tiny alterations to your history that allow the two of you to carry on living together as friends, like before, like you both wanted.

Other drugs are different; I hate coke and crack. My time for e and hallucinogens has passed, sad to say, I like a drink, but not to get pissed. These things are all just substances; theycan come and go, and I don't care. Heroin though, I see as a friend, not just a brown powder that has no intrinsic value. I also fear the anger and hate of a rejected friend that knows your weak spots and has vicious tendencies – the withdrawal.

While I'm at it, I should mention another reason for giving up. I tend to use with Shelley, one of my closest friends, and the girlfriend of my friend, Mickey. Mickey's away right now and I have a duty towards Shelley. She's pregnant, and has slowed herself down to just her meth script, with a bit on top. Using when pregnant isn't right; for her, the baby or Mickey, so I'm coming off in sympathy with her.

The time's right for a change. My heroin adventures were fun, and I've enjoyed being a tourist in some deep dark places. These places weren't fun when I had no choice, back in my homeless crackhead days, but I've enjoyed them and the characters, while always having an out, and a route back to my life. The two worlds are gradually meshing though, and it's time to end the schizophrenia.

Now, if I can just find my works for one last hit...

(joke)

A light hearted embarrassment from my pre-heroin days...

I don't really remember the first time I tried heroin; I remember though that I smoked it on a pipe. I was surrounded by long term addicts; prostitutes, the illiterate, the damaged, and they smoked it on pipes. I was in crackhouses licking the rock regularly, then tried heroin to stop the jitters. To be honest, I didn't get onto heroin properly until I had come out of rehab. I used sure, and had pinned once or twice, but after rehab, after leaving coke alone, I started using gear daily, smoking from foil. I've only been injecting for a period of months. My arms are ok (despite my veins being very deep naturally, which is annoying), and I'm content with my habit.

Why did I move onto the needle? Economy. My friend uses intravenously, I smoked, but it was costing me silly money and whenever smoke coiled off the foil, away from my tube, I saw pound signs going away. I also knew about the slam you get from banging it up, and did I ever want some of that. Hell yes.

Maybe the time I'll regret this will come. I doubt it though. I'm stable, sure, I use most days. When I'm rich,I use quite a lot, when I'm poor, I muddle along with little until I'm rich again. I have rules; I don't sell possessions, and my family doesn't go short. Should I break those rules, then I know I have a problem, and I need to stop.

Anyhow, I'm sick of being so serious, so I thought I'd delve back into history and tell you all about perhaps my most embarrassing sexual encounter, just to give you a bit of a laugh.

I was a bit of a late developer with girls; I had opportunities, but was always too much of a gentleman, and thought not taking advantage would get me further in the long run. Yeah, I was dumb. Anyhow, at University I started to make up the deficit, and for a brief period my youthful, slender, toned self was shagging for England. No girl was too pretty (or too ugly), all I needed was a heartbeat, a full set of limbs (well, at least 3 out of 4, “Hey baby, spread your leg!”) and the horn.

Mystic Rod and I had been out on the lash, and had somehow ended up in a taxi near our old student residences. We had no money, and as the taxi pulled to a halt, we ran for it. In the dark, we were safe from pursuit, but had no thought in our minds outside the need for escape. Fleeing headlong through the drizzle, I lost my footing on the peak of a slope, sliding in the mud and tumbling over, colliding with Mystic Rod and rolling us both down the hill at a rate of knots, our limbs intertwining, heads clashing, gathering mud until our momentum ran out and we were able to gather our thoughts.

I tried to stand, and after losing my footing once more I raised myself upright, leant on a tree, checked I was ok, and puked. I was covered in mud, slightly cut and I had a black eye already beginning to bloom on the left side of my face. Rod was in a similar state, and the two of us decided that we were miles away from home and we needed a cup of tea, and respite.

We limped over the road, and stumbled to a house nearby. This house was where my friend Mel lived, and we figured she'd take pity on us. She had before, when I'd been absolutely smashed, and we hoped she would again. She did. Opening the door to two mud-spattered, blood streaked, bruised and confused young men, she ushered us in, sat us down, sponged my wounds, made a tea, and listened to the two of us prattling.

