And with breathing problems! Oh, such fun(!)
I have never had a flashback that's resulted in a hospital visit, or if I have, I don't remember it. That is, until now.
Annoyingly, I've got the usual memory gaps. So I'll have to piece it all together and try to recreate everything.
I know I started off at home, late in the evening. January. It was dark.
What I don't know is what I was doing, or what could possibly have triggered the flash.
I
do remember phoning my friend, hardly able to talk, asking for a ride
to the hospital. I couldn't breathe. Just couldn't breathe. Now that's
new. Breathing.
Flash to being in the car with my friend; "You're just having a panic attack, you'll be fine." says the girlfriend.
Yeah,
that would be nice, thinks I. In a minute I won't know who you are
love. And I will be angry, for no reason at all. Hows about keeping your
mouth shut and just letting my friend do the talking. Because if I
don't know who you are, I'm liable to start throwing punches, and that's
not going to end well. He knows how to handle these.
"Hows the bike?" says my friend.
Thank you. Thank you so much. I can think for a moment.
See,
that's the thing. The Bike. She wasn't there all those years ago. It's a
link, a memory trigger. Something that can bring me back. It usually
works. It doesn't last, mind. As soon as the thought is gone, so am I.
Back in the past, wondering where I am and how I got there.
And
now, I'm in a hospital waiting room. And things are starting to make
sense again. Slowly, but surely. But the breathing, that's still a
problem. I still can't breathe. The flashback has gone, the memory gaps
are starting to form. I'll never remember everything, that's how it
works. Not really a bad thing I suppose. I don't want those memories.
But I'm thankful. I don't want to explain my drug history to a Doctor,
that is far too terrifying. It's just the breathing.
And the Doc says that's purely down to smoking. I'm given an inhaler and sent on my way. It works. I can deal.
The breathing difficulties are likely to be pretty permanent, although they should improve over time. But I can live with that.
Breathing, memory loss and flashbacks. Small prices to pay for still being alive, if you want my opinion.
-
Addendum;
This
part is all just theory, realistically. I can't say I have any idea
what came first, breathing or flashback. They're related but not
connected I should think. I suspect I started to struggle to breathe,
thanks to smoking, and that triggered the flash. But I can't be sure. I
know most of my triggers and avoid them religiously, but every now and
again I'm still caught out. Just suppose I've got to wait until next
year to see if they now come as a package or not.
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
Thursday, 7 August 2014
8Years On...
Or is it?
Truth be told, I've lost count. I think that's a good sign. This is just me now. It's just the way I am. Not something I have to fight to be.
Some things haven't changed. Motorcycles still saved my life. And they carry on saving it every day. The flashbacks are still happening, but they're getting easier. I've only had one big one this year. One! That's pretty amazing. It did put me in hospital though, which was horrible.
The memory loss is still there, and the confusion.
I found out that one of my friends is still alive. And starting a family! I'd heard they didn't survive, turns out they were just in prison. I still don't know what for mind, but alive! I cried when I heard.
I also drank a bottle of whiskey this year.
And thankfully, I hated it. Game Over. Not an experiment I care to repeat.
I'm never going back. I know that. I'm fighting with the temptation every day, and I know I will for the rest of my life, but it's not a fair fight. I've already won.
There really is one thought, one completely bulletproof mantra, that keeps me going. I know, if I went back, one thing would lead to another and I'll get myself all dead. And that thought, that lifesaving thought, is pretty simple really;
If I'm dead, who will ride my bike?
Truth be told, I've lost count. I think that's a good sign. This is just me now. It's just the way I am. Not something I have to fight to be.
Some things haven't changed. Motorcycles still saved my life. And they carry on saving it every day. The flashbacks are still happening, but they're getting easier. I've only had one big one this year. One! That's pretty amazing. It did put me in hospital though, which was horrible.
The memory loss is still there, and the confusion.
I found out that one of my friends is still alive. And starting a family! I'd heard they didn't survive, turns out they were just in prison. I still don't know what for mind, but alive! I cried when I heard.
I also drank a bottle of whiskey this year.
And thankfully, I hated it. Game Over. Not an experiment I care to repeat.
I'm never going back. I know that. I'm fighting with the temptation every day, and I know I will for the rest of my life, but it's not a fair fight. I've already won.
There really is one thought, one completely bulletproof mantra, that keeps me going. I know, if I went back, one thing would lead to another and I'll get myself all dead. And that thought, that lifesaving thought, is pretty simple really;
If I'm dead, who will ride my bike?
Saturday, 9 July 2011
Guest Post - Pills and Fights
This guest post had kindly been submitted by another friend of mine. I didn't know them at the time of these incidents, but met them shortly after. I can honestly say, that knowing what a friendly, and nice person they are, what happened to them when they were on pills has totally shocked me. I never could have guessed that something as horrible as that could happen to such a good person.
-
Pills and Fights
Part 1 - Weed
I did the usual, you know, getting pissed with mates. At that age, a pretty young age, that seemed the right thing to do, all rebellious and shit! I had one mate, who at the time was living in a caravan outside his parents. It was the most idyllic location to be living, although it was less than 20 feet away from their house! This is where it all started.
I was only about 14/15 years of age when I first got exposed to drugs, maybe a little older but hey ho outcome was nevertheless the same. Someone had gotten hold of some weed. I thought “Wow isn’t he cool”, not.... There were only one or two people that were properly smoking it. This was when my mate with the caravan started inviting other people round, and of course it carried on like Chinese whispers, tonnes of people were there! Well, slight exaggeration but I’m writing this so na!
As naturally as weed comes, it gets passed around. I had one toke from it and felt like shit, I couldn’t be arsed to do anything, even though it was only a small amount I had smoked. But what with me having “virgin” lungs it hit me pretty hard.
That was the first time I had one puff, then it happened again, but this time I had been heavily drinking. Roughly same age as before, and I decided to smoke a little more than I did originally. It was hilarious, not only was I paralysed, I was pissing myself with laughter as my head was literally plonked against the wall of the caravan. All the others were pissing themselves too, quite an amusing night.
After a while it was just the same old people bringing weed, and the “original gang” were fading away because of it getting out of control, caravan was getting wrecked etc. So shortly I stopped going round there, just to get away from the nutters, and the drugs. Weed stinks, it’s a vile smell, I did mention that didn’t I?
