I was the person you hated. I mean, I grew up in the worst area of my home city - in fact, the infamous Trainspotting was set just down the road from where I live - and I remember nights as a child going hungry because my mother simply couldn't afford any food that month. Nobody's perfect. But I was that one in school - in high school - the one that took too many classes. We're talking several classes more than average and got perfect grades in all of them regardless. The one that got an unconditional offer for Cambridge. The one that ended up doing medicine. The one that could also speak several languages and played a variety of instruments to a high standard to boot. I could even eat whatever I wanted and effortlessly maintain a slim and toned physique. I'm not trying to brag here - I'm setting the scene. I was that guy. The guy you think just has it ridiculously easy. But for every silver lining there is also a cloud. That cloud for me was huge, dark and deep depression and borderline personality disorder. Throughout my life I managed my best to keep it under control with sheer will power and determination. It was still there, eating away at me, but I let it do so in vain because I did not plan on ever giving in to it.
Or so I thought.
About two years ago, I wasn't in a good place. I could say that I literally wasn't in a good place - in a flat with people I hated, and with a crazy landlord. I could also talk about the long term relationship that broke down leaving me in a vulnerable place. I could talk about the decision to withdraw from my medical school programme, as I'd been miserable with it for a while. Regarding all of it, I sometimes wonder now if I was really sad, or if depression cast a veil over everything I would have normally been enjoying. I wonder if these things that happened should have happened, or if they happened because of my mental health and not just me. I could say something about any of these things, but in the end excuses aren't really a good source of catharsis.
In the end it doesn't matter how or why it happened, it's just that it did. I was left unemployed, homeless, single and alone. My career path was cut off, my social life was mostly cut off (how on earth could I face my medic friends after committing the cardinal sin of not wanting to do it? - after all, we all recite exactly in our interviews and every moment of med school "Oh medicine is my life - I love it. I'm so devoted and determined.") and my support systems were thereby cut off. I was lost. Remember that cloud? It broke, and the heavens opened.
After years of independence I found myself going from my double bed with my boyfriend to the single bed at my mother's house I'd left years ago. I went from an intelligent person valued by a medical school to a number patronised at the job centre. I went from happy to sad; ambitious to despondent; disciplined and sensible to wild and reckless. I'd spent my entire life playing by the rules - say this, say that, do this, do that, study this, study that, yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir, of course medicine is my life sir. All of this change, all at once, broke me.
Like it always does, it started innocuously. Going out more, drinking more, being promiscuous and being generally wild. A friend and I discovered legal highs and we would get completely wasted and go out - I was high as hell and loving it every second. I danced on tabled and kissed strangers who came up to me. I could reel a man in with a glance. I was fantastic and possibly the most confident I'd ever been. I thought I was invincible and I thought with all my pharmacological knowledge and previous discipline in life I could handle myself better than those "undisciplined junkies" (I never would say that, but hell at the time did I think it). It went from legal highs, to illegal highs and I thought I was strong enough. I look back on that golden era and see how amazing I felt and was and sometimes wonder what my secret was to it.
Drugs. I was on drugs.
About a year and a half ago discovered that my mother's 30/500 co-codamol were quite the enjoyment for an opiate naive person like me. Hell, two of those buggers could get me high. And CWEing about 10 I could be nodding all night. This continued for about six months and I got away with it somehow - slip a strip from her box and pop them as I went about doing this or that. But as tolerance works, all good things must come to an end.
I wasn't having it though. I wanted more. I wanted to experiment. We only live once after all. The rain was falling from those clouds all around me, and I wanted to feel better. I deserved it.
My best friend from high school was a heroin addict. This was no secret to me, or between us, and we spoke openly about it. To this day she is my closest friend and throughout my depression, even in my darkest, darkest moments she has been there for me no matter what. In my darkness, she is my shining light. We generally kept her heroin use away from our friendship physically, but eventually I became tolerant to the codeine and wanted to chase a bigger high. To this day she claims it was her fault for opening the door to heroin for me, but it was my set of choices that led to my trying it. And trying it again. And again. And again.
