Crunch Time

I'm an actor, and was on my way to the theatre again today. As posted yesterday this involved a one hour fifteen minute drive. All was going well. The plan was, to arrive three hours before the show so we could rehearse and make any last minute changes before curtain up. I was performing a play which we have taken to secondary schools throughout the area since October 2009, although due to recasting, I only joined in March this year. The performance today was a showcase of all the major theatre companies in the area. An opportunity to network, and also an opportunity for promoters to come and see the shows, which involved some new writing, and developed work, with the view to possibly booking the show/s for their venues or employing actors, commissioning writers etc. A really excellent initiative, and like I said, a great opportunity.

Everything was going great, I was running twenty minutes late, but due to the time we had before the show actually started this wasn't a problem.

As I travelled down the motorway with the radio blaring, all was good.

Suddenly an object loomed in the distance in the right hand carriageway (for us British, the fast lane), however more to the point, MY lane.

As I got closer, travelling at around 82mph, it was suddenly upon me, and what was a small object in the distance, became larger, and larger, until suddenly I was upon it.

It was a huge lump of metal, strewn across the carriageway.

CRUNCH!

That horrible sound of metal clattering into metal. By the time I knew what it was I couldn't swerve into the middle lane as there was traffic there, so I had to just grin and take the impact.

My initial reaction was "Few, thank fuck for that." I thought I'd got away with it.

Driving back from London just after New Year I had hit some ice when I got home and skidded at the top of my road, mounting the curb and puncturing the tyre. Even then the 100 metres or so down my own road was hazardous, the car pulled from one side to the other, as any control I had deflated as quickly as the air from the tyre.

This time, apart from the sound, nothing happened. I still had full control.

"I was lucky there." I thought cockily.

However I looked horrified into the rear view mirror as the person behind me hit it, and the car after that.

"That's going to cause an accident." I thought to myself, as I drove along blissfully unaware of the drama about to unfold.

I carried on a further 4 miles, taking a junction further down and joining a different motorway, all part of my journey. As I reached the new motorway, there was an unusual sound starting to appear from the rear of the car. Eventually becoming so loud it drowned out the radio.

"This doesn't sound good." I thought.

Which reading now is the understatement of the year.

I pulled over on the hard shoulder, promptly activated my hazard lights, and jumped out.

I checked the front two tyres. Fine. Looking good.

I checked the rear passenger side, stopping to give it a good kick as I passed, to check the inflation level.

Also good.

I walked to the rear drivers side.

Disaster!

The entire tyre shredded. Smoke billowing off the rims, and the stench of rubber pungent in the air. Bollocks! By now it was 10.30am, leaving two and a half hours until I was meant to be on stage, in what could be a very important showcase.

I set about trying to change the wheel, but due to the wheel being the rear drivers side, I had lorries and cars whizzing past at 70 mph just one-two metres from my back. Precarious to say the least. I loosened the nuts, removed the cap off the 'special nut' and inserted the locking nut into the wrench to remove the 'special nut'. Every time I tried to pull down on the wrench the nut kept coming away at an angle from the car, almost as if the locking nut wasn't sitting on it properly. I rang the one person who can get you out of a crisis involving a car, on the side of a motorway...

My dad.

I could hear the mocking tone in his voice almost instantly. "Ha, you can't even change a fucking wheel properly." he was thinking.

 "No honestly the nut won't fit." I pleaded.

"Great, I'll have to come to help" he insisted.

Who was I to argue? I had no other option and time was ticking fast. For him to get there would be a good hour drive, but what ever I tried, nothing seemed to work, the nut wouldn't budge.

I had been there a good forty minutes by now, and not ONE person stopped to offer help or assistance. At this point I only felt I needed someone to hold the locking nut in place.

"Of course they won't stop." my dad said.

But why not? I'm not being hypercritical either. If I see anyone so much as walking up the verge with a petrol can in their hand, I stop, offer a lift to the garage, take them back to their car and then wait until its sorted. Why do people feel they can't help thy neighbour any more?

"It's just the way things are now, people are scared." people say.

"Bull-shit." I say.

I sat back in the car trying to regain some warmth. British winters are not the nicest even in the daytime. Fortunately it wasn't raining though.

