A friend laced my weed with crack. I smoked it. I felt a high. And then I asked the same so-called friend to buy me whatever he put in the drug.
Funny enough, I had watched a YouTube video once where someone said they don’t smoke weed because it makes you lazy. They said if they were going to do a drug, they’d do something that made you go up. That stayed in my head. So when I felt that high, I thought it was helping me. I thought it could take me to new heights.
For the first few days, I loved it. But the smokers around me made me chase it. Instead of buying a big amount—£200 to £400 at once—I was chasing £20 bags, sharing it, making my high smaller and turning me into a fiend. It made me feel like a smaller man.
When I smoked with that same friend, I felt a way I loved. I got a certain feeling like I was on a mission. As a starseed, I believed my purpose was to spread my genetics and have many women. The high made me feel like I was moving towards something. But I was just moving in circles.
I started taking the high back to my mum’s house. That was a mistake. I kept getting disturbed. I was chasing this high at home, living in my imagination, having synchronicities with people I was manifesting. But I was still chasing small bags. I was losing more than I gained.
Then an old school friend came to my house. I thought transparency was the best thing, so I showed him what I was doing. He ended up telling my mum. He called me a crackhead. He got me beaten up by his friend. I got into a massive fight. It ruined me.
The next day, the same friend came back. He said he wanted peace. He said we’d been friends from young and should never fight. I wanted to believe him. But he messed it up again. He saw me smoke again and told my mum again.
I crashed out. I told him to leave or I’d fuck him up. He left. Then I had a huge argument with my mum and sister. They locked me outside. I broke through the window to get back in. I cut my foot. I cut my thumb. That thumb injury is still giving me heart problems today.
I went back to the same crackhead who put it in my weed. He brought another crackhead to the house while I was healing. I had nowhere to go. I fled the narcissistic abuse and slept in the sun room. I woke up to ambulance and police. They took me to hospital.
I waited four days. Then I was sectioned for 28 days. I was forcefully given two injections. The day before they let me leave, they made me take another injection—otherwise I couldn’t go. They labelled me paranoid schizophrenic because they failed to report what had actually happened to me.
During hospital, I kept smoking crack on leave with family. But the high wasn’t the same. The injection had fried my dopamine. I was chasing a high I could never feel again. Even now, if I smoke, I can’t feel it like a normal user. It’s too stupid.
Now I’m trying to get medications to rebalance my receptors. Otherwise I have to wait 80 more days for this synthetic drug to leave my system. My nose is blocked constantly. I have to use Sudafed every day just to feel normal. My nervous system is wrecked.
And because of that one childhood friend, my whole family now sees me as a crackhead. Others too. The injection has impaired my brain. When I smoke crack now, it makes me feel okay, but not the same hit I wanted. I feel more addicted because I’m chasing a high I’m never going to get as long as my dopamine and receptors are fried.
I met a girlfriend. I met her the day before I was admitted to hospital. I told her my life story. She knows I smoke crack. She’s not the woman I dreamed of. I thought she had money—turns out no. But she’s been with me through all of this. We’re probably only together because I’m such a wreck from the mental health drug that I need her. She gives me a place to stay. But she’s not my type, for reasons too deep to get into here.
I got kicked out of the step down the hospital gave me. That ruined my month. I’ve been out of hospital since then, spending my pay cheques, meeting nasty crackheads. One of them sold me £200 of fake drugs. He logged into my phone and called his dealer. I got ripped off. It was a shame.
I smoked weed with another tenant there and that ruined my heart on the same day I got ripped off. My heart was already messed up from the thumb injury when I broke the window at my parents’ home.
Most importantly, I’m now away from the place that broke me—the step down. Those workers, I can’t stand them. I was losing my peace, spending my money, surrounded by crackheads and worse tenants. It led to me being broke this entire month.
Now if I want to get high, I have to upset my girlfriend. I’d have to smoke in front of her face. And part of me doesn’t care, because that’s just the state I’m in.
This is my story. How crack went from fun, to losing everything.