I read up about people saying how hard it was to moderate your use. "Those weaklings" - thought I. I would smoke it every other day. Go days without it just to brag about how in control I was. Over time, that control waned, until it became every day. It was a bag every day. Then it was two bags a day. Then I was running out of money and begging my best friend to help me out until I got paid. My life began to revolve around it - going to get it, smoking it, loving it, worshipping it. Waking in the morning thinking about it. Dreaming about it. How arrogant I was to think I could cheat biology. I was an addict. I'd lost everything. Everything I had loved in my life was gone, so why not just smoke another bag and forget about it.
---
To the here and now. I've been taking heroin for about six months now, and about four of them at least a bag a day on average. I've had enough. I've had enough of this life and I've had enough of all of this. I can't take it anymore. This is not what I wanted with my life. And I am going to change that.
I last smoked heroin on Tuesday, and had some 30/500 co-codamol 4 times a day on Wednesday and Thursday. It is now Saturday night and I have gone 48 hours almost without any opiates. While my heroin addiction has only lasted around six months, the co-codamol addiction started long, long ago and while I have gone without heroin easily before in earlier stages, I never went without codeine.
A few times recently I tried to go without any opiates for a day or two, but the RLS completely destroyed me. It was horrendous. All over my body and I COULD. NOT. BEAR. IT. So yesterday and today for my first 48 hours without opiates I have taken some (read: a fair bit) of gabapentin to help and so far so good. I mean, I feel like complete and utter shit to be quite Anne Frank, but I am alive and well. I am eating, drinking green tea continuously, taking multivitamins and trying to keep active. I have a feeling that tomorrow and monday will be brutal, but a friend of mine is going to give me some diazepam to help on top of the gabapentin.
Depending on how I feel, on monday I'm going to my doctor and I'm going to come clean about what's happened to me. While I can't say all I said here, I want her to hear me out. Of course I expect some judgement, and some criticism. But mostly I hope to receive the kind of support I would have given had I decided to complete my degree. Understanding and intelligent conversation about where we go from here. I'm hoping to get some clonidine and some scripted gabapentin or pregabalin (for the RLS and muscle pain) to help.
I'm stubborn. And once upon a time I was disciplined. I know it's in me. I'm so stubborn that I can annoy myself at times. And this is one of the times I want to annoy myself to bits - I want to be so stubborn to combat the desire to use again. I want to be clean. I want my life back. I want myself back. I want to start the New Year afresh. To begin again.
Thank you for reading my introduction to my recovery. Any sort of interaction at this point would be helpful, be it questions or words of support or conversation. I would say god bless, but I'd rather keep imaginary people out of this - drugs give us enough delusions as it is.
Or so I thought.
About two years ago, I wasn't in a good place. I could say that I literally wasn't in a good place - in a flat with people I hated, and with a crazy landlord. I could also talk about the long term relationship that broke down leaving me in a vulnerable place. I could talk about the decision to withdraw from my medical school programme, as I'd been miserable with it for a while. Regarding all of it, I sometimes wonder now if I was really sad, or if depression cast a veil over everything I would have normally been enjoying. I wonder if these things that happened should have happened, or if they happened because of my mental health and not just me. I could say something about any of these things, but in the end excuses aren't really a good source of catharsis.
In the end it doesn't matter how or why it happened, it's just that it did. I was left unemployed, homeless, single and alone. My career path was cut off, my social life was mostly cut off (how on earth could I face my medic friends after committing the cardinal sin of not wanting to do it? - after all, we all recite exactly in our interviews and every moment of med school "Oh medicine is my life - I love it. I'm so devoted and determined.") and my support systems were thereby cut off. I was lost. Remember that cloud? It broke, and the heavens opened.
After years of independence I found myself going from my double bed with my boyfriend to the single bed at my mother's house I'd left years ago. I went from an intelligent person valued by a medical school to a number patronised at the job centre. I went from happy to sad; ambitious to despondent; disciplined and sensible to wild and reckless. I'd spent my entire life playing by the rules - say this, say that, do this, do that, study this, study that, yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir, of course medicine is my life sir. All of this change, all at once, broke me.
