❤️ 06th April 2015 - Journal Part 1

Another crazy day in this abhorrent household, being forced to communicate, live and survive with my destructive, heinous, loathsome ‘family’.

Well today I received an email from R***, my drug addiction Counsellor. She's asked to see me at 3pm on Monday. Her email was very unexpected. Recently I have neglected my counselling, so I knew due to her initiating communication the outcome could not be good.

It was filled with negativity and I could feel the apprehension R*** must have been consumed with whilst typing.

‘Dear Jay

It would be nice to see you. Can you do Monday at 3pm?’

Warm regards

R***’

The email was sent Friday, it was Monday now. In fact I only have a couple of hours to spare. Due to my chaotic, all consuming drug addiction, I had only noticed her request.

I hit reply saying

‘Hi R***’

Sure. I’ll be down shortly’

My drug use has sky rocketed, being the UK's most favourite junkie has certainly encouraged me to use more. As ethylphenidate has a relatively short half life, within half an hour, any euphoria has vanished completely, putting the carpet cleaner, of the same name, into second place.

By 2-4 hours any positive effects are slowly diminishing and the 'come down' starts to crescive slowly until negativity surpasses positivity.

My cool calm head starts to pick up its pace. As if I'm Lewis Hamilton, in a formula one racing car at Brands Hatch.

It jumps and flits from subject to subject, with no clear route from thought to thought. 'Look at the robin', 'that cloud looks like a fish', 'where can I bang up?', 'my jumper's itchy'. Thought after thought. Constantly, unrelentingly chaotic.

The anxiety begins to cause a pain in my chest. As if I have a large ball of spinning energy. The feeling of dread and doom radiating from the bottom of my rib cage, spreading through my body. 

The anxiety and chaos in my head is undoubtedly increased due to psychosis by mum and dad naturally, in turn, this increases my drug use.

I'm certainly not coping with this whilst being sober. If I'm having 'drug induced psychosis' I'm absolutely consuming the drugs.

This is what my crazy, evil family clearly cannot comprehend. Doing this shit only makes me use more. However they're in too deep now to admit they've clearly failed and their sick version of psychosis has only elevated my drug use.

Using speed was an imperative requirement to survive. It was a prerequisite of life. Air, food (albeit very little), water, shelter, warmth, sleep and speed.

❤️ 28th April 2017 - Journal

I Long for a syringe filled by 1/3 with glorious blue crystal ethylphenidate. It's now illegal to sell and my parents scared me by threatening a second admittance to he hellious Springfield. I gave them my drugs. I have them my works. I have now not used drugs intravenously or one week. Last Friday Dr. P told me I might not get my Concerta back. I told her I would endure 3 months prisionment for my 'normal'. That's the only reason I have not banged up. Otherwise a replacement legal high is already out there.  4-me-TMP.

#itsnotaboutthedrugs @Gemma_Stalked

❤️ 2015 - Once Upon A Time - Overdose

My memory of this period is sketchy. My parents, furious and clueless as how to make their daughter stop injecting the addictive poison into her frail body, decided that luring her to believe she was mad, was the solution. They were wrong, it was clear to see, but stopping would also mean admittance they were the ones undertaking these cruel, cold, heartless tasks. It was not purely a figment of my over stimulated, distorted, psychotic, fragile mind.

I was addicted to the legal high ethylphenidate, and I chose to inject this poisonous substance. Ethylphenidate is the only drug which has had imprisoned me. Once I started using it, stopping seemed an impossible task. I suffered from ADHD, so whilst I still exhibited stimulant type effects, larger pupils, raised heart rate, hyper, trembling and speed up actions, the complete opposite happened in my head. It became a calm, tranquil, peaceful field of relaxation. It was like my and my body was oxymoronic. One slow and calm. One fast and hyper.

The more I used the more my parents created chaos, I already had chaos in my head thanks to my ADHD. So upon discovering ethylphenidate, also known as legal Ritalin an addiction was easily cemented. I can ensure calmness in some of my life. I can patch up some of the cracks in my life. At least I believed I could.

My drug use grew and naturally their erratic version of psychosis did. Therefore, so neglecting a night’s sleep was common place. This in turn made me manic. The constant pushing had shoved me to the cliffs edge. 

My parents had also sold a story to The Sun, unbeknown to me naturally. They encouraged people to stalk me. I was constantly followed, cars shinning their full beams, as they crawled past me at a breathtakingly slow pace of 15 miles per hour.

This encroachment of my personal privacy finally hit a stage where it bothered me. If I trekked through wooded areas, I even would hear the sound of helicopters tracking me when people couldn’t. They frequently sat positioned outside my bedroom window, constantly monitoring me. 

I truly like my own company. I love nothing more than walking through a wooded nature area, just me and the squirrels, birds, mice and ducks. Watching bees dip in and out of flowers, the butterfly's cautiously landing on a plant's leaf.