Just as I got off the phone to my dad, and he had probably just got his coat and shoes on in readiness to come and help I imagined, I turned to my left and a man in a florescent jacket was peering in through the front passenger side window...

'Highway Patrol'.  "Thank you Lord." I thought, "At least you haven't let me down."

Unfortunately the news wasn't as good as I'd hoped.

Thanks for trying anyway big-G.

I quickly cancelled my dads imminent arrival. Luckily he hadn't left yet.

"The locking nut on cars are made out of cheap, soft metal." The patrol men explained.

"The grip on the inside of yours has worn away." He continued, after several unsuccessful attempts to remove the nut themselves. The highway patrol men didn't have a generic/universal one either. They are not allowed to interfere with break downs. Health and safety apparently??

"Fuck health and safety. I need to get to the theatre, and quick." I thought.

"Can't I just buy one, or my dad buy it and bring it down?" I asked. "Shortly that would be cheaper?" I insisted.

But things are never that easy.

"You can only get them from the car manufacturer as they are made for specific cars." They assured me.

Because I had no recovery or RAC/AA membership (Road side assistance for non-Brits), my dad quickly added it to my insurance premiums, with the idea of playing dumb and not mentioning the accident. However one of the highway patrol men, (Although faultless otherwise), opened his mouth telling them the accident happened 'before' we added the recovery. So they refused to send the recovery.

Or rather they would, but it would cost £80.

"£80 f***** quid! To change a wheel?" I exclaimed, shocked. But I had no choice.

This whole process took four hours. Yeah that's right FOUR hours. "Four hours to change a wheel? Are you serious?" I hear you ask.

I know, but with phoning my dad , the insurance company, and my boss about twenty times, not to mention the times it went to voice-mail or they didn't answer...I mean how can someone phone you, you miss the call, then call them literally straight back, and they still don't answer the phone? A matter of seconds in it? I never understand that. But all this messing around, waiting for people to confirm things, ring people, make payments, give instructions and directions, all added time. Not to mention my phone battery going flat.

Having an in car charger would be way too simple for me, as you might have guessed.

In all honesty the highway patrol men were incredible though. I'd still be sat there now if it wasn't for them. It's a pity the same can't be said about the great British public.

The play had to be postponed until 5pm leaving me another four hours to do nothing but twiddle my thumbs.

Brilliant! So much for an easy day.

This could all be classed as bad luck. However, having time to reflect on it now, I realise I'm very lucky it didn't take out any of the front wheels as the story could have been very different. The front wheels operate the steering so this would have definitely compromised the control of the car, especially at 82mph on one of Britain's busiest motorways. This blog could so easily have been an obituary. Everything came good in the end so it was good luck really, no one was hurt, and my car is still in one piece, minus one tyre, but the spare wheels on, so never mind. The tyre was only three weeks old though. £40 down the drain. Typical.

One of my directors great suggestions to try to get me there on time was... "Couldn't you just leave your car on the side of the motorway and pick it up later?"  (Cue stunned silence...)

As you guessed, I'm trying not to be sexist here, but yes she's female. Only a woman could say something as stupid as that. Leave your car on the hard shoulder unattended? It's not a fucking car park. I ask you? Honestly?

After all this I needed a cigarette so I found a garage 5 miles out of my way.

After this I've earned it you would think.

As you can guess from the title of this blog, I'm twenty eight. I know that I do look young for my age, but none the less I'm nearly thirty. So I pulled up to the garage in the car. Walked inside and went up to the counter and asked the guy for ten fags.

"Do you have any ID?" the assistant asked smugly.

Anger surged as blood pumped through my nicotine-less veins. I could have killed him. Because guess what?... I didn't.

In this country you have to BE 18 to buy cigarettes, but so shops don't sell to under age kids by mistakes, you have to LOOK 25. Just to er on the side of caution. Ok? So you have to defy the natural laws of ageing just to buy some fags? How can you BE 18, but LOOK 25? Surely if YOU ARE 18, you LOOK 18! NOT 30 or 32 or 46 but 18!

Note: Soapbox over. Pedestal de-mounted.

I actually said to a woman once, who had asked me for ID, "I know I look young, but can you honestly say at the age of 28, I look 17?"

She paused, thought about it, then replied, "No."

"So give me the cigarettes." I said.

"Yes, but you've got to LOOK 25." she said.

"Unbelievable." I said.

