The Story….
Ever since i became old enough to be ‘aware’ of my own mental health I knew I had problems.
As I turned fifteen I began to realise I could control these problems with street drugs, the fact that they not only made me feel good but better than good ,a bonus.
Heroin, the ultimate pain killer the substance that filled the hole, the hole in my soul that let in all the bad stuff like a dealing doorman at a dodgy club.
The anxiety the anger the crippling self-awareness Heroin barred the entry but as a doorman it’s wages were high .
There the metaphor runs out, the cost of this panacea in no doubt, and the daily doses that I very soon did need the ones I said I never would became more important than anything ever could.
That may sound weak willed, dramatically so and to the fortunate majority lucky enough not to have had their life blighted by an overwhelming need, an addiction, it probably is.
I would and have done things I would never have dreamed myself capable of sinking to, so as to prevent me going without.
Talk of willpower ,duty, faithfulness do nothing but make the addict feel worse.
Now at sixty years old I am still a drug addict.
The difference being the state sanctioned drugs I now take I cannot be arrested for possessing, but I can’t be without.
A lifetime of servitude to substances, so I could have a life.
Yes, at first it’s fun ,it’s great then it’s not.
Then it’s your way of life.
Dumpster Fire Press 