So upon becoming more aware I was being mass stalked was initially distressing. I had reached a level of notoriety, this is staggeringly clear. It had no positive repercussions, my stature for fame by taking drugs. It only encouraged me to find a hidden corner and inject myself in public.

Ethylphenidate’s, has a short half life. This is the time it takes to remove itself from your blood. So taking 0.5mg at 1pm, would reduce to 0.25mg at 2pm, 0.125 at 3pm and so on.

This, combined with my high tolerance meant a hit lasted only one maybe two hours. I decided if I was to endure the negative effects of psychosis, regardless to if they were fake, I was also indulging in the pleasure of using drugs.

Finally, I reached my tipping point. It was a fresh, spring day. The dark pastel blue hue of the sky was contrasted by the cotton candy white fluffy clouds, scattered in the sky. Due to the area in which I live having a lot of grassed area, the dewy smell of fresh cut grass wafted through the breeze, and the cold sharpness of winter had finally gone from it, as it swiped past my face.

This day I had decided enough was enough. I had a simple solution to the misery enforced upon me. Suicide. Not that I thought such a dramatic outcome would be necessary. If so, they were all murderers. If I died my blood was on all their hands. Angry, at the removal of my basic human rights I had calmed myself with the simple solution. I would simply pop a pill each time I saw a stalker.

I had Etizolam, similar to 10mgs of diazepam. This was a sedative and would cause unconsciousness. I also had risperidone. This was an antipsychotic causing tachycardia, or a heart attack.

Upon leaving my house, my street sprung into action. Like the film and TV sets I had frequented in the past. The people with little or no acting skills gingerly walked past me, eyeing me cautiously. 

I noticed a couple follow me, who I instantly recognised. It was a ginger male who looked quiet handsome, and a very plain Jane accompany him. He was too good looking for the plain Jane, which is why I remembered the couple. Their oddness was imprinted upon my ADHD brain. Frequently seen faces are instantly recognised by its hyper requirement to keep ludicrously busy.

This couple had been spotted too frequently for strangers. At least fpur times in two days.

When final assurance has reached, I waited for them to turn again.

'That’s two’ I said to myself while simultaneously popping two Risperidone, which  my mouth. Aware of the taccacardia and possible heart attack I also popped half an Etizolam, a legal benzo similar to 10mgs Diazepam. I smiled at them upon swallowing them with the Evian I had packed in my bag to bang up with.

I was sure they'd contact my dad and inform him of my behaviour and my recognition by strangers would stop. I was wrong, the more strangers I recognised the more miserable and depressed I sunk.

Now, I’m aware I over react with regards to people paying attention towards me due to my fame. I am the UK's most famous crack head after Amy Winehouse (RIP), so in 20 minutes, not even reaching Tooting Broadway, I had consumed 9 Risperidone and 3 Etizolam.

I felt a wave of dizziness and decided to jump off the bus at Amen Corner and a wave of head rush faintness soared through my head. I stumbled towards a door way which lead towards some private flats wanting a quiet area to pass out. I stumbled through the gate, crashing onto the floor.

My stumble only alerted a tenant who promptly kicked me out. The site of a skinny junkie, clearly intoxicated, wasn't one to check whether they needed assistance. The joys of looking like a junkie no doubt influenced his decision. There was no attempt to help me, although it was clear I was very intoxicated upon my departure.

Only 3-4 minutes had passed from departing the bus, but I was now staggering, zig-zagging from left to right on the pavement. This is when I had my ‘oh shit’ moment. An 'oh shit' moment is the moment you realise you've taken too much and are in danger of dying.

A black mist encroached upon my peripheral vision. Surely this cruel behaviour would stop now I’ve overdosed? My mind wandered as I slowly lost more and more of my coordination. Surely I can get back to normal with only some damage limitation to rectify? 

I was very intoxicated and fell into Dominos Pizza where I gave the young guy left to manage the shop a heart attack asking for an ambulance.  Clearly he had not called the emergency services before. I managed to manoeuvre to a red metal bench and promptly slumped on to it.

The emergency crew appeared in what appeared to be a few seconds, but realistically around 10 minutes.

I was practically unconscious and only remember the sharp pinches to my chest in order to get information from me. This caused so much pain I was dragged from my cosy slumber enabling them a few seconds to force information out of me.

Being psychic I do remember feelings and I felt anger. I had wasted their time. They could be helping someone who didn’t chose to be in their need. Panic was the feeling that radiated from the shop assistant.

‘What have you taken?!’

‘Rissssppp, rissp, ree’

‘What have you taken?!!!!’

PINCH

‘Risperidone’

‘How many?!’

‘Ner’

‘How many?!!’

PINCH

‘Nine’

‘Right were going to need the blues for this one’

Yay, 'the Blues' meant the blue sirens, I disappointedly didn’t get them with my accidental overdose.

This is when I completely passed out, giving into the black mist and sleepy hug luring me to St. Peter's Gate.

I came around in resus. Having previously been in A&E, Critical Care and Urgent Care. This meant the Heart Attack ward is the only one I haven’t been on.