Like it always does, it started innocuously. Going out more, drinking more, being promiscuous and being generally wild. A friend and I discovered legal highs and we would get completely wasted and go out - I was high as hell and loving it every second. I danced on tabled and kissed strangers who came up to me. I could reel a man in with a glance. I was fantastic and possibly the most confident I'd ever been. I thought I was invincible and I thought with all my pharmacological knowledge and previous discipline in life I could handle myself better than those "undisciplined junkies" (I never would say that, but hell at the time did I think it). It went from legal highs, to illegal highs and I thought I was strong enough. I look back on that golden era and see how amazing I felt and was and sometimes wonder what my secret was to it.
Drugs. I was on drugs.
About a year and a half ago discovered that my mother's 30/500 co-codamol were quite the enjoyment for an opiate naive person like me. Hell, two of those buggers could get me high. And CWEing about 10 I could be nodding all night. This continued for about six months and I got away with it somehow - slip a strip from her box and pop them as I went about doing this or that. But as tolerance works, all good things must come to an end.
I wasn't having it though. I wanted more. I wanted to experiment. We only live once after all. The rain was falling from those clouds all around me, and I wanted to feel better. I deserved it.
My best friend from high school was a heroin addict. This was no secret to me, or between us, and we spoke openly about it. To this day she is my closest friend and throughout my depression, even in my darkest, darkest moments she has been there for me no matter what. In my darkness, she is my shining light. We generally kept her heroin use away from our friendship physically, but eventually I became tolerant to the codeine and wanted to chase a bigger high. To this day she claims it was her fault for opening the door to heroin for me, but it was my set of choices that led to my trying it. And trying it again. And again. And again.
I read up about people saying how hard it was to moderate your use. "Those weaklings" - thought I. I would smoke it every other day. Go days without it just to brag about how in control I was. Over time, that control waned, until it became every day. It was a bag every day. Then it was two bags a day. Then I was running out of money and begging my best friend to help me out until I got paid. My life began to revolve around it - going to get it, smoking it, loving it, worshipping it. Waking in the morning thinking about it. Dreaming about it. How arrogant I was to think I could cheat biology. I was an addict. I'd lost everything. Everything I had loved in my life was gone, so why not just smoke another bag and forget about it.
---
To the here and now. I've been taking heroin for about six months now, and about four of them at least a bag a day on average. I've had enough. I've had enough of this life and I've had enough of all of this. I can't take it anymore. This is not what I wanted with my life. And I am going to change that.
I last smoked heroin on Tuesday, and had some 30/500 co-codamol 4 times a day on Wednesday and Thursday. It is now Saturday night and I have gone 48 hours almost without any opiates. While my heroin addiction has only lasted around six months, the co-codamol addiction started long, long ago and while I have gone without heroin easily before in earlier stages, I never went without codeine.
A few times recently I tried to go without any opiates for a day or two, but the RLS completely destroyed me. It was horrendous. All over my body and I COULD. NOT. BEAR. IT. So yesterday and today for my first 48 hours without opiates I have taken some (read: a fair bit) of gabapentin to help and so far so good. I mean, I feel like complete and utter shit to be quite Anne Frank, but I am alive and well. I am eating, drinking green tea continuously, taking multivitamins and trying to keep active. I have a feeling that tomorrow and monday will be brutal, but a friend of mine is going to give me some diazepam to help on top of the gabapentin.
Depending on how I feel, on monday I'm going to my doctor and I'm going to come clean about what's happened to me. While I can't say all I said here, I want her to hear me out. Of course I expect some judgement, and some criticism. But mostly I hope to receive the kind of support I would have given had I decided to complete my degree. Understanding and intelligent conversation about where we go from here. I'm hoping to get some clonidine and some scripted gabapentin or pregabalin (for the RLS and muscle pain) to help.
I'm stubborn. And once upon a time I was disciplined. I know it's in me. I'm so stubborn that I can annoy myself at times. And this is one of the times I want to annoy myself to bits - I want to be so stubborn to combat the desire to use again. I want to be clean. I want my life back. I want myself back. I want to start the New Year afresh. To begin again.
Thank you for reading my introduction to my recovery. Any sort of interaction at this point would be helpful, be it questions or words of support or conversation. I would say god bless, but I'd rather keep imaginary people out of this - drugs give us enough delusions as it is.
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and In a couple more days the physical aspect will start to get much better. 
