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  • Chasing the Dragon...

    See what people don't seem to get about doing Heroin is that you aren't chasing anything...

    Not at first anyway.

    You're just running.

    Running from debt, running from relationships, running from just about everything once the shit hits the fan...

    And when you're all out of running and you hit that brick wall, it's right there waiting for you.

    Like an old friend...

    The answer to everything.

    And it's not a dragon at all.

    It's the best thing ever.

    And yes it wraps you in big fluffy blankets and the world's a marshmallow and all of that jazz.

    But the absolute best thing? The thing that keeps you coming back for more? You get to be like Mr fucking Benn...and have the best adventures in the world.

    So whatever you want from life, wherever you want to be in your head, you've got it and you go there...A  hammock on the beach, a mansion with a swimming pool, hordes of adoring minions catering to your every whim...it's yours for the taking...you build it and they come...

    Which means that there is no grotty bedsit, or shoplifting in Tesco or whatever it is that you do with your days in supposed real life. ..because that place in your head is the bollocks...which means that you never want to leave.

    And then one day it stops.

    The door in your head doesn't take you to Narnia like it used to...and it all starts to go horribly wrong...

    Because the best anaesthetic in the world isn't working now, and that big, fluffy blanket of yours is gone...and in its place is the worst sickness ever.

    And the Dragon in the corner is smiling...

    Because you see,  there always was a dragon...

    He was hiding under the blanket.

    And you call on Mr Benn, and you try to run away, but when you finally open your eyes, you haven't moved, and he's still in the room...and then that little penny drops and you know that you are fucked...

    And right before he goes to leave he leans in to where you lie sweating and shaking on the floor...And he whispers four, horrendous little words...

    "I'm hungry. feed me..."

     

     

  • Hearing voices.....

    My boyfriend has Psychosis. It means that he sees, hears and talks to people who aren't actually there. At least if they are, they are very very quiet and very very small, as no-one else can see or hear them...I can't anyway. 

    It only happens when he's been drinking heavily and is therefore either dangerously intoxicated or starting to withdraw. Which currently is most of the time right now, and it's a worrying, and often disturbing experience for anyone around him, watching a fully grown man sit and have an animated conversation with people that only he can see.

    During Psychosis he loses touch with reality. He only sees and hears the scenarios in his head that to him are real conversations, but to everyone else are the red flags that indicate that his drinking is once again spiralling out of control and that he is mentally and physically extremely unwell and in serious need of professional help.

    Sometimes he talks to me too, but not very often - at least not to my face. In reality he talks to me all the time...it's just that I'm very rarely in the same room when the "conversation" gets going. I'll be in the kitchen or the bathroom maybe....he'll be convinced that I'm sat there next to him on the sofa in the living room.  But when I try to say as much he accuses me of lying and playing games with his head...when in reality it's not actually me playing headgames at all.  It's vodka and the copious quantities of it that he continues to drink that's busy distorting his reality.

    It's upsetting to see and hear him like this. Talking away to himself for hours on end...having full-on conversations with these imaginary people that aren't actually there.  But if I try to hold a conversation and tell him that he's talking to himself he doesn't believe me.

    It's horrible.

    Especially when it's 3.00am and I can't sleep because his imaginary friends are keeping him up all night again...He's usually having a 'discussion' about me  and how he's scared that he'll lose me if this carries on.  Which he will if he doesn't get help. Because seeing and hearing him like this is excrutiating...I actually can't take much more. His alcohol induced mental problems are starting to consume us both.

    The whispered conversations are horrendous...the look on his face when I try to explain to him that there is no-one in the room breaks my heart. Because he genuinely doesn't know what is going on around him.

    It makes him paranoid.

    He thinks that I have an agenda. That I'm filming him / recording him...taking photos. For the record I'm not. I wouldn't.  Although I have to admit that it has crossed my mind...because maybe then he would see what everyone else sees...that he's talking to himself. But it would terrify him. The thought makes me sick. Its not an option. 

    My boyfriend desperately needs help. He's very very sick. He's been hospitalised several times because of his addiction.  But he refuses to see the doctor more often than not...presumably because he will be told in no uncertain terms that he needs to stop drinking. Which he continues to do on a daily basis and which is slowly but surely killing him...because he physically and mentally can no longer do without it. 