I have little memory of resus bar seeing one of the nurses who treated me previously on both times I had cellulitis. She also came to see me during my first accidental OD. 

‘I saw your name come up, I thought I’d come to see you’

‘Hi’ I managed.

Pity radiated from her eyes. Seeing me physically well but having to tell the nurses which vein would be ok for a cannula, when I had cellulitis; and then fading when I had OD by accident, she had a unique view of my downfall.

‘Take care, seriously’ she stroked my hand. I was still very much out of it and passed out.

Apart from the kindness that radiated from her, I only felt anger, frustration and disapproval from the other nurses I have a hazy memory of visiting my cubical. I was a time wasting druggie, I did this to myself. Sympathy was in short supply.

By 10pm at night I was coming around and noticed I had been given a guardian who was gently trying to wake me. I was told I needed to move bed, and duly put my trainers on and collected my belongings. She was West Indian and spoke with a soft voice. She seemed genuinely kind and the feeling radiated from her as she spoke.

She accompanied me to a bed in the A&E ward, the only one sectioned off with walls and a door not curtain. It was in the middle of the ward and the other beds lined both walls in front of me. In the middle was the nurse's station and was a constant bustle of busy activity, blinking computers and important looking doctors.

I crashed back to sleep and didn’t arise until 10am next day. When I did wake I was still groggy, but this was now due to me withdrawing from my buprenorphine. I had taken my last tablet at Sunday, 7pm; missed Monday as I was unconscious, and now it was Tuesday. I felt the ache start in my legs, my calves specifically. My eyes watered and I constantly yawned. I turned to my guardian.

‘I take buprenorphine, 6mgs. You need to ask a doctor as A&E doesn’t stock it’

‘I’m sure they do, when the nurse does her round I’ll ask her’

‘No they don’t, they’ve refused me it before’

‘Let’s wait for the nurse’

‘I can’t wait, I didn’t take it yesterday, they don’t have it in case people just blag it in A&E for it. It’s a high dose, near 1000mgs morphine. The nurses are scared to deal with such high doses of opiates'

'Ok I’ll ask’ she replied a little hasty and sharp.

10 minutes later she returned with the news the pharmacist would be providing me the meds on his round. When in with my finger and cellulitis they had given me 100mgs of Tramadol which is about 80mgs of morphine, and they were shocked when I demanded the buprenorphine as I was still withdrawing. Their refusal was met with

‘I’m used to taking diamorphine intravenously so 2 Tramadol won’t do shit really will it?’

My guardian explained I was to see a doctor and a social worker and a little stay in hospital would benefit me. I knew this meant Sectioning me. I didn't really process the information, my head still woozy, spinning me into a daze. I smiled, finding this rather funny. Me, I had a social worker. A psychiatric nurse, a psychiatrist and a counsellor.

Soon the feeling of sacredness crept into my thoughts. I was still drowsy as I was still without my meds. I easily fell back to sleep until midday when the doctor and social worker hurried into the room and began the Sectioning process.

Clearly I was still intoxicated from the overdose a wicked smile spread across my face as they entered. I like being the best. I always score super high on ADHD tests, so like having ADHD. I was now scoring super high on the crazy meter. This only encouraged me to wind them up. I had to be the best crazy person.

It’s like a uncontrollable urge I cannot control. Don’t touch wet paint. I touch. Now the prize was a golden ticket to Springfield.

‘Why did you take an overdose J****’

‘Coz, my parents’ are sick fucks’ I slurred. A concerning look ricocheted from the social worker to the doctor and finally to the guardian.

A form began to be completed in a scribbled hurry. I could sense a feeling of worry and it was emitted from both the Doctor, social worker and guardian. The Doctor scowled, deep lines erupting across his forehead.

‘What do you mean your parents, do you still think they’re filming you?’

‘Yes but they’re having me mass stalked’

More worried looks

‘So each time I saw a stalker I popped a pill’

‘What pills?’

‘Risperidone and Etizolam’

‘Are you prescribed the Risperidone?’

‘No’

‘Where did you get the tablets?’

‘A friend, I’ve got loads’

‘What’s Etizolam?’

‘A legal benzo. Initially similar to diazepam but your tolerance builds more quicker’

‘So you think people are following you?’

‘No, I think hundreds of people are stalking me, taking my photo and texting my location’

The more concerned they got the more I was enjoying this. A smile spread across my face like I was the Cheshire Cat from hell.

The social worker scratched her worried brow, as if I was causing her to suffer from a headache.

‘So what others are filming you, do you still believe this?'

‘Yes and they’re creating psychosis, they’re sick, I hate them’

‘I think a little stay in hospital will benefit you’. The doctor replied

‘They move my floor boards, flap my letter box, unless there’s a dirty tissue in there, ye..’

‘Right we’ll arrange transport, Queen Mary’s has a bed’

The social worker cut me off and spoke to my guardian. As if I was invisible, a child or someone lacking mental capacity.