So I'm old enough to buy and drive a car? Old and responsible enough to stand on the dangerous hard shoulder of the motorway for 4 hours? Old enough to pay someone £80 to sort my car out? But I can't buy a pack of fags? I ask you? What is this country coming to?

Sod 28, I sound 82 now, with my moaning. It's not the age I look that bothers me, its the inconvenience when you have to travel miles out of your way to find a shop to serve you, just because I won't carry my passport with me 100% of the time. It wasn't a problem until I lost my plastic driving licence, which had my photo and date of birth. It costs £20 for a replacement though, and I just don't ever have that spare. It's just frustrating that's all.

Anyway I digress....

I finally got to the theatre at 2.30pm, another theatre company had offered to perform in our original slot of 1pm, and so we could take their slot of 4.40pm so we could still perform, which was very kind of them.

And just as I pulled into the car park, a bird did a huge, runny shit right on my windscreen.

"That just sums up my day...." I thought.

Traffic Jam

It would seem 'what goes around comes around'. After finishing work at 12.30pm, (bonus), I started off on the journey home.

I really just wanted to get home as my methadone from the previous day was starting to wear off, and having to leave so early in the morning, I hadn't had time to sort anything before work.

That's the nature of the beast. Even if your up early, and want to score it's usually impossible to rouse anyone into action before midday. Nightmare if you need to go anywhere, your invited off on a day trip or such. Even the chemist doesn't open till 9.30am so this makes it even more difficult if your trying to hold down a job.

Even more complicated and awkward is the fact I am on 'daily supervised' pick up. Which for those who don't know means going into a packed pharmacy every day, standing in full view of all the other customers, and having to drink your methadone supervised by the pharmacist like a child at school with their milk. Which in a small town such as mine can be really exposing, not to mention degrading. It's so obvious that people then know what your business is, which can be made even more difficult by the stigma in which heroin is held.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself, or even knocking the service. My pharmacy and pharmacists are wonderful and we are lucky to live in a society where health care and treatment such as this is free, accessible and open to all. I just wish doctors and key workers would realise sometimes that not all 'smack heads' are unemployed and spend their days with nothing to do other than sit outside a pharmacy or a doctors surgery all day, waiting to pick up or sort out their script (prescription for the uninitiated.)

Another problem I have with this, 'supervised daily', is that doctors swear blind that methadone lasts in your system for twenty-four hours, but I know this not to be true. Their response to this is it must be psychological, in your head.

This is not true either.

I'm now well accustomed to knowing the signs of withdrawal that my body gives out, and methadone has NEVER held me for the full twenty-four hours.

A trick I used to use, before being put on 'supervised daily', is take half before I go to bed and half when I get up. This seemed to have a 'topping up' effect, and worked really well, carrying me through the day with ease. This is now impossible due to the present situation. So now, if I take it at five pm and have work the next day, by three in the afternoon the next day I'm sweating buckets, getting restless and wanting to go home. This can make working uncomfortable and often unproductive. Another bi-product of the controlling nature of heroin addiction.

This is what was happening today.

So I got in the car and put the air con on.

Too cold.

I switched it off.

Too fucking hot.

Heroin withdrawals make you so damn temperature sensitive. This went on for the duration of the journey.

I had a choice of two ways to get home. Both of equal distance/time. I chose the more direct route of 20 miles straight up the motorway. Then A roads all the way back. However when I got off the motorway...

Nightmare.

Roads closed. Grid locked traffic.

The sweat just got pricklier and pricklier. My patience got shorter and shorter. In the end rather than sit their with a pounding headache, gradually getting worse, I decided to do something about it. I swung the car round, drove 20 miles back and went my original way home.

The way I should have gone in the first fucking place. (Excuse my language)

Even then though I got stuck behind lorries and fucking tractors, all the way back. (My pet hate)

I eventually arrived back after a journey that should have took one hour ended up taking two and a half.

What should have been an 80 mile round trip was now 130, using a massive chunk of the petrol I'd skanked earlier in the day, and leaving me in the same situation as earlier, for tomorrow, with even less options...After all I couldn't do the petrol station twice.

I'll just put this down to karma.

Petrol Station

Went to work this morning and had to get up in order to leave at 7.15am to arrive at 8.15am.

