Tag Archives: Drugs

Escaping Reality, Emotionally Retarded

6 Jan

Pain isn’t something I am skilled at dealing with. Escaping pain, however, I am as good at as an Irish traveller is at fighting. Shrooms being my route of choice these days. It’s where the love lives. When life gets too ugly for me to be able to look at it, I discreetly slip away from the world and pay a visit to the realm of contentedness. These past few weeks I’ve been going there more regularly than I would usually need to. I am feeling emptier than I have in years. My spirit has been extinguished. An ache that won’t shift. A constant nausea. Too many shit things all taking place at the same time. A friend, one of life’s good humans, is lying in a hospital bed while her young kids and husband can only sit and put their faith in doctors and medical technology. Christmas. New Year. And not to mention the rejection dealt to me by a woman, – well, two rejections. Just one woman. But I was fool enough to climb back into her bed the moment she let me and then in the morning deja vu – who has, although not intentionally, absolutely crushed any confidence or feeling of self-worth that I had in myself before I met her. Destroyed. Man, I was in such a good place before that girl came into my life and turned it upside down. These things combined have knocked me on my arse. Not that anyone will know it. I am not a talker. Friends trying to engage me in conversation about what’s going on in my life just make me recoil. They meet a brick wall. It is not my way. Nor am I a social user of anything. I don’t like to have company when I’m feeling the benefits of whatever it is that my body has ingested. I fly solo. A bit of Me Time. I wait until I know I have the flat to myself for a night, and if that situation doesn’t arrive I take a bus out to my mum’s house in the sticks. No city, no cars, no street lights, no noise, and most importantly no people. A retreat. A place where I can get under the covers, drink tea, get as stoned as I want without being disturbed, and float away with the aid of some shrooms and some psytrance. It gives me perspective. Helps me to remember, even if only for a short while, that I have been prescribed an extreme dose of good fortune and managed to escape the poverty by being given the opportunity to work again, after a few years of sitting in a damp corner, occasionally having food gifted me by charities, shoplifting at times, and at other times just going without nutrition. Makes me realise that surely that was a far less desirable situation to be in than the current one of emotional trauma over a woman. Emotion is forgotten when you’re starving. These days I can eat when I’m hungry. I can drink when I’m thirsty. And I can smoke weed when I’m…….. awake. Basically. This time last year I couldn’t do any of those things. Well, as my dad used to say to me as a kid, “There’s plenty of water in the tap.” So I could drink. But you get the point. Things have been worse. Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

A week or so ago when I didn’t have any work the next day, I travelled out to my mum’s with everything I needed to be able to chill out. In the evening I laid down on the settee in the living room, ate some shrooms, wrapped myself in a blanket, got comfortable, pulled my hood up over my head, put my music in my ears and closed my eyes to block out the telly in the corner of the room that my mum was sat on the other settee watching. She knew to leave me in peace to enjoy my trip. And then the usual vivid memories started to come over me. The ones where I am actually back there, experiencing it again but at the same time detached, like Scrooge stood next to the ghost of Christmas past. If that makes sense. I went back to a night almost 20 years ago.

In that happy place

In that happy place

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Don’t Worry, Be Happy

8 Oct

The all-night caff isn’t on any maps handed out in Tourist Information. In fact, it isn’t even known by most of the representatives of decent society living in the city. But to Brighton’s nocturnals and wrong’uns – the junkies, the prostitutes, the pimps, the ravers, the insomniac psychos – Market Diner, hidden away on a backstreet of lock-ups and garages, is a regular fixture between the hours of 5 and 8am; the place to be as eyes adjust back to daylight.

It is a place where everyone tolerates everyone. No grief is to be had at the all-night caff.

A place where the staff aren’t going to ask you to leave for racking up a cheeky line on the table, next to your cup of tea, and then asking behind the counter for a straw to snort it with.

It was a Spring morning. We were a group of eight happy and completely twisted young people; four boys, four girls. An hour earlier we had all been strangers to one another. But the sharing of what chemicals each of us had left hidden in the baggies tucked inside our socks, combined with our all-round positive nature, had quickly rectified this situation. The club we had spent the night sweating inside had turfed us all out at 6am, and so everyone gathered on The Steps.

The Steps – taking the regular punter from the promenade to the street above – is the place where ideas are formed. And where balloons are sold by entrepreneurial types for £1 a hit. It is the place where happy people meet other happy people and talk deeply and profoundly to one another. It is the place where people speak absolute bollocks to one another.  It is the place where dilated pupils gaze into dilated pupils. And it is the place where friendships are made.

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Frank

19 Sep

Frank was never happier, nor was he ever more sad,
Than when he was sat alone in his flat with a book on his lap, or a pen in his hand.
Happy because he didn’t have to please anyone,
Sad because he had no one to please.
No one was good enough for Frank,
Nor was Frank good enough for anyone.

Women liked Frank,
They always had.
Frank never could understand this, but wasn’t one to question such things.

Frank was repulsed by women who thought themselves too beautiful,
The ones who couldn’t walk past a mirror without stopping.
He hid from them.
He hated how they thought they were better than others,
How they thought they had more rights.
‘Why does she think she has more of a right to disturb me than her?’
He would ask himself, bitterly. Continue reading

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