‘How long will it take?’ she replied

‘Oh a couple of hours, we’re really stretched’

‘Ok thanks’

‘J**** an ambulance will take you to Queen Mary’s just for a few days, ok?'

I didn’t replied, just carried on with my evil composure.

‘Did you want to die?’

‘I don’t know. Obviously not as I’m here. It was a cry for help'

This sentence alone clearly shows my mental stability but the fuse had already blown. Acting mature meant shit now. Both the doctor and social worker matched away as quickly as they arrived. Only when they left did scared J**** appear. I was officially imprissoned. I turned to the guardian now a little scared.

‘Will I be locked up?’

‘No you’ll be free on a ward’

‘Can I leave the ward?’

‘No deary’

‘How long for?’

‘Not long deary’

‘What like a week?'

‘Maybe two’

Panic was beginning to stir

‘What’s the maximum?’

’28 days’

‘Shortest?’

‘3-5 days’

A flash of inspiration over came me pushing the quickly growing panic. 'What would happen if I walked out of here now?’

‘The security guards would come. They’d stop you. I certainly can’t’. The guardian was elderly, certainly lacked the ability to move with any speed.

The thought of making a run for it began to consume me. My OCD voice was up for it. I’d be crazy and on the run. But I needed my buprenorphine as I was seriously withdrawing. No longer was sleep possible and the sweats were beginning. Wanting to relieve myself I put my trainers on to use the bathroom. 

'Run, run, run' my head repeated but I duly returned to my bay.

2pm came and I still had no medication. Boots was so close and would remove all this anxiety, sweats and cramps. The want to leave was getting greater. Each minute of suffering that passed, was a minute of the desire to walk out growing. My requests for my medication were getting repetitively ignored. Opiate withdrawal will make suffers do anything to rid themselves of the pain.

Do it, go on. Within 30 minutes I’d be feeling ok.

‘I need my meds’

I couldn't wait anymore, I was boiling

With the desire to leave.

‘You have to wait’

‘I’m fed up with waiting. My chemist is down the road’

Fireworks' exploded in my head. Suddenly my legs began to move. I got up and put my trainers. Then my arms which was followed by me quickly putting my jacket on. 

Snatched my bag and quickly darted for the automatic door. Only doctors and staff could open the door, by a swipe card but the Gods were with me. It just so happened to being in the open position for the newest patients to enter on an ambulance bed. This gave me a good 10 second gap to dart through.

I shoved pass them, head down and quickly sailed through the next sliding doors. I was free. My chest pounded as my fight or flight adrenalin surged throughout my body. I was clearly flighting. Walking with what the police described as intent I reached the bus stop and within minutes I was on a bus.

I headed to the chemist and then home. You could only be removed from your home if you were out of control or neglecting yourself.

I was free.

#Itsnotaboutthedrugs @Gemma_Stalked

❤️ June 2015 - Once Upon a Time - The Binge Part 3

Dawn had faded from a inky black sky, dotted with diamonds and a crescent shaped moon, resembling a clipped finger nail, to a deep velvet purple. The purple faded into a pastel pink, and orange glow, rainbow shaped, marked the soon arrival of sun. Finally pink to blue, candy floss clouds dotted the sky, creating various shapes, just like the ones  I used to see as a child.

Although in central London, the moist, dew splattered glass, smelt crisp and if the buses and slow stream of cars weren't present in the distance, one could easily believe to be in deep Hampshire or Summerset country.

Disappointed at the loss of my phone I continued to search the strip of grass I had ran, whilst chasing not one, but two grim reapers.

Whilst this was annoying, I knew the only people present were my family and tormentors. I would get it back.

Having hid in the dense bushes which created a second fence, around the park's perimeter. I decided to bang up one more time, before it became to busy to do so. I found a spot with adequate lighting, pulled up my jacket sleeve and used my bag strap as a tourniquet and flagged in a small vein on the underside of my arm. 

My options are limited for injecting now. In the whole 8 months I used without disclosing, the big veins on my arm were like old rope, but repaired and functioned. 

Due to my 'Psychosis' undertaking evil acts such as contaminating my gear (even my psychiatrist agreed a junkie would never lose or contaminate their gear!) or damaging my works by making holes in the needle, flagging was impossible and shots easily missed.

I  had  loss the ability to hit many of my larger veins as well as the sudden appearance of patches of rotting flesh. In every non fiction book I've read on drug addiction, the loved ones went above and beyond to ensure their darling junkie had fresh works. Ensuing they would minimise damage to someone who was clearly fragile before their discovery.

Not my loved ones. The scars I still bear will be a constant reminder of the soul destroying, damaging acts, they undertook endeavouring to make me stop using. No one can make one person stop using. But loving family support can influence their abstinence enormously. My ADHD makes my head turn to a state of constance chaos. If my world is chaos, I'm more likely to do something to reduce this chaos. Seeing as I would reduce, try not to use or even when I briefly stopped. The external chaos was ever present and equally chaotic, providing no respite in response to my changes. Naturally this only increased my using, breaking my abstinent phases.