Part 2 - Pills
Bollocks to this, I’ll cut straight to the chase; my best mate invited me and a few of his mates to go for a cruise in his car. In total there were about 4 or 5 of us, cramped into his clapped out Rover 216. One of them decided to ask my mate to make a detour to someone’s house, it turned out that someone was a dealer, and he got himself a bag of pills. He started knocking them back like smarties, I shit you not, wishful thinking that he’d knock himself out, he turned out to be a bloody nutjob.
My best mate was driving and he was sober throughout the night, I had a few bottles of beer, and then the moment came, “d’ya want a pill or two mate?” Inevitably I said yes, why the hell not? I felt like nothing was going right in my life anyway so I wanted to blow it away, did I blow it away...? Did I ever.
The others were doing the pills too, so I took one, waited for a while and Christ did it take a while, I believe I took another one not long after the first.
We were on the move again to someone else’s house, god knows where we were going, but when we got there, there were more people. They were all sober. I think I snorted some pills as well when we were inside the house, but still wasn’t coming up yet. Then the bloke who’d got the pills asked me, “are ya coming up yet” and I replied, “yes,” as I had just started to get this intense warm feeling throughout my body, to put it comparatively, it was like an orgasm but much more pronounced (and better!)
Well, did some more pills, and we were on the move again, to another blokes house who wasn’t with us previously.
This is where it gets sketchy, the bloke who was with us asked us for a score to get some more pills, me being a mug I said yeah, don’t even think I got a share from this batch, nor did I get my twenty quid back, which he said I would. My best mate had left at this point so I was stranded in the middle of some strange place. Another bloke turned up on a scooter, he did some pills too, and was driving. Mad hatter I tell ya. Shortly afterwards, at this other bloke’s house, I think it was the lad on the ‘ped that started getting mouthy to everyone. There was a lot of commotion. Someone said “get out my fucking house or I’m gonna knock you out”, and boy was he serious, I can’t remember whether a punch was landed by either of them. Ped boy soon scarpered.
I was pissed, starting to come down, and I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. Not a chance. I couldn’t sleep for shit. I was laid on this strangers bed, with the others sat on the edge of it. The bloke whose house it was, from what I can remember, he said something about he doesn’t want my greasy hair all over his pillow. Err excuse me, but it’s not greasy.
Next day, I was out of it. Everything was surreal, and I didn’t know my arse from my elbow!! This is the part that gets pretty bad. When me, and another two of the guys originally from my mates car were leaving, apparently I was mouthing off to this bloke whose house it was. I was like, well what the hell have I done… don’t know what his problem was. Next minute I was walking ahead of them, and all I heard was this barrage of stomping as the lad who had the “problem” cracked me round the back of the head. Then he tripped me, or pushed me, either way I was on the ground. He kicked me in the face once or twice while I laid there.
I thought I had blood coming out of my nose, but turns out it was where he kicked me and my nose was just running, mmmm nice(!)
Then he disappeared and I called my mate to come pick me up right this bloody minute. I met him at a roundabout about 10, or so, minutes later. Had a right pop at him for leaving me with people I didn’t know. He apologised for it though, I think.
The damage done to me was next to nothing, a small cut above my eyebrow was all he had managed. Must not have been a “hard” lad!
Coming off the pills I didn’t speak, or if I did it wasn’t much at all. I hardly said a word to my parents that day, that was very strange. My pupils were “pulsating” when I looked in the mirror. Just had to hope they wouldn’t notice, they didn’t thank goodness.
Coming off the pills must have lasted a few days, if not more, as I had small hallucinations. A few days later, I was in a pub with a mate. I said to him something white had fallen out of his head. Lo and behold we pissed ourselves. I was still feeling the effects!
Part 3 - Cocaine
I’ve never really had any experience with cocaine, apart from someone using it in their flat, which was brief. I had a dream a fair few years ago about doing cocaine, and surprise, surprise I was carted off to hospital where I died. Not a pleasant dream, but one that has really put me off cocaine. I could have got hold of some whenever I wanted to, but because of that dream, I never dared to touch it, no matter how small the line.
Part 4 - Buying my Own
After gaining my driving licence I restricted what I drank, and didn’t plan to ever touch drugs. But after meeting this woman, it sort of changed. A few of us went back to her house, and next minute she pulls out a box from under the sofa and rolls a massive joint. She smoked it quite happily, after all, it was her house she was doing it in, and it didn’t bother me at all. A few more visits cropped up, and she rolled another one, this time I said I fancied a bit. Omg! Dunno what it was but it knocked me for six! I was lying next to her on my tummy and my whole body felt like it was sinking, a weird but nice warm fuzzy feeling.
About 10 minutes or so later, I was sat on her garden doorstep with my head spinning. I didn’t puke, I’m far too hard for that! Eventually though, the effects wore off and I went to sleep.
I started buying my own off her. I was so paranoid having this bag of weed in the glove box, but I got it home safe and sound. I smoked some at home, then worst of all, I smoked some at work. Me panicking, I dropped some on the floor at work when I was rolling one. It was a fuzzy type of carpet and a pain to clear up!
Then to be honest it ended as quickly as it started and vowed to myself to never touch it again, and to this day I haven’t.
-
Some bullet points to cap things off:
• Weed? It stinks.
• I can't understand why anyone would want a drug to make you feel like crap and be lazy...?
• Drugs are so readily available nowadays, anyone can get some.
• I enjoyed the first time on pills, just not the repercussions
-
Before writing this, I would have contemplated doing pills again, even knowing what I do. But after writing, and really thinking about it, they would probably screw me up again and put my mind back to where it was before, bringing back that impression that nothing in my life is going right. I know I’d just want that first feeling again, just once more, and I'd chase it. But it doesn’t work like that; the second time’s never the same as the first.
-
Pills and Fights
Part 1 - Weed
I did the usual, you know, getting pissed with mates. At that age, a pretty young age, that seemed the right thing to do, all rebellious and shit! I had one mate, who at the time was living in a caravan outside his parents. It was the most idyllic location to be living, although it was less than 20 feet away from their house! This is where it all started.
I was only about 14/15 years of age when I first got exposed to drugs, maybe a little older but hey ho outcome was nevertheless the same. Someone had gotten hold of some weed. I thought “Wow isn’t he cool”, not.... There were only one or two people that were properly smoking it. This was when my mate with the caravan started inviting other people round, and of course it carried on like Chinese whispers, tonnes of people were there! Well, slight exaggeration but I’m writing this so na!