I’m on a healing journey now. But the damage is deep.
Funny enough, I had watched a YouTube video once where someone said they don’t smoke weed because it makes you lazy. They said if they were going to do a drug, they’d do something that made you go up. That stayed in my head. So when I felt that high, I thought it was helping me. I thought it could take me to new heights.
For the first few days, I loved it. But the smokers around me made me chase it. Instead of buying a big amount—£200 to £400 at once—I was chasing £20 bags, sharing it, making my high smaller and turning me into a fiend. It made me feel like a smaller man.
When I smoked with that same friend, I felt a way I loved. I got a certain feeling like I was on a mission. As a starseed, I believed my purpose was to spread my genetics and have many women. The high made me feel like I was moving towards something. But I was just moving in circles.
I started taking the high back to my mum’s house. That was a mistake. I kept getting disturbed. I was chasing this high at home, living in my imagination, having synchronicities with people I was manifesting. But I was still chasing small bags. I was losing more than I gained.
Then an old school friend came to my house. I thought transparency was the best thing, so I showed him what I was doing. He ended up telling my mum. He called me a crackhead. He got me beaten up by his friend. I got into a massive fight. It ruined me.
The next day, the same friend came back. He said he wanted peace. He said we’d been friends from young and should never fight. I wanted to believe him. But he messed it up again. He saw me smoke again and told my mum again.
I crashed out. I told him to leave or I’d fuck him up. He left. Then I had a huge argument with my mum and sister. They locked me outside. I broke through the window to get back in. I cut my foot. I cut my thumb. That thumb injury is still giving me heart problems today.
I went back to the same crackhead who put it in my weed. He brought another crackhead to the house while I was healing. I had nowhere to go. I fled the narcissistic abuse and slept in the sun room. I woke up to ambulance and police. They took me to hospital.
I waited four days. Then I was sectioned for 28 days. I was forcefully given two injections. The day before they let me leave, they made me take another injection—otherwise I couldn’t go. They labelled me paranoid schizophrenic because they failed to report what had actually happened to me.
During hospital, I kept smoking crack on leave with family. But the high wasn’t the same. The injection had fried my dopamine. I was chasing a high I could never feel again. Even now, if I smoke, I can’t feel it like a normal user. It’s too stupid.
Now I’m trying to get medications to rebalance my receptors. Otherwise I have to wait 80 more days for this synthetic drug to leave my system. My nose is blocked constantly. I have to use Sudafed every day just to feel normal. My nervous system is wrecked.
And because of that one childhood friend, my whole family now sees me as a crackhead. Others too. The injection has impaired my brain. When I smoke crack now, it makes me feel okay, but not the same hit I wanted. I feel more addicted because I’m chasing a high I’m never going to get as long as my dopamine and receptors are fried.
I met a girlfriend. I met her the day before I was admitted to hospital. I told her my life story. She knows I smoke crack. She’s not the woman I dreamed of. I thought she had money—turns out no. But she’s been with me through all of this. We’re probably only together because I’m such a wreck from the mental health drug that I need her. She gives me a place to stay. But she’s not my type, for reasons too deep to get into here.
I got kicked out of the step down the hospital gave me. That ruined my month. I’ve been out of hospital since then, spending my pay cheques, meeting nasty crackheads. One of them sold me £200 of fake drugs. He logged into my phone and called his dealer. I got ripped off. It was a shame.
I smoked weed with another tenant there and that ruined my heart on the same day I got ripped off. My heart was already messed up from the thumb injury when I broke the window at my parents’ home.
Most importantly, I’m now away from the place that broke me—the step down. Those workers, I can’t stand them. I was losing my peace, spending my money, surrounded by crackheads and worse tenants. It led to me being broke this entire month.
Now if I want to get high, I have to upset my girlfriend. I’d have to smoke in front of her face. And part of me doesn’t care, because that’s just the state I’m in.
This is my story. How crack went from fun, to losing everything.
I’m on a healing journey now. But the damage is deep.