In the three months psychosis stepped up it game, taking into consideration I wasn't nearly doing half as much as prior to psychosis, the damage to my body was four times worse, in half the time.

By now my tolerance was soaring to ethylphenidate, so whilst my shot was strong, it bearly buzzed me. While my heart did a mini grande prix, my hands sweated lightly and no doubt my eyes widened and jaw clenched, the hit's rush was absence from this shot. However there's only a fine line from a shot with a rush and a shot creating an 'Oh Shit' moment, in hindsight I can state this was probably a good outcome.

Due to the Buprenorphine, an opiate blessing me with pin prick tiny pupils, the massive black pupils associated with stimulant abuse, never touched me. If anything, they looked normal. 

'Hey! What you doing here?'

'I've been working. Just finished now' he replied lugging a heavy rucksack onto the bench near where I was standing.

'I've lost my phone. Fancy helping me look for it?'

'Sure' he replied.

I had come across a unusual early morning park companion. His name was J*****, he was 37. Had a girlfriend who was currently pissed with him. He also banged up heroin. I should have taken heed to this disclosure. Generally, intravenous drug use isn't disclosed as casually as you would do the weather. Yet, due to my intoxication, homelessness and natural need to converse, I foolishly fell for his banter and agreed to go and chill in his and score some light and dark. The Junkette's never have a problem with my intravenous drug use. A normal person would.

Upon giving up on the phone search we turned back to the bench upon which, his heavy ruck sack had been laid.

'My bags gone!'

'Shit you're joking?' He wasn't joking.

'All my work tools are in there'

'Shit, bad luck b. Maybe it was the dick who took my phone?'

'Fuck it, I'm gonna score some b. Wanna come?'

'Yeah fuck it. Why not? Got shit else to do'

So off I headed to a virtual strangers house. Due to the bizarre number of Junkette's sent to befriend me, follow me or drive pass me, strangers no longer created any natural fear or hesitation.

I would walk, boldly into a road. Not looking for traffic, instinctively knowing the cars would stop. Same with strangers initiating conversation about intravenous drug use.

As we walked up the hill in Brockwell Park, the last pink ting of dawn sky vanished leaving a pastel, blue sky. Dotted with light, misty clouds. Today would be a nice day.

We headed towards an estate in Tulse  Hill and up to a flat I was instructed to enter via the kitchen window due to lost keys.

'Hey! I'm back. I'm with J****. We're gonna get some gear'

'Urrrggghhhhmmm' a noise from a darkened front room replied.

We walked upstairs to a bedroom and J promptly climbed into bed. The house was disgusting. I had never encountered such dire standards of cleanliness. Grease in layers so thick upon the cooker I could have written my name. Equally thick layers of grim was present on the floor. The walls were shades of grey, where the original light shade had been dirtied to an extent it was no amount of cleaning would remove the dirty shades of grey, varying at hand level to shades almost as dark as black.

The toilet filled with dirty brown water and refused to flush. Alarm bells began to question these living standards, but the heroin voice drowned out any doubts with 'fuck it, you're getting a hit. You need a downer after all that speed'

J**** dosed in bed whilst I banged up some speed, refusing a hit himself. He would bizarrely and sporadically be immersed into withdrawal and roll over with an accompanying 'ohhhh... I'm clucking'

After an hour he called a dealer. Within 30 minutes it arrived. A teeny rock of crack, 2 blazes top. And some brown which J**** immediately cooked up. Upon giving me a syringe filled he promptly told me he was going to bang up in his femoral vein outside the room.

I was baffled. The gear clearly hadn't been filtered and even had pieces of tobacco in it. I squirted it into the cooker and used a filter. Pushing a drop on to my hand I tasted it. Tasted of tobacco and too much citric. I realised he had use the whole pack. It even says on the packs, this packet does one gramme of heroin.

No addict would use a whole pack on a 10 of brown. I pulled some paper work out from under the bed. Completely different names appeared from J****. Then children's schools books. Then pictures of an Asian family. 

The ease with intravenous drug use.

The half arsed withdrawals.

The unfiltered gear.

Whole pack of citric.

Thankfully I was only able to bang up a small amount, and it clearly wasn't gear. The crack was legit and I smoked half.

'Caught out!' I sang to J**** as he came back into the room in the style of Usher. 

'You're a Junkette, actor, set up to be friend me'

'What?'

'You're not the first'

...... TBC

❤️ June 2015 - Once Upon a Time - The Binge Part 2

As I left N****’s block, I was relieved it was a warm night.

I was still unsteady from my Oh Shit dose of ethylphenidate I had just banged up in the rubbish room at the bottom of the block. I wouldn't need to reload for another 4 hours or so.

My heart beat began to slow down as I walked towards Brockwell Park, my home for the night.

My family had clearly predicted this and already set up camp for tonight's Oscar winning performance of Psychosis by Mum and Dad. I shouldn't be so damn predictable. (The following day I found numerous sleeping bags and camping equipment in the bushes to validate this weird shit isn't psychosis but all a huge act)

I walked up the road where I knew there was a wooden fence, making the park easily accessible. Just like the American stereo types, proper 101 Dalmatians style, there was a 6 foot, iron, spiked fence around the majority of the park.