As naturally as weed comes, it gets passed around. I had one toke from it and felt like shit, I couldn’t be arsed to do anything, even though it was only a small amount I had smoked. But what with me having “virgin” lungs it hit me pretty hard.
That was the first time I had one puff, then it happened again, but this time I had been heavily drinking. Roughly same age as before, and I decided to smoke a little more than I did originally. It was hilarious, not only was I paralysed, I was pissing myself with laughter as my head was literally plonked against the wall of the caravan. All the others were pissing themselves too, quite an amusing night.
After a while it was just the same old people bringing weed, and the “original gang” were fading away because of it getting out of control, caravan was getting wrecked etc. So shortly I stopped going round there, just to get away from the nutters, and the drugs. Weed stinks, it’s a vile smell, I did mention that didn’t I?
Part 2 - Pills
Bollocks to this, I’ll cut straight to the chase; my best mate invited me and a few of his mates to go for a cruise in his car. In total there were about 4 or 5 of us, cramped into his clapped out Rover 216. One of them decided to ask my mate to make a detour to someone’s house, it turned out that someone was a dealer, and he got himself a bag of pills. He started knocking them back like smarties, I shit you not, wishful thinking that he’d knock himself out, he turned out to be a bloody nutjob.
My best mate was driving and he was sober throughout the night, I had a few bottles of beer, and then the moment came, “d’ya want a pill or two mate?” Inevitably I said yes, why the hell not? I felt like nothing was going right in my life anyway so I wanted to blow it away, did I blow it away...? Did I ever.
The others were doing the pills too, so I took one, waited for a while and Christ did it take a while, I believe I took another one not long after the first.
We were on the move again to someone else’s house, god knows where we were going, but when we got there, there were more people. They were all sober. I think I snorted some pills as well when we were inside the house, but still wasn’t coming up yet. Then the bloke who’d got the pills asked me, “are ya coming up yet” and I replied, “yes,” as I had just started to get this intense warm feeling throughout my body, to put it comparatively, it was like an orgasm but much more pronounced (and better!)
Well, did some more pills, and we were on the move again, to another blokes house who wasn’t with us previously.
This is where it gets sketchy, the bloke who was with us asked us for a score to get some more pills, me being a mug I said yeah, don’t even think I got a share from this batch, nor did I get my twenty quid back, which he said I would. My best mate had left at this point so I was stranded in the middle of some strange place. Another bloke turned up on a scooter, he did some pills too, and was driving. Mad hatter I tell ya. Shortly afterwards, at this other bloke’s house, I think it was the lad on the ‘ped that started getting mouthy to everyone. There was a lot of commotion. Someone said “get out my fucking house or I’m gonna knock you out”, and boy was he serious, I can’t remember whether a punch was landed by either of them. Ped boy soon scarpered.
I was pissed, starting to come down, and I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. Not a chance. I couldn’t sleep for shit. I was laid on this strangers bed, with the others sat on the edge of it. The bloke whose house it was, from what I can remember, he said something about he doesn’t want my greasy hair all over his pillow. Err excuse me, but it’s not greasy.
Next day, I was out of it. Everything was surreal, and I didn’t know my arse from my elbow!! This is the part that gets pretty bad. When me, and another two of the guys originally from my mates car were leaving, apparently I was mouthing off to this bloke whose house it was. I was like, well what the hell have I done… don’t know what his problem was. Next minute I was walking ahead of them, and all I heard was this barrage of stomping as the lad who had the “problem” cracked me round the back of the head. Then he tripped me, or pushed me, either way I was on the ground. He kicked me in the face once or twice while I laid there.
I thought I had blood coming out of my nose, but turns out it was where he kicked me and my nose was just running, mmmm nice(!)
Then he disappeared and I called my mate to come pick me up right this bloody minute. I met him at a roundabout about 10, or so, minutes later. Had a right pop at him for leaving me with people I didn’t know. He apologised for it though, I think.
The damage done to me was next to nothing, a small cut above my eyebrow was all he had managed. Must not have been a “hard” lad!
Coming off the pills I didn’t speak, or if I did it wasn’t much at all. I hardly said a word to my parents that day, that was very strange. My pupils were “pulsating” when I looked in the mirror. Just had to hope they wouldn’t notice, they didn’t thank goodness.
Coming off the pills must have lasted a few days, if not more, as I had small hallucinations. A few days later, I was in a pub with a mate. I said to him something white had fallen out of his head. Lo and behold we pissed ourselves. I was still feeling the effects!
Part 3 - Cocaine
I’ve never really had any experience with cocaine, apart from someone using it in their flat, which was brief. I had a dream a fair few years ago about doing cocaine, and surprise, surprise I was carted off to hospital where I died. Not a pleasant dream, but one that has really put me off cocaine. I could have got hold of some whenever I wanted to, but because of that dream, I never dared to touch it, no matter how small the line.
Part 4 - Buying my Own
After gaining my driving licence I restricted what I drank, and didn’t plan to ever touch drugs. But after meeting this woman, it sort of changed. A few of us went back to her house, and next minute she pulls out a box from under the sofa and rolls a massive joint. She smoked it quite happily, after all, it was her house she was doing it in, and it didn’t bother me at all. A few more visits cropped up, and she rolled another one, this time I said I fancied a bit. Omg! Dunno what it was but it knocked me for six! I was lying next to her on my tummy and my whole body felt like it was sinking, a weird but nice warm fuzzy feeling.
About 10 minutes or so later, I was sat on her garden doorstep with my head spinning. I didn’t puke, I’m far too hard for that! Eventually though, the effects wore off and I went to sleep.
I started buying my own off her. I was so paranoid having this bag of weed in the glove box, but I got it home safe and sound. I smoked some at home, then worst of all, I smoked some at work. Me panicking, I dropped some on the floor at work when I was rolling one. It was a fuzzy type of carpet and a pain to clear up!
Then to be honest it ended as quickly as it started and vowed to myself to never touch it again, and to this day I haven’t.
-
Some bullet points to cap things off:
• Weed? It stinks.
• I can't understand why anyone would want a drug to make you feel like crap and be lazy...?
• Drugs are so readily available nowadays, anyone can get some.
