There are those who dabble in weed, stereotypically young people in college or university, but they grow out of it. Maybe they’re tempted with the odd smoke later in their life, but that’s it.
There are those who dabble in weed and really enjoy it. They don’t go schizophrenic on it, and continue in later life. Maybe like myself, there’s underlying medical conditions. But, they never progress to harder drugs. Smoking doesn’t interfere with their lives. They are still worthwhile members of society.
There are those who dabble in weed. And maybe a few harder drugs. Party drugs. Ketamine, poppers, ecstasy and sniffing cocaine. But they grow out of it. Maybe they make a few silly mistakes, end up in A&E a few times. But that tingly feeling, you get, when you know you’re first trying a new drug for a time. And that craving to use again. Eventually fades away. And a craving for relationships, babies and other things take over.
And then there are those who dabble in weed. Progress to party drugs. And notice something different in their head. They probably don’t realise at the time. But something... something is different. They try to stop their weekend use of party drugs. But they get cravings that do not go away. They end up progressing to drugs like crack and heroin. Dark drugs. It takes over their lives. It slowly destroys their lives. They no longer have control over the drugs. The drugs control them.
Unfortunately I was the latter.
I never realised at the time, the urgent, craving, worsening every day I remained clean, was due to my ADHD. And I can bet your bottom dollar underneath every addict, is a mental health problem/disability.
I don’t look like your typical drug addict. I was 27, with a good job working as a manager in the public sector.
I owned my own flat, which I bought without the need of a partner. I drove a nice, fairly new car.
I was even a regular on TV, doing extra work for Eastenders, Holby City, Family Affairs, films, TV adverts and music videos. I was not only on their TV extra books, but their model books. Which lead to a £3,000 photo shoot and 800 photos for free, and being featured on TV, or speaking parts.
I didn’t look too skinny. In a world obsessed with being size 0 (UK 4), my size 8 frame, with a BMI which rarely reached 20 didn’t look out of place.
I was small boned, so my weight suited me.
Drug addicts were thin and sickly looking.
My dark brown hair was naturally curly and long. My skin was clear and wrinkle free. I was a fake tan, painted nails, type girl, wearing nice clothes and accessories which matched.
Drug addicts had no personal pride. They had dirty nails, unwashed hair and clothes which were old and ragged.
They were pale, roaming only at night, like vampires. Their plaid skil never seeing the sun.
Drug addicts didn’t have full time jobs. They didn’t get up and go to work Monday to Friday in a 9am to 5pm. They weren’t managers.
They were on benefits, living in council accommodation, they didn’t own their own properties. They lived in homeless shelters and hostels. Or, even worse, on the streets. Braving the harsh, cold UK winters.
They didn’t have nice clothes, large CD and DVD collections and new flat screen TVs.
They sold anything like that to pay for their habits. And once they had sold all their own items, they’d rob yours.
They didn’t drive in London. An expensive luxury in London. The car had cost over £4,000. The insurance was £300 a year, and that was with a large amount of years stacked together in my no claims bonus. Tax was £120 a year. Petrol £8,500 a year. Plus parking, congestion charges, fines... No way!
Driving was too expensive for a drug addict.
Drug addicts wouldn’t consider taking extra work and giving up their evenings, weekends, nights and bank holidays.
I wasn’t a drug addict.... or was I? I was in control of my drug use? Or was I?
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