How come any other day of the week I would happily sleep for England? But not today. 'Ping' eyes shoot open at 5am and refuse to close again.

I had something on my mind though.

I had no petrol to get to work.

I don't get paid till Friday, yet need money to get to work, it's a catch 22. I could have asked my parents but hate having to go through the row and suspicion that a known addict asking for money naturally brings.

I suffer frequently from the ostrich syndrome. I knew all yesterday I couldn't afford to get to work, yet buried my head in the sand hoping that something would invariably turn up to sort it out. As if £30 would just drop from the sky. In reality I was just buying time.

No matter, this still weighed on my conscience, making for a very restless night.

"I have to get to work" I kept thinking, over and over.

In the end I decided that rather than dent pride by asking for help, I'd go to the petrol station, fill up with enough for today and tomorrow, go to pay (fully aware there was insufficient funds to cover it) then play ignorant, pretending the card doesn't work. Give them my details, and promptly avoid for two days until Friday. This may not be the morally correct thing to do but I was backed into a corner.

I was going to pay eventually, I would never just drive off.

However, the anxiety and thought of the embarrassment of having to do this, in a petrol station full of people made me feel sick. How stupid that out of all my options this seemed to be the most rational?

That's lack of sleep, and desperation for you. After all, "What is the worst that could honestly happen?" I thought, nervously.

In the end, after delaying the inevitable with two bowls of Sugar Puffs and three cigarettes, I just built up the courage and went for it. Get it out the way, I reasoned.

Its funny how situations are never as bad as you envisage them to be. The guy behind the counter was really kind and forgiving, took my details no with no hassle, and as a bonus the petrol station was empty.

Result.

I get to work to earn some money for two days, and they get their money. Eventually.

Everyone's a winner. They are a massive cooperation anyway, it won't hurt them too much, I'm sure.

Next problem, getting enough money to score....It never seems to stop.

The amount of money I have managed to accumulate out of thin air when I have had to is incredible. We're talking tens of thousands of pounds. My doctor often says "Think of all that money you could of had, if you hadn't used.".

Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

But Would I really have 'had' that money if it wasn't for the craving and incessant desperation to self medicate?

I don't think so.

What I do know however, is that if every heroin addict was able to use this same cunning, and business acumen to more positive value, they would be very successful, and rich, with a pedigree that most huge businesses would want to utilise. If only it were that easy, eh?

Lazy Bones

Woke up today as I do most days feeling awful. The first pangs of withdrawal hijacking my sleep. It makes you drowsy and causes you to sleep longer, but at the same time makes your dreams lucid, interrupted and uncomfortable.

I roused myself into action. Rather than wallowing in self pity, I'm the kind of person who needs to do something to sort the situation, even if this seems unattainable.

I had a shower and brushed my teeth, this always seems to make you feel better when your rattling even if its only temporarily.

I turned on my mobile and saw I had a missed call from one of my suppliers.

'Strange' I thought.  There are seven or eight regular dealers where I live, all with varying quality of stuff, its a minefield these days to obtain anything decent. Even so we're not short of choices.

 The one who had rang was someone I regularly go to, and due to this has become a friend. Even so they never normally call. Unless they want something of course. If they are trying to get hold of me, at least they will answer their phone and I won''t have to chase them, which is tedious when every one has ran out and your trying to get someone, anyone, to reply to your phone call.

I rang them back. 'Do you want anything?', the voice on the other end replied.

'Yeah, just the one' I said.

'Well, when you come can you get me 10 fags and some bread out of the money?'.

'No problem'.

At least if they need me for something, they are unlikely to keep me waiting, I reasoned, another bug bear of scoring, especially when your ill.

So here began an hour of running round, going to the cash machine, then to the shops, then off to score, then back home. While coming out of the shops my friend Dave rang.

'I feel fucking terrible, not just rattling, think I've got the flu and the shits, can you pick me up and take me to score and then take me to put my Dads horses on'

'Fucks sake, I just want to get home. And you better not pass that shit on to me you twat.'

So off I went to get him, ordered another one. More waiting while this was made up. Up to his Dads to get the betting slip, then down to the bookies. Then back home.

People say we're lazy. It may be mundane but its a hectic life this addiction lark.

It controls you.