• I enjoyed the first time on pills, just not the repercussions
-
Before writing this, I would have contemplated doing pills again, even knowing what I do. But after writing, and really thinking about it, they would probably screw me up again and put my mind back to where it was before, bringing back that impression that nothing in my life is going right. I know I’d just want that first feeling again, just once more, and I'd chase it. But it doesn’t work like that; the second time’s never the same as the first.
My Life Now - Pills again
Last night I had some friends over. One of them brought "a friend" whom I'd never met.
This girl was just coming up 22, and I was afterwards told she'd recently lost a close family member, and had to organise, and speak at, the funeral herself. So not an easy time of life recently then!
She told me she was going to her first Rave that night, and was intending to take her first pill.
Apparently it was a legal rave. Now, personally, I've never actually been to one of those. Well, not unless you count the under-18s club night I went to with Lucy once. But I'm not sure if that counts. (I'll blog about that one soon.)
Apparently they're not all that different. I strongly suspect the dealers won't be lined up at the entrance like they were at the Raves I used to go to, but I don't doubt they'll be there somewhere.
I didn't say anything. God only knows why!! I bloody should have.
I just bit my tongue and kept quiet.
It’s so hard, I don’t want to preach to people like a holier-than-thou ex-smoker. I know holier-than-thou ex-smokers. And as a very happy smoker, I can tell you now that the words “well I managed to give up” are the six most irritating words you can say to a smoker!
But on the other hand, that person could be about to seriously damage their mind. I just wish I could take my memories, and take my flashbacks and put them on a plate and show them to people. I wish I could give them to people. I wish I could convey the feeling, words don’t cut it. I just wish people who are thinking about drugs could have my memories, just for a second, just so they know what can happen. But memories aren’t chips. You can’t put them on a plate. And you can’t really preach about them either without being a holier-than-thou ex-drug addict.
Y’know what? I might just make business cards for this blog and start handing the buggers out instead!!
This girl was just coming up 22, and I was afterwards told she'd recently lost a close family member, and had to organise, and speak at, the funeral herself. So not an easy time of life recently then!
She told me she was going to her first Rave that night, and was intending to take her first pill.
Apparently it was a legal rave. Now, personally, I've never actually been to one of those. Well, not unless you count the under-18s club night I went to with Lucy once. But I'm not sure if that counts. (I'll blog about that one soon.)
Apparently they're not all that different. I strongly suspect the dealers won't be lined up at the entrance like they were at the Raves I used to go to, but I don't doubt they'll be there somewhere.
I didn't say anything. God only knows why!! I bloody should have.
I just bit my tongue and kept quiet.
It’s so hard, I don’t want to preach to people like a holier-than-thou ex-smoker. I know holier-than-thou ex-smokers. And as a very happy smoker, I can tell you now that the words “well I managed to give up” are the six most irritating words you can say to a smoker!
But on the other hand, that person could be about to seriously damage their mind. I just wish I could take my memories, and take my flashbacks and put them on a plate and show them to people. I wish I could give them to people. I wish I could convey the feeling, words don’t cut it. I just wish people who are thinking about drugs could have my memories, just for a second, just so they know what can happen. But memories aren’t chips. You can’t put them on a plate. And you can’t really preach about them either without being a holier-than-thou ex-drug addict.
Y’know what? I might just make business cards for this blog and start handing the buggers out instead!!
Thursday, 9 June 2011
Links to "My Memories"
Handy link to all the posts in the "Memories" category is now up.
Click here for the new post on Memory, and the links:
My Memories
Click here for the new post on Memory, and the links:
My Memories
Thursday, 2 June 2011
Memories - A Shooting
When I look back on this now, I think to myself, "did that shit really happen??"
And yes, it did.
It seems so strange now. I was in real danger a lot of the time, but it just didn't feel like it at all. It all felt so safe. Sometimes I really wonder how I could have done it all, if it could have been me. Maybe I have someone else's memories. But I know I don't. And I know it did happen. I also know it wasn't safe. And I really don't know how I came out of it all alive. I really don't.
I want to write about one particular night which was pretty eventful. A lot of things happened for just one short night.
It was a saturday. I remember meeting up at a friends house to go raving. He rang the party line, which was a recorded message telling us where the party would be that night. I don't remember where the party was. Actually, I never knew where the parties were. "London", I would say, if asked. There was a group of us, three girls and about five guys. We walked to the train station near my friends house. The first fight of the night happened outside that train station. I don't know what it was all about to be honest. I wasn't paying too much attention, I was chatting to the girls and rolling a joint. My friend came up to me and asked me to hold his chips. Then he kicked another guys head in. Literally. He put him in some sort of headlock and started kneeing him in the face. Blood everywhere. And then it was over. Just Like That. They made up instantly, and my friend finished his chips, before they were even cold.
It was the strangest thing. When the train came, we all got on it together to go into London. Except one of us now had a bloody nose.
I don't remember the journey into London, which probably has something to do with the Weed. I was probably smoking it on the train, I usually did. Never been quite sure how we got away with that one.
I don't remember much else, up until one little scene which sticks in my mind. I remember my friend and his girlfriend having a fight over something. He stormed off. Unfortunately, he was the one with the map, so we were stranded. Three guys and two girls plus me.
I remember two of the guys going into a phone box and smoking something. I thought they were just hotboxing it with weed. I remember they didn't care where we were, they were having the time of their lives. Pissed up and stoned and miles from home. The other two girls were arguing about something, and then crying about something. I remember one of the guys came up to me at one point and said "hey, that girl just hit that other girl!" and then just laughed. He was joking. She hadn't. Not much of a funny bloody joke, it would have been fight number three for the vastly disintegrating night.
Apparently, that's what Crack Cocaine does to you. It makes you find things funny which really just aren't.
And it turns out, Crack Cocaine was what they'd been smoking in that phone box.
I couldn't believe it. Friends of mine? On Crack? One step down from Smack. The two drugs I'd always avoided. I didn't know what to do. Well, there wasn't really anything I could do.
The wide eyed looks on their faces were so strange, the way they acted was so strange. I knew these people, but I didn't know the people who were talking to me now. It was horrible. They thought everything was funny, they were running around like children, shouting and laughing. Writing on walls, throwing things, hitting each other, smoking more.