Here I could climbed the fence easily and access the park, now locked up.

Upon jumping over I was soon greeted by not one, but two, Grim Reapers. White Scream type masks and long black cloaks. I saw them slowly walk in my direction.

I immediately ran towards them, and hysterically they both turned and ran for their lives. I have never seen anything more hysterical than death, trying to spook me, only to turn and run like a pair of chickens, from an 8 stone / 112lbs skinny, female.

I wanted to catch them, but realised my phone had gone. I stopped and turned to look for it. If the people in the park were a figment of my imagination, there was no one present to take my phone.

It had gone however. This was planned. The person who took it answered all calls but mine, promising to return the phone. Phone-less I couldn't record any of their bullshit, transfer money to the account I had a cash card for (my psychosis includes stealing 8 cash cards and 7 SIM cards), contact anyone bar my parents, so basically making my survival without my parents impossible. I'm 34 not 14 by the way.

Unable to find my phone, from the straight line I had run, in the empty park I decided to find some bushes with light, enabling me to bang up again. As I turned to walk up the hill a line of 50 or so, people were walking in the distance.

Boo hoo! They never approached me. So I didn't give a shit. You see, unlike real psychosis, mine was not terrifying, scary nor frightening. Mine was fucking annoying, and only within the realm of human possibility.

No one flew, no Satan in my face, no scary shadows. The only voices I heard were my family. Unlike everyone else there were no voices saying 'kill yourself', 'stab them' or 'jump'. I only heard my brother reading my phone text messages or blog. 

I never used to get psychosis or as I like to say bothered / tormented at N****’s.  Never at my girlfriend's and we banged up loads. Apart from hearing and seeing my father, brother and his girlfriend from my bedroom window, nothing at Springfield and I used a hell of a lot in there. A gram of speed intravenously, benzos and a couple of splifs daily.

So I headed towards the line of boring fuckers who had nothing better to do than torment someone with a drug addiction, ultimately making them use more, opposed to doing something positive which would help me.

I walked into some thick bushes heading as far in as possible. I had learnt to do this as if anyone actually approaches me,

I'll hear them break branches and push past bushes. This helped me determine if the voices I heard were actual people or coming from carefully planted speakers.

Yes speakers! My family have gone to grave detrimental detail to try make me believe I'm mad. Sad as ADHD treatment would have reduced if not stopped my drug abuse, helped me, not destroyed my life and I'd probably be clean now.

So much negativity for someone who needed just one person to reach out and help her. Due to my two failed detoxes where the doctor removed my meds, knowing that was my reason for admittance, only ensured the abuse continued. As I failed, my family decided further positive help should not be given, but full steam ahead on trying to make our sane daughter think she's mad. So so terribly sad. I'll never think I was mad. Unless my father tells the truth I'll never forgive or love him again.

So, with the bushes and branches creating a barrier, I ignored my parents voices from the speakers, knowing they were no where near me. Using the moon light, another reason stealing my phone was vital, I used my bag to make a  tourniquet and removed the syringe I had, Blue Peter style, made earlier.

Soon, dawn began to approach, so I headed back towards where I lost my phone desperately trying to retrieve it.

Walking back and forth, I noticed the park warden and hid in the bushes. He opened the gate.

I continued my search when a male with a heavy rucksack walked through the gate. 

'Hey, what you doing here?' He asked

'Trying to find my phone. You?'

'Just finished work'

'Can you help me look?'

Little did I know he was a Junkette, planted by my parents with average acting skills.....

To be continued in part 3

❤️ June 2015 - Once Upon a Time - The Binge Part 1

'I think I'll get my Ritalin back' I stated to N**, glowing with the anticipation of having my 'normal' returned.

'It looked good' he replied

'It's the only time in my life I haven't used. When on Ritalin, crack and cocaine don't do anything, plus the sedative effects stop me smoking weed or taking benzos to sleep'

I was desperately hopeful I would get my concerta back. It would definitely encourage me not to use. You seriously don't know what you've got till it's gone.

It was a mild, June morning, grey heavy cloud loomed above suggesting a thunder storm was on its way. It would have been pleasantly warm if it was not for a cold wind.

It dawned on me, should I get my Ritalin returned, there would be high expectations on me, not to use. Least for 6-12 months. Occasional using maybe tolerated. Odd line of cocaine at parties. Maybe a pill or a toke of crack. Opiates were a major No-No. Once withdrawn risking addiction again was a chance of suffering the withdrawals again. So no chance there.

Plus there's no chance I'm risking giving a dirty piss test and losing it, meaning I could only use Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. This too stops my addictive behaviours as I can only use  twice a week, the three day break preventing physical addiction through using 3 or 4 times a week.

The devil upon my shoulder told me I should get the using out of me while I still had a chance.

