Oh dear

Things have gone nuts. Since deciding to stop using, I have been kicked out by my wife, with none of my stuff, and with the Old Bill hot on my tail! So I'm a homeless, penniless fugitive!

Things took a turn for the worst when I stopped using; I went through the rattle, which was ok, but interfered with family life, medicating with MSTs when things got awful. On Monday, I had no MSTs near me, so I had a hit to stop the sickness. Then told my wife. She went loopy and kicked me ut; I'd given her all my money at the start of the month, so was skint and entirely vulnerable, so rather than starve, I took her credit card and withdrew £230. It's my fucking money anyway, and I'm still grands out of pocket.

I've done some sofa surfing and floor sleeping, but am now in a hotel. I'm going to work, on time, clean, well presented and hitting my numbers, so that's ok.

I have a lot of bills coming up this next week or so; it'll be interesting to se how I get on. I'm still going to get clean, and do it on my terms.

Still, what a lot of fuckery...

I'll go into more detail later, but I miss my son horribly, I'm fucking furious that after 13 years, all my adult fucking life, my wife refused to speak to me about it sensibly (I don't mind leaving, it's fin, but I am livid about the aount of spite she showed). Then I had her father gobbing off at me. I'm proud to say I remained calm, and said I'd be happy to tell them anything they wanted to know. I'm less proud to recount that, equally calmly, I told him I'd drop him like a sack of shit if he spoke to me that way again. Regardless of who he is.

All of this is a massive trigger to go get smashed, but do I really want to? It'll achieve nothing, and I`'m broke til payday.

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)

Christian Moron

I saw this today, and found it to be one of the funniest things I've ever read. I found it on Sarcastic Bastard's website. Enjoy...

Quote of the Damn Day from a Damn Pinhead

Everyone knows scientists insist on using complex terminology to make it harder for True Christians to refute their claims. 
Deoxyribonucleic Acid, for example... sounds impressive, right? But have you ever seen what happens if you put something in acid? It dissolves! If we had all this acid in our cells, we'd all dissolve! So much for the Theory of Evolution, Check MATE!

[NOTE: I particularly like the Check MATE! at the end, like he's made such a great point or something. What a fucking moron.]

It ain't all fun, fun, fun

I'd been receiving prank calls late at night. Well, nt prank calls, but calls that I didn't want to answer. Calls from a man called Dixie; a clown, a waster and a fool. A man that drank to the point of insensibility, that ued whatever drugs he came across, that believed his London accent and an ability to talk big made him a man of consequence. Thing is, when he was discussing brutality, or suggesting a robbery, or trying to arrange the ripping off of a dealer or runner, well, thing is, itwas always around more capable people; he wanted to be a big man and do big man things, but he was at heart a small man, a coward, someone that felt he had to impress wih his tales of terror. A nothing with a police owned phone, an unstable paranoid dedicated to an idealised mother.

He'd been calling me late at night. My friend Mick and I lived together, but he'd gone to his other place to receive a visit from Eva, his girl. Dixie had got our numbers mixed up. I killed my phone's ringer as a result when I went to bed. I awoke to 64 missed missed calls, 38 voicemails and more texts than I could count.

Eva was beautiful. She was a lovely girl, early twenties; pretty, kind, thoughtful, loving, polite. A really nice girl. In everyway. I thought she was wonderful. She was special. She was my best friend's girl, and she was an alcoholic. We were friends, all of us, and had forged a really close bond in rehab together. We were all on good form together, laughing and joking. Eva was particularly fun, ripping the piss out of both of us.

Mickey and I are ver very different, opposite in every way. He's black, I'm white. He is a seriously tough man, I'm not. We are friends though, very close, and with Eva we made a triangle. We were wearing maching hats, with pigtails on.

“Go on, kiss! You make such a lovely couple!”

Things were good, we were happy. One Friday I came over during my lunch break. Eva was playing cards, as always making up the rules as she went along, so that she was guaranteed to win; for her many good qualities, she waswithout a shadow of a doubt the most unscrupulous cards player I've ever come across. We were chaffing insults at each other, interspaced with kisses between her and Mick, and I left them to it. All was well with the world.

I got back to the flat a few hours later, after work, and Mick and I went out to do what we do. While out, I had a terrible reaction to something I'd eaten. I desperately needed the toilet, but nowhere was open. I eventually found a coffee shop, got a key to their outside toilet, and destroyed it. It was awful; the most terrible crap of my life. Usually, being a man, I take a certain amount of quiet pride when I produce a dreadful smell. Not this time, I was choking on my own fumes. 