I was stuck in the east end of bloody london somewhere, with no clue where I was or how to get home, with three crackheads, one pissed girl sobbing over her boyfriend and another girl too stoned to do anything about anything.
I don't remember what happened next.
I do remember that we made it to another party somehow. But I don't remember the party.
The next thing I remember is the following morning. The guy who had stormed off earlier in the night showed back up. We were at a train station somewhere closer to home. He took me aside and said to me, "please, don't tell my girlfriend, but there was a shooting at the party I was at." He'd got out just before the police arrived. Quite a few people had been shot. He was lucky. I don't know what he'd been taking that night, but whatever it was, it must have been strong. He wasn't himself at all. He'd been angry with her, so he took way more than usual.
I don't really know what happened next, one minute my friend and his girlfriend were arguing about something, then he turned on one of the other guys and the next thing I knew, the old bill were there.
There's only one more thing I remember. I remember my friend holding someone in some sort of headlock, just like he'd done at the start of the night. I remember him kneeing that someone in the face, just like he'd done at the start of the night. I remember there was blood everywhere, again.
I also remember my friend getting arrested. That someone he was hitting was a copper.
It wasn't a good night.
It was a pretty shit night to be honest. My friend nearly got shot. Then he got arrested. And two people I used to know became Crack Addicts.
No. Not a good night at all.
And yes, it did.
It seems so strange now. I was in real danger a lot of the time, but it just didn't feel like it at all. It all felt so safe. Sometimes I really wonder how I could have done it all, if it could have been me. Maybe I have someone else's memories. But I know I don't. And I know it did happen. I also know it wasn't safe. And I really don't know how I came out of it all alive. I really don't.
I want to write about one particular night which was pretty eventful. A lot of things happened for just one short night.
It was a saturday. I remember meeting up at a friends house to go raving. He rang the party line, which was a recorded message telling us where the party would be that night. I don't remember where the party was. Actually, I never knew where the parties were. "London", I would say, if asked. There was a group of us, three girls and about five guys. We walked to the train station near my friends house. The first fight of the night happened outside that train station. I don't know what it was all about to be honest. I wasn't paying too much attention, I was chatting to the girls and rolling a joint. My friend came up to me and asked me to hold his chips. Then he kicked another guys head in. Literally. He put him in some sort of headlock and started kneeing him in the face. Blood everywhere. And then it was over. Just Like That. They made up instantly, and my friend finished his chips, before they were even cold.
It was the strangest thing. When the train came, we all got on it together to go into London. Except one of us now had a bloody nose.
I don't remember the journey into London, which probably has something to do with the Weed. I was probably smoking it on the train, I usually did. Never been quite sure how we got away with that one.
I don't remember much else, up until one little scene which sticks in my mind. I remember my friend and his girlfriend having a fight over something. He stormed off. Unfortunately, he was the one with the map, so we were stranded. Three guys and two girls plus me.
I remember two of the guys going into a phone box and smoking something. I thought they were just hotboxing it with weed. I remember they didn't care where we were, they were having the time of their lives. Pissed up and stoned and miles from home. The other two girls were arguing about something, and then crying about something. I remember one of the guys came up to me at one point and said "hey, that girl just hit that other girl!" and then just laughed. He was joking. She hadn't. Not much of a funny bloody joke, it would have been fight number three for the vastly disintegrating night.
Apparently, that's what Crack Cocaine does to you. It makes you find things funny which really just aren't.
And it turns out, Crack Cocaine was what they'd been smoking in that phone box.
I couldn't believe it. Friends of mine? On Crack? One step down from Smack. The two drugs I'd always avoided. I didn't know what to do. Well, there wasn't really anything I could do.
The wide eyed looks on their faces were so strange, the way they acted was so strange. I knew these people, but I didn't know the people who were talking to me now. It was horrible. They thought everything was funny, they were running around like children, shouting and laughing. Writing on walls, throwing things, hitting each other, smoking more.
I was stuck in the east end of bloody london somewhere, with no clue where I was or how to get home, with three crackheads, one pissed girl sobbing over her boyfriend and another girl too stoned to do anything about anything.
I don't remember what happened next.
I do remember that we made it to another party somehow. But I don't remember the party.
The next thing I remember is the following morning. The guy who had stormed off earlier in the night showed back up. We were at a train station somewhere closer to home. He took me aside and said to me, "please, don't tell my girlfriend, but there was a shooting at the party I was at." He'd got out just before the police arrived. Quite a few people had been shot. He was lucky. I don't know what he'd been taking that night, but whatever it was, it must have been strong. He wasn't himself at all. He'd been angry with her, so he took way more than usual.
I don't really know what happened next, one minute my friend and his girlfriend were arguing about something, then he turned on one of the other guys and the next thing I knew, the old bill were there.
There's only one more thing I remember. I remember my friend holding someone in some sort of headlock, just like he'd done at the start of the night. I remember him kneeing that someone in the face, just like he'd done at the start of the night. I remember there was blood everywhere, again.
I also remember my friend getting arrested. That someone he was hitting was a copper.
It wasn't a good night.
It was a pretty shit night to be honest. My friend nearly got shot. Then he got arrested. And two people I used to know became Crack Addicts.
No. Not a good night at all.
Guest Post - Weed, Alcohol and Rape
This is a guest post which has kindly been submitted by a friend of mine detailing some of her experiences with weed and alcohol, and sadly alcohol-related Rape. I'd just like to take a moment to say that this is the first time I have heard the full story of what happened to her that night, and I am very proud of her for surviving such a horrendous incident, as well as having the courage to share it so others do not have to go through what she went through.
Please be warned, some of what is written in this guest post deals with the serious crime of Rape, and is both very explicit and shocking.
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Weed, Alcohol and Rape
I’ve been friends with Christie since we were kids. I was about 12, she was 14. We met at a local youth club. Her friends all said I should find some friends my own age, instead of tagging around with them all the time, but Christie didn’t care about that, she liked me. I guess the fact that she and I are still friends, and neither of us can remember most of their names is testament to the fact that we were both right about each other. We spent many evenings keeping each other company in front of the telly there - she still recovering from the night before, me avoiding the youth workers because I hadn't brought them the projects I'd promised to show them.... Somehow, we managed to form a strong friendship, and I can honestly say that Christie is one of my closest friends.