    So the talking continues and every day he gets worse. He no longer needs me to talk to... his friends are all consuming. If they tidied up after him too then maybe I would be more tolerant. But they don't...they just continue to talk cod-shit, which he in turn talks back...24/7. Unless he's asleep...

    It makes him incredibly hard to be around and even harder to listen to.  I constantly have to leave the room just to breathe for a second.  Ever increasingly I'm leaving the flat completely...because I need some space from him and some real conversation...with real actual people. 

    It's breaking my heart...I'm at my wits end and I'm ready to leave. I love him so much but I have no idea where to go from here. Except home.  He doesn't even know if I'm there or not anymore... I may as well be invisible...except that if I was then maybe he would talk to me more...

    My boyfriend needs help. Without it he will die. He can't carry on like this. His body is screaming for him to stop drinking alcohol. It can't keep up with the strain that he's under and his head is slowly turning to blancmange. Things have to change...because at this rate, as much as we all love and care for him, one by one everyone else will leave him too....for the sake of their sanity if nothing else.  

    So my boyfriends imaginary friends had better be loyal...because if he continues to refuse the help that he needs, then those invisible mates of his will be all he's got left...which is heartbreaking...

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Fashionistas.....

    You don't need a degree in fashion to fit in in rehab....Because everyone looks the same in there. Tracksuits and hoodies by day, Pj's and hoodies by night.

    We were one huge "blind date from hell" fest. Styled by W*therspoons and the stuff that J*remy Kyles wet dreams are made of.

    We all looked rough as rats.

    Because you're not out to impress anyone in rehab. Or meet the love of your life.... You're too busy trying to get well. And so for a girl like me who normally won't leave the house unless I'm mascared up to the max, not having to make the effort for a while was liberating.

    The first few days I was in there, I did do the works.....habit more than anything. But then I realised that it would be much more productive to grab an extra half an hour in bed every morning, and rock up to morning check-in looking like a garbage pail kid like everyone else, than faff about trying to get my eyeliner straight for a bunch of people who actually didn't give a rats ass what i looked like.

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  • Crying in Primark...

    Up until recently I had a perfect figure.

    I could skip into any high street clothes shop, find exactly what I wanted, grab it off the rail and be on my merry way in minutes...no need to faff about in changing rooms. I was a size 8. My clothes were guaranteed to fit.

    Simples.

    But then a series of really shit things happened and I lost a lot of weight. I went from an 8 to a 6. Then to a 4. 

    By the time I reached hospital I was size 0.

    So I had to take medication.

    Lots and lots of medication.

    Then I was diagnosed with a thyroid disorder...which meant even more medication and I was put on a high calorie carb laden diet in order to build me back up.

    I took so many tablets I rattled when I walked.

    My alcohol-addicted head and my skeletal body lost touch with each other and my malnourished, chemically overloaded system struggled to cope with all the new toxins it was being asked to process.

    So I gained the weight back that I had lost pretty quickly.

    Over 2 stone.

    And then I gained 2 more for good measure.

    It didn't matter in hospital...I was too ill too care...and we all wore pj's and jogging bottoms anyway so no one really stood out.

    Plus there were no mirrors there to speak of. So I only saw my reflection for the first time in Primark months later, once I'd left rehab, and I realised suddenly why nothing I held in my arms would fit me.

    I cried.

    Buckets.

    And I left with my head down and empty handed.

    And I know I sound shallow or self-absorbed or whatever it is that you may be thinking about me right now.

    But I'm not. I'm really truly not.

    If anything I'm the opposite.

    I just saw in the mirror the damage that I'd done to myself. The strain that I'd put my already exhausted body through by constantly feeding it poison every day for years and blithely expecting it to cope.

    The way that I just piled more and more shit on myself and took everything that I once had for granted. 

    That's why I cried.

    Not because I'm no longer size 8. 

    I cried because my body kept me alive despite what I did to it.

    And I cried because I'm grateful that I am no longer that sad, lonely alcoholic girl on a sofa.

    So if my jeans are a 12 these days, I don't actually care. Because I could be in the ground not needing jeans. 

    It's kind of a small price to pay for simply being here today. So i'll take it on the chin.

    That brand-new double one of mine...

    #resilience

     

     

     

     

     

     

                                                                                                                                              

                                                                                    

                                                                                        

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