After a little while; a time of protracted burbling and splattering sounds, I began to clean myself up. A mammoth task taking whole minutes, but eventually I was as good as new. The toilet however wasn't. I'd somehow got shit all up the cistern, the seat, the wall behind it and the floor. I threw the key back to the shopowner, and ran. I thought that would be the story of the day, but it was trumped in the worst way possible.

We made our way home, with beer, and I left Mick to it with Eva, and went to my bed. The next thing, it was 9am, and I had a multitude of messages waiting for me. I looked at them, and the most recent simply said “Eva's Dead.”

I started to shake, and called Mickey repeatedly until he answered. He was busy, and I only got a quick chat, the gist of it being Get Here Now.

I ran to the fridge, shaking, and glugged down the little bit of cider I had left. I know it's weak, but I wanted a drink. It was a cold February day, a Saturday, and it was gloriously sunny. I sprinted the half mile between our houses and promptly found myself being interviewed by the police. They were convinced we were on drugs and that Eva had suffered an OD, but gradually that was disproven.

The next day was awful. What am I saying, the next weeks were awful. The post mortem, the funeral, all of it. The fallout when we found it was alcohol poisoning from some moonshine a neighbour had given her, when trying to take advantage of her, was violent and led to several people fleeing the city for fear of reprisals. I dealt with one of the others, and he's left town; the other Mick got hold of, well, he's vanished too.

Our lives were upside down for a while, and Mickey's still is; he went off the rails and is in jail. Mine, well, I think of her every day and miss her, and the friendship we all shared. It affected Mike and I too, but we survived.

It's what you get when you sign up to a life of substance abuse, be it booze or drugs. You lose vital people, and your life is never the same afterwards.

A response to Nobody Special,

I'm away right now and monitoring the blog from my mobile. It won't let me comment for some reason, hence new post.

Nobody Special made an odd comment I didn't really see the relevance of earlier, on the entry titled "Finally, I post."

I'm not sure how you've got that idea, I think you've misread or misunderstood something. I'm 31, born August 1979.

I'm happy to answer any questions you have. This blog is entirely open and honest.

Thanks for reading.

Also, I'd love to know firstly what you find fishy, secondly how you came here, and thirdly what you think the point of me lying about my age would be?

If you do have a sensible question, I'm happy to help any way I can.

Finally, props and thanks to Gledwood; he and Shane inspired me to hit the keyboard.

Teenage innocents: honest

“Fucking leg it!”

That was the first sensible thing that had been said by any of us, all day. Barely glancing behind me, I grabbed Ashley's collar, dragged him to his feet and began to run, sprinting until my lungs burst and I'd reached the corner of the road.

I heard sirens coming from both directions and saw the first Police cars flying towards us. I was grateful I'd paused for breath on the corner, if we'd have been running we'd have been done for. Ash was panicking, the police cars in the distance were coming closer, and we knew they'd be looking for us. 

"Stay cool, Ash, walk slowly, with me” 

I looked for escape routes. The day was bright and sunny though, we'd be seen in an instant if we hid in a garden, or behind some bins. We were on a sprawling 1960s low-rise council estate, my eyes were flickering round, searching out potential cut-throughs and alleyways. Nothing presented itself as being a good option, but we had to get off the road. Quickly. My face was swelling at the side, Ash was bloody, we were clearly responsible for this onslaught of Old Bill, and if the Panda cars got a glance at us, they'd tumble us. I saw a shop over the road, and thought, “Sanctuary.”

"You got any money?”

"What?”

"Ash, do you have any fucking money?”

"How's that going to help, oh no, we're fucked, we're fucked, what're we going to do?”

"Shut up. Just come”

I sauntered over the road, ahead of the approaching cars, simulating relaxed conversation, trying hard to look like any normal teenager wandering about on a Thursday afternoon. Ash came with me, head twitching and jerking; Pinocchio under the control of a puppeteer with Parkinsons. I got him into the shop just as the nose of the first car screamed past.

I breathed out, rummaged through my own pockets, and Ashley's, took the money we had, and invested it wisely in some sweets and a couple of cans of beer. I took an eternity choosing, to let the cars reach the site of the emergency. We left the shop after some light hearted banter with the shopkeeper, trying to work out what had happened, but as we were leaving, a witness to the accident was approaching from the other direction.

I pushed Ash down a sidestreet and we ran, heads down, fists pumping, knees a blur until we came to the edge of the estate. We hurdled the low fence, crossed the main artery into town with barely a glance, and headed over a field into a copse.

We sat for a moment, trembling and sweating, both of us in some sort of shock from what had happened and both of us thinking about how we'd get out of it with a whole skin. Ashley wasn't proving to be the calmest person in a crisis. The load was on my shoulders, and if we to get home unscathed I had better get my act together.