I remember following Christie to one of the more remote corners of the club’s garden, so that she and her friends could have a sneaky fag. I kept telling her that smoking was bad for her - I was a very self-righteous child... Little did I know that four or five years later, I would be a smoker too.
Weed
I don’t want to give the wrong impression, it wasn’t Christie that got me smoking, it was a boyfriend of mine, eight years older than me, I at sweet sixteen, he at the ripe old age of 23. He smoked. He also smoked weed. He wanted to introduce me to the ‘finer’ things in life - I suspect, as much as anything, because he and his friends found it funny to see me coughing and spluttering after my first toke on a rolly. I started occasionally smoking weed with him, never a whole joint, just a few tokes here and there. I doubt it was even enough to get me truly stoned on most occasions. He had something called a chillum - a tapered stone tube and a little stone, with lines scored down the sides, that fitted in the top where the bud to be smoked is put. To take a draw, the smoker had to toke on the bottom end of the chillum, while lighting the bud at the top. ‘Blow backs’ were his speciality. He would light the bud at the top, then blow the smoke through from the top of the chillum, into my face. Supposedly this is a less harsh way of getting stoned if you’re not used to it. It’s also a good way to hot box a flat.
We were watching films - I can remember how funny everything was. ‘babe,’ he said, as we were watching Ice Age 3, ‘are you seeing what I’m seeing?!’ Neither of us could tell whether the multi coloured sloths were real or imagined...
I didn’t smoke weed very often, as I usually only saw him on weekends. He ended up being a contemptible person - the final straw was when he locked me out of his flat one night. I was 80 miles from home, and the last train had already left. To this day, I am still thankful that I was friends with the girl who lived a few doors up, and that she and her partner let me sleep on their sofa for the night. I don’t know what I would have done if it wasn’t for them.
The only thing that he left me with was an expensive smoking habit, which I only recently managed to kick, 5 years on.
I have gone out with several unsavoury characters in my time. One particularly Sleazy individual, 33 when I was 17, even tried to get me onto coke. Luckily I was sensible enough (just) not to even entertain the thought. Although the Sleaze did (without any consent from me) put some of the coke on my clit one night - he said it was supposed to make the sex feel great. I resent him for even that, I didn’t want anything to do with coke. I think I was still a good girl at heart. He also left a rucksack with several wraps of coke in it, at my parent’s house one night - he thought it was hilariously funny that my parents, both very religious people, had been storing drugs in their house without knowing it. The straw that finally broke the camel’s back was when I found out that, even though for the past 9 months the Sleaze had been driving me around in his car, he had lost his licence a year earlier to drink driving, and he’d never even applied for a licence for the motorcycle that he’d been riding me around on all that time. No licence means no insurance. No insurance means that, should he have had an accident (something I still cannot understand how he managed to avoid, he drove and rode like a maniac), and should I have been paralysed or otherwise maimed in that accident, I would have had no way to seek compensation. He cared that little about me, that he was willing to risk not only his own life, but mine, to ride a bloody machine. He tried for ages to get me back in his clasps. I said no. I hope I never lay eyes on him again.
Rape
The worst experience I have ever had involving any sort of narcotics was when the Sleaze left London to go to college miles away I was upset, and went to my friend’s house; a bottle of rosé in one hand, and one of sherry in the other. We got drunk. Very drunk. The last thing I remember, before everything goes blank, is rolling around on the grass in absolute hysterics. My friend is chucking cold water all over me, trying to sober me up.
The next thing I remember after that is waking up naked on the sofa, with a naked man fucking me. I know the man, he’s a friend of both my friend, my ex-boyfriend, and the Sleaze. I don’t like him, he drinks and drives. He’s holding my head up so he can shove his dick in my mouth. His Prince Albert piercing taps against my teeth. I cannot move. I am in that temporary state of paralysis that sometimes occurs when you wake up from a deep slumber. I cannot move to stop him. He takes his dick out of my mouth and shoves it back inside me. I am terrified. I don’t like what is happening to me, but I can’t stop it. He looks like he is enjoying himself. I lie there, motionless, legs akimbo, unable to stop him. My arms start behaving; I push him away. I start crying. He looks confused and slightly disgruntled. He tries to put an arm around me, but I push him away again. All I can say, over and over, between sobs, is ‘oh my god’. I look around for my clothes. I cannot find them. I hurry to the bathroom, hoping that no one will see my nakedness. I feel so utterly ashamed. I desperately want to be sick. Anything to get the taste of him out of my mouth. I pee, sitting on the toilet, sobbing my heart out, wringing my hands. I try to keep quiet, I don’t want to wake my friend or her husband. I wash my hands, and contemplate trying to wash my mouth out too - I think even soap will taste better than this taste in my mouth. I want to have a shower, but I don’t know where the towels are. I come to the conclusion that there is nothing left that I can do, except to look for my clothes. That means going back into the living room. Where he is. I go back and sit down on the floor, sobbing. I notice that there is a duvet on the sofa, and I wrap one corner of it around me to cover my nakedness. He is settling down to sleep. Apparently unaware that he has done anything wrong, he puts a hand on my shoulder to comfort me. The Cunt. I look up and notice, to my dismay, that my friend’s little sister - ten years old, a year younger than my little sister - has just woken up on the other sofa. I forgot that she was even staying that night. She looks at me, curled up in a bit of duvet on the end of the sofa, and asks if I’m ok. I can’t remember if I speak or not. She goes back to sleep. I don’t remember the Cunt being there earlier, he left as I arrived that afternoon. I don’t remember him coming back. I feel trapped. I don’t know where my clothes are. I can’t go home, I’m naked. And cold. My friend’s little sister is asleep on the other sofa. I have nowhere to go. The Cunt tells me to get back on the sofa to sleep. I feel like I have no other choice. It is about 3 in the morning. I don’t sleep.
