me and my mate always used to call “going over” (overdosing) ‘dying a little death’; thats if you get saved by the paramedics, of course. exactly one month ago today i done a hit of heroin and cocaine, after i’d been drinking vodka all day long. i don’t remember a thing when it comes to the drugs- i didn’t feel it hit, i didn’t feel myself loose conscience… i came round after about 15minutes with 3 paramedics in my flat, half-naked (they had to cut open my clothes to get quick access to my chest) and h00ked up to some weird machine. i got worse when they arrived, having had respitory failure. i didn’t realise how serious this was, but i actually stopped breathing. the paramedics said if they hadn’t been so close to my house, i wouldn’t of made it. i spent the next 15 hours in hospital hooked up to some machine. it was horrible. mike rang my sister and mum so when i got to A&e they were there. meanwhile, i was still half-naked and in and out of sleepiness. the doctors were very nice to me.

so yeah, i had a terrible brush with death. and it infuriated my family that i wouldn’t take it seriously. i would of done, but i don’t care. i’m back on heroin and cocaine. fuck. i just really don’t see a point; this is something that is going to be with me for the rest of time. i have to accept it i suppose. i feel so bad for going over, my family ring about 20 times a day each because they are so worried about me. if i don’t pick up they race round and knock on my door or phone the police to knock down my door. oh heroin. why was i foolish enough to touch it again after going through all that pain withdrawing off methadone?

been back to devon, back friends with dylan… i’ll write again soon.

Naomi is in hospital. She Overdosed at approx. 10pm last night. She is out of the woods but still in hospital under observation. This came as quite a shock to all of us as she had been doing so well.

Dylan.  

heroin has lost all novelty. of course it would, seven years of it and what it brings; collapsed veins, debt, severe illness, Deep Vein Thrombosis etc. etc….. you’d be stupid not to come to that conclusion. the last couple of days have been shit. i bumped into my ‘junky’ mates who live opposite me. i hung out with them, and let two of them stay at mine for two nights. the second day i saw one had bought a £20 bag, and i asked for some. they said yes. no shit, i had 30ml out of a 160ml and it knocked me on my arse for 13 hours, i couldn’t stay awake. to say i fucked off mike was an understatement. i am at my nans now, i just walked out without saying goodbye. i have been self-harming a lot. i feel better without heroin, but i still want to top myself. more than i have ever done before. i fear, that when he walks out, that will happen. he hurts me, with what he says, but i sit there stoney faced and pretend i don’t. i would go back on the heroin, but i can’t even be arsed to do that anymore.

junkylife is dying. we need to move. anyone know how i can transfer all my garbage a.k.a writing?

aaaaaaaaaah. i feel so rough. no wonder, i drunk myself neigh on death last night, a fist full of diazepam (to celebrate my ‘out of the woods- i think my cluck is over’ (the physical pain part- roll on months of non-sleeping, depression etc. etc.). and the clocks went back, so i’ve had one less hour. i got all excited when i woke at 7am, thinking fuck i am getting better (you can’t sleep when you come off opiates, even with shit loads of sleepers and valium) but no, it was technically 6am. never mind. i don’t know how i got home last night but i did. i had to be carried to bed and upon waking, and waking up my mate, he told me i had given him a rough night, rolling about, stealing covers. when my eyes opened, fuck, my head was swimming. i was still in my clothes (which always indicates my incapacity from the night before; i can’t even undress myself if i get too wasted). got up, downed a big glass of orange squash, woke Mike, and wayhey, he produced a bottle of ASTI MARTINI from the side of the bed. god, thats one of my fave drinks. ASTI for breakfast with the first morning cigarette, heaven.

Hmmmmmmm…… I might go to church. Or just sit here getting drunk. Must see my twin nieces today. And stop reading my massive collection of heroin-related books. Like Christiane F, Junk, Nikki Sixx Heroin Diaries.

I really didn’t have much faith in myself, I had good intentions, sure, you are ready to quit all the time, as long as its next Tuesday. I was 90% sure I would do it, but then this remainder was whispering in the back of my mind; “how the hell are you going to just quit something you’ve been submersed in for the past 7 years?”. I live in central Cambridge, and drugs & their associations are everywhere; the dealers, the users, the public toilets I used to shoot up in, the chemists where I would get my citric acid & needles. Urgh. I can’t believe I led such an existance for so long. Or let me rephrase that, I can’t believed I stayed alive for so long.

Anyway, I’m still clean. No methadone, no heroin, no nothing. Because of the withdrawal symptoms, my stomach has been awful. Couldn’t stop puking at first, so my drinkings cut down. Some days it is just down to a couple of cans. Considering what I was drinking, that’s left me feeling very clear headed and for the first time in years, alone with myself. Perfect for reflecting on what a cunt I’ve been to those who love me.

I wouldn’t of been able to do this without a certain someone. He has stayed around me every single day and waited on me hand and foot when I was crippled with pain. He tidied my house, collecting the 250+ syringes that were around, even though it made him feel utterly sick. He took me to Devon after deciding he would help me come off it. It was a very rash decision, quick. But I didn’t need much thought. I was on a methadone programme, trapsing to the BOOTS CHEMIST in the Grafton Centre each day, passing the same people I would pass and associate with if I was scoring. It wasn’t helping and there were days when I would see them, skip my meth and go do a shit load of snowballs instead. I was in the same drugs crowd, but expecting not to use, yet have it in my face all the time. Not blaming anyone else but myself, but it would be like doing a withdrawal knowing you had a stash of heroin hidden under a rock in your garden. Impossible. I wanted to meet his family. He means a lot to me. Bless him. 

I am not jumping the gun, its been x days (can you do the math whilst refering to the previous post, I’m crap at calculating) and I know this is going to be a problem for the rest of my life. I can NEVER touch it again, and if I do, I know it will spiral into another dependance. I got a letter about finally, my psychiatrist. Problem is, I know it was a day or two ago, and I’ve missed it. I’ll get a second chance, but I feel like a git for missing it, having bitched about it for so long (or the lack of it).   

Talking of missing stuff, I saw my docter Wynn the Thursday before last. She is going to put me on naltrexone all depending on my liver function test. Which reminds me, I need to get some blood taken, the nurses tried last time and they couldn’t get a vein. Makes me feel great about potentially being in a car crash; need an urgent transfusion, all that wasted time faffing around for a vein before going for my neck or groin. And also, naltrexone, it blocks the opiate receptors; so I couldn’t have morphine (Well, I could, but I wouldn’t fucking feel it)  so what would that leave me? Nitrous Oxide. What a load of bollocks. So; go it alone, or take it? Either way, the NHS only provide it with pills and like my Dad on his antabuse, if he wanted to start drinking again, he would stop taking them a couple of days before hand, otherwise, if he drunk alchohol on them, he would violently become ill. So, surely if I wanted to ever do it again, I would just stop them? But for little out-of-the-blue temptations, its a godsend I am sure. You could take it, but you wouldn’t feel it. Oh I don’t know.

I spent a wicked day in the pub yesterday with Dylan. I was ill as fuck, I knew so because my first drink was a plain pepsi, and for me to be drinking a soft drink anywhere, let alone a pub, is fucking seriously out of character.

Oh dear, I feel happy. Hear that, happy. Christ. What’s coming over me? Maybe I have mistook this 7 years of addiction for simple teenage angst and rebellion?

Ha.