'I wouldn't mind getting some legal highs.  Speed. And some benzos'

'It's illegal now'

'Only ethylphenidate. There will be replacements'

'What.... Now?'

'Yeah, come on. We'll just get a bag'

Not taking much convincing we headed to Boots for me to get my supervised Buprenorphine, and walked from Colliers Wood to Tooting, before getting a bus to the shop.

Warmly greeted I quickly noticed a new White Stuff, the ethylphenidate replaced.

'Is this good?'

'Umm yeah, it's popular..' The shop staff replied.

'What else you got?'

'We've not seen you in ages?'

'Yeah, no ethylphenidate, so I've managed to be good'

'We've still got some'

'Really?'

'Spend over £40 and I'll sort you a pack'

'I'll get some etizolam, and flubromazepam.. Umm you call them Comas'

'That's £25'

'And a half of new White Stuff?'

'I'll do it £50 stead of £55 for you'

And then a quick nip into the back

'And here's your free gift for being a good customer. It's legal to have, only illegal to sell'

'Nice one' I replied

'Only for good customers.'

In my hand I took the packet of Blue Stuff. I could feel the anticipation rising. The same anticipation I once felt for crack, and every other drug of choice I had used before.

The journey back was slow but little can be recalled from my memory. 

'I'll stop at the chemist'

'No' I replied, 'we can use the ones we have'

My eagerness meant I refused to add extra delays to my intravenous administration of my favourite brand of ethylphenidate.

Finally we reached N**’s. I quickly fetched one of my used needles. A micro fine BD 100ml diabetic needle. Unlike the easier to use 200ml Nevershare, the needle couldn't be removed. I pulled the plunger out, savouring the 'POP' noise. The noise gives goosebumps even when I am not using, and probably will continue to for the rest of my life. 

I filled it roughly a third with crushed bright neon blue crystals. Sucked up water to the 100ml mark and shook the syringe vigorously until 80% of the crystals dissolved. Too impatient to wait for the rest to dissolve I walked to the brighter kitchen whilst using my bag strap as a tourniquet on the middle of my right arm.

My T**** tattoo serving its purpose, stopping me use there. A) I didn't like disrespecting his memory and B) I couldn't see my veins as easily.

In the kitchen I quickly to inserted the needle using the plump vein, now throbbing on the left side of my right hand. I pulled back unable to wait any longer, then the claret red snaked into the syringe, immediately turning a rusty brown as it merged with the pale blue liquid.

My heart skipped a beat upon seeing the green light signal. I let go of the syringe quickly enabling me to change the position of my grip so I could push the plunger. I pushed and straight away the familiar burn in the vein I was using hit me. Within 20 seconds, the pleasurable chemical taste reached the back of my mouth. Whenever you inject you taste it in the back of your mouth.

Suddenly I felt more alert, awake. Colours seemed brighter, sounds clearer. My brain immediately went from a crazy, chaotic demeaner to calm, clear and organised. The anxiety which cripples my very existence faded into obscurity. My self hate turned into secure confidence. My unachievable perfection turned into a possible reality. My body obsession with being fat at 8.7lbs (119lbs or 54kgs at 5'6 inches / 168cm), no longer concerned me as my hunger evaporated.

Heading back to N**’s room, I felt sight disappointment as I hadn't done enough to feel any rush. That's the problem with the diabetic needle. You couldn't fit a big enough hit all the time. I immediately started to prepare a second hit using one of the heroin cookers to dissolve the speed, patiently waiting for more to dissolve this time.

N**** sat on the floor trying to sort himself out as I stired what would be my second hit. Pouring more of the crushed blue crystals I turned to N****

'I didn't feel that one much. Maybe you should go chemist. You can't get enough in these 1 mil. Mind you, my big veins are fucked thanks to my parents. In a whole year of using before my first detox my veins where never this bad. I could still hit them. They were like rope, but they're fucked now. I can't hit shit with big veins. Now, I can only hit the ones in my hands'

I drew up my second hit and this time used a vein on my inner arm. They were smaller bit closer to skin than the deeper, bigger ones. Although easy to hit, easier to fuck. A slight nudge would send the needle straight through, giving you a painful lump of fluid trapped under the skin. Burning painfully when touched, the pain would take 4 weeks minimal to go, and the lump, twice as long.

The second hit too was nothing special, however a 24 hour binge, unbeknown to me, had commenced.

Before I knew it, it had passed from 1pm Monday to 10am Tuesday. We had stayed up all night using Blue Stuff and the seriously inferior new White Stuff.

I had probably been absorbed in writing this blog, picking at scabs, pluck chin hairs, clearing bogies, playing games and other 'tweaking' behaviours all night.

'I want some more' I said to N****  and pretty soon we returned to the shop, something I would continue to do for 6 days continuously.

The time I spent high and torment free, are remarkably forgetable. So far I was yet to suffer any psychosis by Mum and Dad. N**** was fine and the night at his was pleasurable.