As it gets light, I notice a t-shirt and my knickers, folded neatly on the floor by the sofa. In the corner by the hall door, in a crumpled pile, as if disposed of in a hurry, are the Cunt’s clothes. I put the t-shirt and knickers back on, and go back to the bathroom. I still cannot get that taste out of my mouth. When my friend wakes up, she lends me some clothes. Mine, she says, are in the washing machine. They got muddy when she threw the water at me, so she lent me her husband’s t-shirt to sleep in. She is as surprised as I am that the Cunt is there. Apparently he turned up after we had both passed out. The husband and the Cunt had a few beers together, then drew on us both with her best lippy. She is not impressed when she sees the broken stub on the kitchen counter. There are photographs of us both looking like clowns. I notice that my friend still has the tell-tale red marks on her cheeks and forehead. When I look again in the bathroom mirror, I have none. The Cunt gives me a peck on the cheek as he goes to leave. When he is gone, I break down on my friend’s shoulder. I try to explain what happened, but she doesn’t understand. She thinks it was a drunken mistake, not rape. I tell her I have a boyfriend. She laughs and then sighs. She still thinks I consented. I didn’t.
I call the Sleaze. I need to speak to him, hear his voice. I need comfort. He shouts at me, tells me it’s my fault, that I wanted it, how could I try to say I didn’t mean to? It must have been my fault. I break down again. I can barely stand I am crying so violently. I collect my things and walk home. It is the longest walk of my life. I call my eldest sister, a friendly voice at last. She comforts me and offers to tell mum for me. I consent. I go home and shower until the water runs cold. I scrub myself until my skin is red and raw. It doesn’t matter how hard I scrub, how often I clean my teeth, I can still smell him, still taste him in my mouth. I cry until I run out of tears, then keep on crying some more.
I have spent the last four and a half years blaming myself for this series of events. How can I know for sure that I didn’t consent to sleep with the Cunt, if I cannot remember it? But then, why were my clothes folded neatly, and his in a crumpled pile in the corner? Did he stand back to observe his handiwork? This thought makes me shudder. Why were there no traces of lipstick left on me, but there were on my friend? Did he decide that he couldn’t fuck someone that looked like a clown? Or did I rub it off, and not remember? And the bit that has haunted me the most: my friend’s sister, innocently asleep on the other sofa. How much had she seen or heard? Why did the Cunt think that it was acceptable to fuck someone in front of a child?? I would never sleep with someone when there was anyone - never mind a child - asleep in the same room. But did I consent to let that happen? Or did the Cunt just take advantage of me, when there happened to be a child in the room. The thought of someone - me - being raped in front of a child is even worse than any other alternative.
I have spent the last four and a half years wracked with guilt for what happened. What if I hadn’t been drunk? It probably wouldn’t have happened. I would have been aware enough of what was going on around me, not to let it happen. If I hadn’t been drunk, I would have been able to stop the Cunt from even getting as far as drawing on me. IF (and it is a very big IF) I did consent to have sex with the Cunt, it was only because I was drunk. I feel guilty that I might be a cheat. I would never cheat on someone. Would I?? Even if not being drunk didn’t make a difference, at least I would have known what happened. The scars from what happened to me run deep. I will probably have to live with it for the rest of my life. And I will have to live with the fact that, even if it wasn’t my fault, I could have prevented it so easily. By not being blind drunk.
Please be warned, some of what is written in this guest post deals with the serious crime of Rape, and is both very explicit and shocking.
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Weed, Alcohol and Rape
I’ve been friends with Christie since we were kids. I was about 12, she was 14. We met at a local youth club. Her friends all said I should find some friends my own age, instead of tagging around with them all the time, but Christie didn’t care about that, she liked me. I guess the fact that she and I are still friends, and neither of us can remember most of their names is testament to the fact that we were both right about each other. We spent many evenings keeping each other company in front of the telly there - she still recovering from the night before, me avoiding the youth workers because I hadn't brought them the projects I'd promised to show them.... Somehow, we managed to form a strong friendship, and I can honestly say that Christie is one of my closest friends.
I remember following Christie to one of the more remote corners of the club’s garden, so that she and her friends could have a sneaky fag. I kept telling her that smoking was bad for her - I was a very self-righteous child... Little did I know that four or five years later, I would be a smoker too.
Weed
I don’t want to give the wrong impression, it wasn’t Christie that got me smoking, it was a boyfriend of mine, eight years older than me, I at sweet sixteen, he at the ripe old age of 23. He smoked. He also smoked weed. He wanted to introduce me to the ‘finer’ things in life - I suspect, as much as anything, because he and his friends found it funny to see me coughing and spluttering after my first toke on a rolly. I started occasionally smoking weed with him, never a whole joint, just a few tokes here and there. I doubt it was even enough to get me truly stoned on most occasions. He had something called a chillum - a tapered stone tube and a little stone, with lines scored down the sides, that fitted in the top where the bud to be smoked is put. To take a draw, the smoker had to toke on the bottom end of the chillum, while lighting the bud at the top. ‘Blow backs’ were his speciality. He would light the bud at the top, then blow the smoke through from the top of the chillum, into my face. Supposedly this is a less harsh way of getting stoned if you’re not used to it. It’s also a good way to hot box a flat.
We were watching films - I can remember how funny everything was. ‘babe,’ he said, as we were watching Ice Age 3, ‘are you seeing what I’m seeing?!’ Neither of us could tell whether the multi coloured sloths were real or imagined...
I didn’t smoke weed very often, as I usually only saw him on weekends. He ended up being a contemptible person - the final straw was when he locked me out of his flat one night. I was 80 miles from home, and the last train had already left. To this day, I am still thankful that I was friends with the girl who lived a few doors up, and that she and her partner let me sleep on their sofa for the night. I don’t know what I would have done if it wasn’t for them.
The only thing that he left me with was an expensive smoking habit, which I only recently managed to kick, 5 years on.
I have gone out with several unsavoury characters in my time. One particularly Sleazy individual, 33 when I was 17, even tried to get me onto coke. Luckily I was sensible enough (just) not to even entertain the thought. Although the Sleaze did (without any consent from me) put some of the coke on my clit one night - he said it was supposed to make the sex feel great. I resent him for even that, I didn’t want anything to do with coke. I think I was still a good girl at heart. He also left a rucksack with several wraps of coke in it, at my parent’s house one night - he thought it was hilariously funny that my parents, both very religious people, had been storing drugs in their house without knowing it. The straw that finally broke the camel’s back was when I found out that, even though for the past 9 months the Sleaze had been driving me around in his car, he had lost his licence a year earlier to drink driving, and he’d never even applied for a licence for the motorcycle that he’d been riding me around on all that time. No licence means no insurance. No insurance means that, should he have had an accident (something I still cannot understand how he managed to avoid, he drove and rode like a maniac), and should I have been paralysed or otherwise maimed in that accident, I would have had no way to seek compensation. He cared that little about me, that he was willing to risk not only his own life, but mine, to ride a bloody machine. He tried for ages to get me back in his clasps. I said no. I hope I never lay eyes on him again.