If I had work, all this would have to be completed beforehand just to get me to work feeling ok. To allow me to function or work at an acceptable level. Sometimes it can take longer depending who your meeting, whether you have money or not etc. Its a necessity at the moment, and can take hours out of your day, just fucking around, waiting to score.

This is why people can't function, don't get anything done. The events I described are mild by comparison. An hour is nothing. I have a car, if I was on foot this would have involved at least a 4 mile walk. This can happen 2 maybe 3 times a day.

We're not lazy, we just put our energy's into the wrong things. Of course it's our own choice. Or at least it was. If you had the flu you'd go to the pharmacy. This is exactly the same. Although self inflicted, it still causes illness. No one when getting a habit knew it would be this hard, went in with their eyes wide open.

If they did they're mental.

This is just us going to the pharmacy, its just society with its laws and regulations makes it much more difficult.

Was it worth it?

 Of course it was, we wouldn't do it otherwise.

Too young

I feel I need to make one last post today in tribute to a friend or rather acquaintance who for the purposes of this blog shall be called Paul.

Paul was only 32 years old, but died last Thursday, the 14th October 2010, of a Heroin overdose. It was his funeral today.

I decided not to go.

Not because of the connection we had 'through drugs and addiction' as I truly believe that on the day of a funeral whether you are good,evil,thief, or Samaritan the day is about the deceased and no one else. We are all human beings in our humblest forms what ever our wrongs on a day like this. However I didn't feel I knew him well enough outside of our illicit vocation to warrant me going. Instead my tribute will be here.

Times like this remind us of our fragile mortality. It makes me shudder to think of the way he died. It's not so much the 'way' he died as I should imagine dying from a strong pain killer would be painless and peaceful. Like falling into a deep sleep. It's the way your last act on this earth will always be remembered that bothers me. The lad who was a junkie, the lad who's promiscuity caught up with him. No matter what other good things he did in his short life, there will always be the moral astronauts high up on their pedestals wagging the 'I told you so' finger.

I'm sure there will be people thinking people like Paul deserve their death, you live by the sword you die by the sword. He was, after all, an adult and you make decisions perfectly concious of the possible outcomes. No one forces you. No one ever forced me.

The image of 'dealers' peddling to school kids is an urban myth, this would never happen. The myth of drugs being cut with glass or arsenic is also an urban myth fabricated by the tabloids to add dramatic effect. Most dealers deal to fund their habits, they wouldn't last long in business if this was the case. 90% of their clientèle are known to them personally, this wouldn't bode well for repeat custom.

Paul's mum found him. I feel for her. She's not to blame. He wasn't a bad person. Drug taking isn't always a terrible thing. It's dangerous and can make people do reckless things but like most things that are 'bad' for us, is harmless in moderation. Moderation is the key. Rest in peace Paul. God Bless.

£200 for the snip anyone?

I've been interested to read, and see some of the reactions surrounding 'Barbara Harris' (pictured) from the US's campaign to pay people suffering with addiction £200 cash to under go 'long term birth control'.
The story goes that after adopting children from parents with addiction, and seeing the scars left behind, she thought to herself 'why are we letting this happen?', 'why are we letting parents not fit to raise children have children?'.
So off she trotted on a one woman mission funded by a 'secret benefactor' offering cash for sterilisation.

Project Prevention has now reached the UK.

I do agree that in some cases children do suffer due to parents recklessness, and have witnessed first hand a fundamental lack of care given by some parents suffering with addiction. Addiction is a selfish past time and has no time for others even, it would seem, ones children. Even so, this is a vast generalisation, and how dare someone have the right to decide who is fit to have children or not, regardless of the parents afflictions.

Children suffer at the hands of bad parenting for differing reasons, drink, violence, cruelty, mental health etc. I know one addict who has bought up her seventeen year old daughter all on her own, the child has never suffered or gone with out and is now doing well at college and plans to go to university, I know for a fact she would not have been better off with the father who is not an addict of any kind, but lacks the fundamental ingredients of love and selflessness needed to bring up a child. The child wouldn't change her upbringing for the world.

Who says that people can't reform? This woman's view seems to be once an addict always an addict.
I've always found the lack of use of contraception between casual partners is nothing short of unforgivable, and this goes mainly for drunk one night stands than with other illegal drugs, yet this seems to be alright? If the child is born by mistake as the result of a fumble between two consenting fourteen year old's, fine. Bring drugs into the equation? NO WAY!