My time was spent in a calm haze gifting me with a hazy relocation of normal, junkie day (use, get money, thankfully for me, from my bank account, get more) to junkie day activities.

However my psychosis must have caught on that afternoon and immediately planned my punishment. This time, only after the buses had stopped, say 3am, N**** was instructed to do the old favourite of let's accuse J**** of having a secret phone and psychically abuse her until she flees in terror and is homeless for the night.

It was calm, but N****’s behaviour was causing me anxiety. Mainly engrossed with a game phone but he started looking at the window and door before giving me his evil smile.

'Do you want to tell me anything?' Nigel asked, the edginess in his voice now apparent. I knew I would have nasty accusations based on nothing whatsoever thrown at me very shortly.

'No' I replied casually.

There was nothing to hide. I was famous for my drug use, the only guys who attempted anything where 'actors' instructed by my parents. Unlike the rest of modern society, had no qualms with someone using drugs intravenously in their presence. Regardless of the bloodbath occasionally caused in the process.

N**** settled back to his phone and me to mine. 

30 minutes later, after receiving a text message suddenly he turns the TV up to the loudest setting and promptly left the room. Almost as if he was letting someone in. My psychosis. 

The upon returning he opened both windows, hidden when on his bed, to the full width.

Then my punishment commenced. Movement catching my peripheral vision or in the Ribena bottle reflecting under the bed. The small speaker playing the sounds of my family whispering, sighing and coughing was deployed or activated. Clearly some kind of camera was on me as I could hear my brother read the post I was blogging about word for word.

After ignoring this annoyance, which I was rather good at, N**** obviously decided or was instructed to step it up a notch.

'What's that noise!?'

'What noise?' I replied, startled at the anger in his voice.

'Nothing' he almost snapped back, his face angry and twisted, eyes filled with venom, staring straight through my own eyes. Then, as if twisting, his scowl turned to the demented trouble indicating smile before laughing with cruel, taunting tones.

Another half an hour passed, the tormenting had been stepped up yet again, N**** playing a CD which purposely plays a track which sounds like it's skipped, and out of tune, warped songs. Ah yes, psychosis that warps the sound of music (not your speech) only when in this room with the CD player on.

I could heavily sense another presence was around, as a top flat access via the roof and emergency escape hatch was possible. I was annoyed at my family invading N****’s flat. It had been my last safe place to use and provided respite from their crazy behaviour. Without it, suicide would have been likely. Now they had taken this too. I was heart broken, N**** had been dragged into this, as it was I who dragged him into intravenous drug use.

'GIVE ME THE PHONE!!' N**** suddenly demanded, grabbing my bag. He began to rifel through it and I snatched it back.

'THERE IS NO PHONE' I chucked the contents of my bag onto the floor. This was N****’s game. This was how he joined in the tormenting. Gentle N****  my only friend, my only safe place, now violent, scary and ensuring my torture was continued by not only letting my family, but joining in, the torture.

'SEARCH ME!' I shouted while stripping.

'NO, YOU'RE LYING, A****! A****!' He shouted, calling his sister at 3am.

'What!' She replied

'LET ME HAVE YOUR PHONE, SHE'S LYING, SHE'S HIDING A PHONE'

'I'm not!' I replied, tears beginning to stream down my face. I got dressed.

'SEE! SEE! YOU DIDN'T LET ME SEARCH YOU'

'I was naked'

'YEAH, YEAH' the evil grin wide across his face reminiscent of a Cheshire Cat.

Suddenly I'm yanked from the bed.

'GET OUT!' N**** screamed.

I began to collect my things.

'A****' N**** screamed and a tied, half asleep woman appeared in the door way 

'THIS BITCH WON'T GO'

'I'm packing my bag and then I'm going' I managed to reply whilst crying a torrent of tears due to the pain of N****’s betrayal.

'COME ON' I was yanked to the door.

'I'm putting on my shoes' I replied losing my balance as I had been in the process of putting on the second one.

'I DON'T CARE'

Then, with my second shoe barely on, I'm grabbed and yanked by my arm, and sharply pushed down half a fight of stairs.

Tears had created two steams down each cheek, I steadied myself on the wall I hit, and turned to face my tormentor.

'Why?' I sobbed, but yet again the evil smile just spread across his face as he locked the door. Locking me out to a night on the street. With hindsight I can say this is what was intended with certainty, as he also stole my Oyster card. Something I've realised he's done frequently to me as I recovered them.

I walked down the stairs, still sobbing. I nipped into the rubbish bins on the way out. I had bottled water and my needles, so I banged up a big shot. Almost too big, I had a mini 'Oh shit' moment, the sweats, racing heart, paranoia I would die, alone, in a communial bin.

After 5 minutes had passed, the moment had passed and I collected my belongings. I walked out the back door, listening to it slam, signifying the beginning of my night sleeping rough.

I automatically headed for Brockwell park unaware of the delights waiting for me, as authorised by my parents. Regardless of their phoney psychosis, they never disturbed me, so injecting drugs would not be a problem.

To be continued in part 2