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?
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