The Drugs Don't Work

Line after line...

Then the ‘come down’ would hit me. A hollow and uncomfortable weight dropped in my stomach and to avoid it I needed to cut another line. Somehow I’d end up in a random person’s house; a friend of a friend or just a seemingly pleasant stranger from the night before. Sprawled across a floor I could see the sun come up through a window and the morning would morph into midday, into night, and before you know it you’ve been up for three days in a row. No food or drink but just wide eyes and dry lips.

Easter ended quickly though and I was back in York. Methadrone had been illegalised but it was still easy to find, or something harder.

I became acquainted with new group of people, with whom I’d spend my days and nights. Each of our rooms would become a slum. Tissues, rolled-up papers, cards and nose spray sprawled across a stuffy room with the curtains securely shut. Ironically, and sadly, they’d often use my ‘Requiem for a Dream’ DVD case to cut on. After a while we’d just stare at each other, off your faces. The world in our heads was clear and empty, as were we.

It took several warnings, various emails from my seminar tutors and a series of arguments with my friends and flatmates to force me to reflect. I stood in front of my mirror and stared into my eyes; unrecognizable and lost. Eighteen years of effort spent trying to get here, together with my mum, teachers and friends on a journey of growth, taking exams, fighting for qualifications and moving up. Finally I arrive at the place I have been aiming for, on a respectable course, and I’m throwing it away. What am I avoiding? Why do I care so little?

Apathy and regret. It is a simple and childish cliché of growing up and craving to be old, but upon reaching adulthood frustratingly wanting to turn back the clocks and remake all the choices that ended badly. Probably the most important incentive being baggage, pressures on my mind and wanting to push it all aside. Just for a day or two. The relative worth in terms of confidence and happiness you gain from a sniff or a swallow costing just a few pounds is overly easy and regrettably appealing.

However this term I made the decision to change. Maybe in some areas I lack valour but I for no reason start something without finishing, and I was determined not to fail my degree. Even though it was mid-term, I told myself it was never too late to make a change.

I began to work hard, using up all my time. Instead of using drugs to forget my problems I kept myself busy, which maybe still isn’t healthy but is a lot better than substance abuse.

On a work break this week I went to my friend’s room and upon opening the door found a congregation of high students; lines everywhere with dilated and silent eyes resting on my face. My friend ran over to me, obviously less affected than the others, and gave me a big hug and invited me to join them. I looked across and into everyone’s empty eyes. It was so disgusting. They had obviously not slept in at least a day and the air was pungent and smelt of drugs. Despite this I wanted to join them. I hated myself for it, but to avoid all the piled up work, the realities of life, having no money and relationship woes it seemed the more desirable option.

Ultimately though, I meant what I said. I don’t start something without finishing; and if I quit, I’ll try my hardest to keep it that way. I told her I couldn’t and went back to my work, which I finished that night.

Drugs are horrible, bad things; I won’t deny it. But my relationship with them has had as many highs and lows as any passionate love affair. I used them as a form of escapism; I can say and do whatever I want when I lack inhibition, even though admittedly, and more often than not, I say or do too much. I need to stop running away though. The false world they create is only temporary and the baggage I have will one day have to be addressed. For now though, my relationship with drugs is over, and I can’t afford to go back.

Add Comment

You must log in to submit a comment.