Rape
The worst experience I have ever had involving any sort of narcotics was when the Sleaze left London to go to college miles away I was upset, and went to my friend’s house; a bottle of rosé in one hand, and one of sherry in the other. We got drunk. Very drunk. The last thing I remember, before everything goes blank, is rolling around on the grass in absolute hysterics. My friend is chucking cold water all over me, trying to sober me up.
The next thing I remember after that is waking up naked on the sofa, with a naked man fucking me. I know the man, he’s a friend of both my friend, my ex-boyfriend, and the Sleaze. I don’t like him, he drinks and drives. He’s holding my head up so he can shove his dick in my mouth. His Prince Albert piercing taps against my teeth. I cannot move. I am in that temporary state of paralysis that sometimes occurs when you wake up from a deep slumber. I cannot move to stop him. He takes his dick out of my mouth and shoves it back inside me. I am terrified. I don’t like what is happening to me, but I can’t stop it. He looks like he is enjoying himself. I lie there, motionless, legs akimbo, unable to stop him. My arms start behaving; I push him away. I start crying. He looks confused and slightly disgruntled. He tries to put an arm around me, but I push him away again. All I can say, over and over, between sobs, is ‘oh my god’. I look around for my clothes. I cannot find them. I hurry to the bathroom, hoping that no one will see my nakedness. I feel so utterly ashamed. I desperately want to be sick. Anything to get the taste of him out of my mouth. I pee, sitting on the toilet, sobbing my heart out, wringing my hands. I try to keep quiet, I don’t want to wake my friend or her husband. I wash my hands, and contemplate trying to wash my mouth out too - I think even soap will taste better than this taste in my mouth. I want to have a shower, but I don’t know where the towels are. I come to the conclusion that there is nothing left that I can do, except to look for my clothes. That means going back into the living room. Where he is. I go back and sit down on the floor, sobbing. I notice that there is a duvet on the sofa, and I wrap one corner of it around me to cover my nakedness. He is settling down to sleep. Apparently unaware that he has done anything wrong, he puts a hand on my shoulder to comfort me. The Cunt. I look up and notice, to my dismay, that my friend’s little sister - ten years old, a year younger than my little sister - has just woken up on the other sofa. I forgot that she was even staying that night. She looks at me, curled up in a bit of duvet on the end of the sofa, and asks if I’m ok. I can’t remember if I speak or not. She goes back to sleep. I don’t remember the Cunt being there earlier, he left as I arrived that afternoon. I don’t remember him coming back. I feel trapped. I don’t know where my clothes are. I can’t go home, I’m naked. And cold. My friend’s little sister is asleep on the other sofa. I have nowhere to go. The Cunt tells me to get back on the sofa to sleep. I feel like I have no other choice. It is about 3 in the morning. I don’t sleep.
As it gets light, I notice a t-shirt and my knickers, folded neatly on the floor by the sofa. In the corner by the hall door, in a crumpled pile, as if disposed of in a hurry, are the Cunt’s clothes. I put the t-shirt and knickers back on, and go back to the bathroom. I still cannot get that taste out of my mouth. When my friend wakes up, she lends me some clothes. Mine, she says, are in the washing machine. They got muddy when she threw the water at me, so she lent me her husband’s t-shirt to sleep in. She is as surprised as I am that the Cunt is there. Apparently he turned up after we had both passed out. The husband and the Cunt had a few beers together, then drew on us both with her best lippy. She is not impressed when she sees the broken stub on the kitchen counter. There are photographs of us both looking like clowns. I notice that my friend still has the tell-tale red marks on her cheeks and forehead. When I look again in the bathroom mirror, I have none. The Cunt gives me a peck on the cheek as he goes to leave. When he is gone, I break down on my friend’s shoulder. I try to explain what happened, but she doesn’t understand. She thinks it was a drunken mistake, not rape. I tell her I have a boyfriend. She laughs and then sighs. She still thinks I consented. I didn’t.
I call the Sleaze. I need to speak to him, hear his voice. I need comfort. He shouts at me, tells me it’s my fault, that I wanted it, how could I try to say I didn’t mean to? It must have been my fault. I break down again. I can barely stand I am crying so violently. I collect my things and walk home. It is the longest walk of my life. I call my eldest sister, a friendly voice at last. She comforts me and offers to tell mum for me. I consent. I go home and shower until the water runs cold. I scrub myself until my skin is red and raw. It doesn’t matter how hard I scrub, how often I clean my teeth, I can still smell him, still taste him in my mouth. I cry until I run out of tears, then keep on crying some more.
I have spent the last four and a half years blaming myself for this series of events. How can I know for sure that I didn’t consent to sleep with the Cunt, if I cannot remember it? But then, why were my clothes folded neatly, and his in a crumpled pile in the corner? Did he stand back to observe his handiwork? This thought makes me shudder. Why were there no traces of lipstick left on me, but there were on my friend? Did he decide that he couldn’t fuck someone that looked like a clown? Or did I rub it off, and not remember? And the bit that has haunted me the most: my friend’s sister, innocently asleep on the other sofa. How much had she seen or heard? Why did the Cunt think that it was acceptable to fuck someone in front of a child?? I would never sleep with someone when there was anyone - never mind a child - asleep in the same room. But did I consent to let that happen? Or did the Cunt just take advantage of me, when there happened to be a child in the room. The thought of someone - me - being raped in front of a child is even worse than any other alternative.
I have spent the last four and a half years wracked with guilt for what happened. What if I hadn’t been drunk? It probably wouldn’t have happened. I would have been aware enough of what was going on around me, not to let it happen. If I hadn’t been drunk, I would have been able to stop the Cunt from even getting as far as drawing on me. IF (and it is a very big IF) I did consent to have sex with the Cunt, it was only because I was drunk. I feel guilty that I might be a cheat. I would never cheat on someone. Would I?? Even if not being drunk didn’t make a difference, at least I would have known what happened. The scars from what happened to me run deep. I will probably have to live with it for the rest of my life. And I will have to live with the fact that, even if it wasn’t my fault, I could have prevented it so easily. By not being blind drunk.
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