The house was pretty big, and I was sitting with my back to the door of the living room. There were throws on the sofas, and the lighting was kept low, lava lamps in corners pushing patterns up the walls, and colouring the thick white smoke generating by the joints that were going round the room. The atmosphere was laidback, friendly, warm and cosy but the peace was suddenly shattered by a crash of the front door, keys dropping to the floor, before an apparition burst forth from the shadows, asked who the fuck we were, and slapped me round the head.

It took me a moment to recover from the shock, but when I did, I like to think I rose fluidly, in one motion achieving balance and turning on the invader, a lion reacting to a hunter, turning the tables on them with muscular, acute co-ordination. I stepped forward, grabbed the creature, pushed her across the hallway into the downstairs bathroom, forced her into the tub and switched on the taps. I laughed and left her dripping wet, swearing impressively in the bath, under the harsh, bright strip lighting.

I went back to my peaceful enclave, but seconds after sitting down, just long enough to establish I'd met Eve, Mel's housemate,  I was tugged up by the ear and before I properly knew what was happening, I was being kissed and bitten, and was kissing and biting, a soaking wet, athletic, attractive, psychopathic brunette. We left the room and fought our way upstairs, alternately slapping and kissing, tearing and biting, passion radiating from us as though we were a Japanese Nuclear facility. Our route to bed was described by discarded clothes, fallen furniture and water, mud and bloodspots on the walls.

We fell into bed, and things continued as they had, furious, unbridled, animal lust. Unfortunately, halfway through, there was a fanny fart from Eve. Ever the gentleman, I immediately denied responsibilty  “That wasn't me!”– this wasn't too bad, she laughed and we continued ripping each other apart. Moments later though, I felt windy and that imp living inside me, the childish, poor taste loving, scatalogical, inappropriate imp, forced out a fart. “That was, though” I cried out, boyish grin upon my chops.

The moment was lost. We carried on, but the passion was noticeably dimmed. There was no reprise either. Since then, I've learned my lesson. Fart jokes during sex just don't work.

Finally, I post...

It's been a while since I wrote anything; things have been hectic here and life has taken over a lot more of my time; although I've still had an opportunity to browse other blogs, I've had nowhere near the time necessary to even consider writing.

Even now, I'm lacking a bit in inspiration; times have been hard. I've gone from being on top of the world with sales coming out of my ears, to struggling. Work owe me money, I'm generally skint, my clutch and fly wheel are dying, my other car needs a service and the aircon fixing, I've had to pay for my summer holiday, I'm supposed to be out this weekend, I've two weekend breaks coming up, and whichever way I turn there's a load of bills piling up. My fuel bill alone is £600 a month, for both cars. Gear is also hugely expensive, and I've had to try and chop the habit down – I had some good scores in London at good prices (especially right now), but out in the sticks where I am, 3 hours from London, people are charging a tenner a point. It's good gear, I did .2 in a hit the other day and I keeled over, waking a bit later, really confused, with my head resting on my steering wheel, drof imprinted into my forehead.

I've also been unable to walk, limping around on crutches, bent over like an old man with the cares of the word on his shoulders. It's been agonising, and it seems not only do I have one chronic knee problem, but it may have been joined by arthritis. I'm 31, for fuck's sake. Using crutches is shit; both my wrists were shattered when I came off a bike a few years back, my wrists are weak and trying to hop about is not easy. I drive a manual too, so I've been having to lift my leg on and off the pedals. Changing gear and braking has hurt like hell, and rush hour was no fun. I'm looking at trading cars though, I had my eye on either an Audi RS4 or a BMW 318/525, but I may take the auto version just in case this happens again.

Work's been a nightmare; I pride myself on being Top Salesman. I've hit a wall; everything I touch is turning to shit. Things haven't been like this for 2 years – I'm having to dig deep and work harder than ever, but it's not happening for me right now. Things have to change, and quick, or I'll not be able to afford my family and habit together. Everything costs more now – fuel and food especially, and I don't want to have to economise there – it's not luxurious now. I'm tempted to do my usual trick of buying a load of gear and getting a mate to flog it for a 50/50 split, but it's dangerous territory. Selling drugs is much more addictive than using them, and it can take over your life. I already have two lives to live at once, never mind a third!