There had been five of us in the car when it crashed, and I remembered seeing all of us leaving the scene. From what I'd gathered, Andy had broken his arm, Steve was ok, and Yorkie had seriously hurt his leg. There was no way they'd get away, they'd gone back in the direction of Steve's house and they were all well known locally. I wasn't, nor was Ashley. Yorkie didn't know either of us, Steve wouldn't grass any more than I would, and Andy made a big thing of how tough he was, so we should be safe there too.

All this passed through my mind in an instant, and it registered that the most important thing for us was to get out. There were witnesses, we were too near, and the police would be looking for two battered boys, with a bag, wearing red tops.

We poured water over ourselves, scrubbed the dirt and blood off, dumped the jumpers and the bag;  I pulled on a hat, we  drank our drinks and headed out to the main road. We had a four mile walk home along the main road, but that was a real no-no, and we'd have to go through the countryside.

The walk home, once we had got out of the immediate area, was pretty nice and uneventful. It was a beautiful day in late spring, the terror had receded and we were beginning to relive events; relief washing over and through us, relaxing us and allowing us to come up with a cover story to explain my swollen face and Ashley's cuts and bruises. As so often happens when something out of ordinary has happened, we came across a credit card lying in the side of the road. My natural instinct was to go spending (CCTV not being so prevalent then) but I figured we had enough on the debit side of the ledger, and perhaps this once I should be on the side of the Angels. I broke the card and dropped it down a drain.

Over the miles the scale of the incident receded; we were laughing and joking, the sun was in the sky, our hearts were light, and we'd managed to get away with it. We spoke solemnly about the plight that our friends were undoubtedly in, and we rehearsed our cover story until we knew it backwards. We turned the corner to get to Ashley's house and all of a sudden our happiness, our sense of security, our good humour vanished. It had simply been a veneer, covering our fear with a cheap layer of plastic, as easily scratched and penetrated as cheap worktops. A police car was parked at the top of the road. 

The cars we heard passing became the sounds of the tumbrill, the summer birds' cheeping and chirping became the sound of knitting needles, clacking together to show the mothers meeting disapproval. We walked on to our sure and certain death; we would soon be in a cell, and there was no chance to escape. We could run, but where to? If they wanted us, they'd find us, so why put it off. With that thought in the forefront of my mind I told Ashley to say nothing at all, not to explain , or justify; do nothing at all except admit you were there, and that you had no idea we were doing anything illegal. There was no time for depth, I just had to hope he'd do as he was told and keep the trouble to a minimum.

The back door opened as we approached. Ashley's Mum was there, and she opened her mouth to speak. Ashley and I looked at each other and braced ourselves;

Would you like a cup of tea boys, I bet you've had a busy day with your friends?”

There was a pause.

Are you boys all right? You look a bit pale.”

I should say we probably did. The police car at the end of the road was a coincidence. I took a deep breath, and a time out. The day continued much like that until evening time, ups and downs; one minute we were fine, the next we'd hear a siren in the background and our pulses would rocket, our hearts beating through our chests, our palms becoming clammy, our bumps and scrapes twice as uncomfortable.

The next day we were going bowling, so we rose early, got ready and went to Doncaster. The day was blazing hot, and I remember arguing viciously about the merits of mineral water, before calling Steve to see if he was free. He was, but said we may need to watch our backs. Andy was being a bit evasive about how he got on in the interview, and wouldn't share his tape with Steve. Steve had said we were two of Yorkie's friends who he didn't know.

The sky darkened, and once again tendrils of fear crept around my stomach and squeezed. 

Once again, we ran through the story; we were innocents, misled by older, badder boys. With that settled, we went home and met Ash's Mum. As we were preparing the food, Ash saw the daily paper, with a picture of the car on the front page. He showed it to me, and my reaction must have shown on my face. Ash's Mum zeroed in on me and asked what was wrong; I explained it looked like Steve's car. She looked at our bruises, looked again at the paper, looked again at the bruises, and was distracted by a bang at the door. She opened up, and there stood two police officers.

John, Ash? I'm arresting you on suspicion of burglary, aggravated TWOC and criminal damage”

"Shit”.

Ash's Mum dropped the paper to the floor, her hands flying up to meet her O shaped mouth. The paper fluttered down, landing with the front page upwards. As I looked at my feet I caught sight of the newspaperp, highlighted vividly against the dark brown and amber swirls of the carpet. The leading article was a near-full page image of the Ford Sierra we had stolen, crumpled to the size of a Smartcar, in the living room of a bungalow, beneath a 68 point headline reading "YOB CULTURE".

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.