Relapse...

Something just occurred to me; my first relapse after rehab. It's a pretty big relapse really, it's been 29 months now! I left rehab absolutely sober, going to meetings and doing all that stuff. Then, one night, I was out of rehab. I met some friends and after a few hours of abstinence I raised  a pint of cider to my lips and -BANG- all gone in one go!

We were in a pretty scruffy pub; fruit machines blinked in corners, paint-covered and heavy booted workers who'd finished their day's labours shouted to each other, a handful of old men and cripples sat separately, nursing their pints and trying hard to prolong their pleasure or perhaps, delay the inevitable further misery of going home.

I had a bit of dough, enough for a few beers and sat back to relax. As I did so, a very pissed, very offensive man came in. He shouted the odds at people and then finally, after insulting everyone, asked us to buy him a pint, with his money, as the bar wouldn't serve him. It was tempting to refuse, but we spotted a free beer. We accepted, and as he opened his wallet a glow seemed to emanate from it. Our faces bathed in light reflected from the glorious spectacle in front of us, Jay and I looked at each other and, as our eyes locked, a pact was made. A crisp twenty was handed to us, drinks were bought, he sat down outside and we followed, proclaiming fellowship and good health.

Jay and I worked hard to establish trust and rapport, a difficult task to complete with the inebriated and obnoxious, but we managed it. Conversation flowed, and we were asked to score him some weed. We sold him an Oxo cube for twenty quid.

Later, as he bought more drinks, we began to spike him with vodka, rendering him incapable of anything more than a general anger against the world. This anger would soon find new targets, as his new best friends were preparing to betray him.

The vodka affected our target badly, and he began to want to retire home for the night. Jay and I helped, taking the strain as he rose, staggered and toppled forwards, tumbling towards a face breaking impact, same as a statue of Saddam on Liberation Day. Saving him from impact allowed us to take hold of his arms and we walked him forward towards the taxi rank, propping him over our shoulders. He looked like a drunken Jesus being carried from the cross, but the Crucifixion was only beginning.

A taxi slowed and pulled into the side of the road. We pushed him into it, he got the address out, and we left him, waving him off at the kerb. If he'd have looked closely, or had the ability to see properly, he's have noticed that in my right hand, I held his wallet, and £290.

I walked back to the pub, bought a round, split the dough with Jay and then quietly slid out of the back door, made a call, and went to meet my man. 

That was the last crime I committed. I'm not proud of it, and I've come a long way since. Still, it's a fair representation of what I was, and what makes it worse is that I didn't do it from need, I just did it for a laugh, because I could, and of course, for the money.

I changed my friends afterwards, and have no contact with any of them any more. It's not where I want to be. Sometimes though, I miss the buzz, the kick, the excitement of running about the place, having to do a million things at once, and all on a knife's edge.

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.