On the flipside, my homelife is really good right now, my son is really happy at school, my wife is in a good mood with me and there are no bruises or tracks that are hugely visible on my arms right now (I've been hitting veins cleanly for once, and have had a streak of luck registering immediately!), so I can wear t-shirts without drawing undue attention. I've also rented myself a  campervan for the summer so I can bum round Cornwall for a few weeks with my family, relaxing and doing fuck all. Where the hell I'm going to find privacy to have a hit though, I don't know. I never do it in front of my wife or son; it's my thing, my secret, and all the more satisfying for it.

Now I've broached the topic a bit, there have been a fair few interesting discussions about drug legalisation here in the UK; I know where I sit, and always have, drugs should be legal. We should not be putting one of the world's largest industries in the hands of criminals; we should not be rewarding lowlife kids for selling gear; they make a lot of money, tax-free, with no real effort. It encourages violence, and because so many thick kids are involved, there are silly incidents. It suggests that learning, education and hard work are not necessary, and it puts obscene amounts of money into the hands of crooks.

I think the drug trade is despicable. I think massive harm is done to addicts and users through unscrupulous suppliers. I think there is a lot of money wasted by the government and police chasing people that don't matter. We allow criminality by refusing to legislate.

Thing is, once I believed drugs should be legal for these reasons, and because I was a dealer, and because I took a lot of drugs.  Now I don't; I see things through jaundiced eyes; drugs, and all that goes with them, are seedy. They're slightly squalid, and I am not a big fan of them. I'm finding more and more that I don't really approve of drugs, and I don't like most addicts; none of my friends are junkies. Still, I'm often to be found tying off my arm and having a hit. Just another contradiction. I'm driven, and in sales, but I take downers when coke is the drug of choice of most of my colleagues. Maybe I'm just a weirdo.

Some of the best nights of my life have been on drugs. But they've also been with great people. Now I understand that it wasn't just the  drugs, it was the fact that I was young, excited and with a group of friends. My friends have scattered around the world, and times have changed. I am no longer carefree; I have responsibilities. I'd love not to have, but, although I say that, I don't believe it. My responsibilities keep me grounded, but rather than being a burden borne upon my shoulders, crushing me,  they're roots tied to my legs, giving me stability and strength.

I don't really take drugs, other than heroin, which I take daily (unless I'm broke, when I substitute MSTs to prevent withdrawal getting any sort of grip), and have done for a couple of years. I like heroin, and I hate withdrawal. My habit isn't awful, maybe .6g a day, but being starved of gear does hurt. 

Drugs are harmful, no question, but we should be free to do what we like with our bodies. We should pay tax on it, and we should not have to hide; we should be in the daylight. Most people aren't bad, and the chaos is a consequence of the illegality.

One of the guys who was keen to keep prohibition in place was a writer from the News of the World. He used all the cliches, most notably the concerns about children being exposed to drugs. Doesn't he understand that his children will be exposed to drugs anyway, but from a source dripping with a dubious glamour. The illegality is attractive, as is the culture surrounding it; it's a dangerous place to be a tourist though, and even more dangerous a world to be a fully committed part of.

I don't want my son exposed to drugs, but he will be. I can just advise him, and hope that he doesn't find the same attraction to the neon, the mess, the unpredictability, the dirt, the hookers, the dealer, the dancers, the pimps,  the bars and clubs, the same appeal in reflecting on life, walking home just before the dawn, seeking beauty in sodium lights and drizzle as I did. Imagine how legality and official recognition would remove some of this appeal.

Also - money! I paid £!4,000 tax last year. Imagine how much that could be reduced if we paid VAT on our gear. Also, lower court, police and prison costs. Win/Win!

There's also the humanitarian aspect – bringing us into the light can only help those who need and want help get it. Also, so many people won't be criminalised, robbed and ripped off.

One point the News of the World journalist raised was that of drug tourists – I'd never considered this, and still haven't really, but would it really matter?

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.

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.

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*

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.