Offering money to the vulnerable, desperate and needy to stop them producing and passing on their genes? They may consent now, but what happens when in five years time they are clean and in a stable relationship and want to start a family? They may not be so forgiving then. Will this be their own fault? The result of there own addiction fuelled greed for money? I suppose so. Fuck them. One less future junkie to ignore.

This is generalisation in the extreme, what next? sterilising smokers? Muslims? homosexuals? poor people?

I can not believe reading comments on the web that people are behind and encourage this, she has sterilised 3000 people in the US, but fuck it they are only junkies who cares. That is someone's sister, brother, son, daughter.  I wonder who's behind this....the good old Christians? She says not, but if in doubt blame the Christians that's my motto...x

http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/2010/jun/12/barbara-harris-sterilise-drug-addicts-alcoholics

(As always your thoughts welcome)

The Story so Far....

It began with a 'normal' progression through teenage pharmaceutical experimentation, Cider - Weed - Speed - Ecstacy - Cocaine, all on a purely recreational basis, that continued through college and into University.

This experimentation and search for self destruction gradually and 'stereotypically' progressed onto the most taboo and least understood of illegal highs.

Heroin.

At first it became a secret act between a couple of friends who would obtain some from a friend of a friend and sneak off, excited in the knowledge we were trying something so hated, revered and mystical that the intrigue in doing so was unbearable. The use was purely recreational and the anticipation and excitement that went with this, bought the few of us who 'experimented' with this Queen of the highs together into a secret 'club' and/or pact. It's ability to isolate had already begun.

All was well and the use was very sparse.

Once, maybe twice a year.

When I finished my degree high in student debt, things didn't go quite as I had anticipated. I didn't have the funds to follow my fellow students to the bright lights of the big city, so I moved home to my small little market town here in the UK. The idea was to earn some money and follow on in the Autumn.

After three years of companionship and ambition, I was suddenly alone and depressed. I turned to the one thing that reminded me of friendship and togetherness.

Heroin.

It started as it had before, recreationally.

Then I began to push my luck.

I pushed my luck, bit by bit, using day after day. Every day that I woke up without withdrawal symptoms the more I tried my luck. Unlike how some would have you believe this process of addiction  took several weeks, in order to develop any habit or routine the act has to be repeated, at least twice.

Eventually reality began to creep in. I began to think what I'd do if I felt ill and began to withdraw. 'I'm a big boy, I can handle it' I thought. 'I'm not a junkie, When I begin to feel ill I'll stop'. 'It can't be that bad, can it?'. As if the illness that came with the craving would somehow warn me, start off slowly, go easy, so as to welcome me into it's exclusive club gently.

I was after all a newcomer.

Eventually and inevitably it hit and I was not prepared. Naivety became my foe.

In the beginning it had only just began it's grip. I still had money so the self medication was no problem. Gradually though, as it sapped my resources, smoking turned to injecting. For purely 'economic' reasons of course.

I had to contact a treatment centre, gain a key worker in order to get treatment. Get a prescription to fill in the gaps when money was a problem, so I didn't have to go down the route of thieving or crime.

Addiction bred deception and a web of deceit was spun on a regular basis to protect the people I loved, and to allow me to get what I want.

Six years have passed and my morals have been knocked down like dominoes, although I know my conscience is clear, partly due to a good family, I haven't had to resort to 'career' crime or the usual unpleasant practices to pay for my addiction. However I understand why people do.

I am writing this blog because although my ultimate aim is to become clean and I will share this accordingly, that is not the blogs focus.

During the last six years I have had the opportunity to meet some of the most interesting, and colourful characters that have opened my mind and perceptions in a way I would not swap for the world. These experiences I would love to share.

Little is known about this seedy underworld apart from the generalisation created by the media and society of, tramps, shop lifting, and benefit scroungers. This is painted by people scared of the truth. Much in the same way mental health was misunderstood 100 years ago.

I plan to show you that, yes, there are bad people, but they are bad 'in-spite', not always 'because' of the drug, and there are a lot of good people too who are just trying to find there way, products of there upbringing, or unpleasant past. What ever happens, this will be a diary/blog covering many topics however they come about, not just about drugs but about life, I hope you enjoy the ride....

Chucky