HAMSTERS & HEROIN: Not all junkies are purse-snatching grandmother-killing psychos. I'm keeping this blog to bear witness to that fact.

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DIARY OF A SLOWLY RECOVERING HEROIN ADDICT

I used to take heroin at every opportunity, for over 10 years, now I just take methadone which supposedly "stabilizes" me though I feel more destabilized than ever before despite having been relatively well behaved since late November/early December 2010... and VERY ANGRY about this when I let it get to me so I try not to.

I was told by a mental health nurse that my heroin addiction was "self medication" for a mood disorder that has recently become severe enough to cause psychotic episodes. As well as methadone I take antipsychotics daily. Despite my problems I consider myself a very sane person. My priority is to attain stability. I go to Narcotics Anonymous because I "want what they have" ~ Serenity.

My old blog used to say "candid confessions of a heroin and crack cocaine addict" how come that one comes up when I google "heroin blog" and not this one. THIS IS MY BLOG. I don't flatter myself that every reader knows everything about me and follows closely every single word every day which is why I repeat myself. Most of that is for your benefit not mine.

This is my own private diary, my journal. It is aimed at impressing no-one. It is kept for my own benefit to show where I have been and hopefully to put off somebody somewhere from ever getting into the awful mess I did and still cannot crawl out of. Despite no drugs. I still drink, I'm currently working on reducing my alcohol intake to zero.

If you have something to say you are welcome to comment. Frankness I can handle. Timewasters should try their own suggestions on themselves before wasting time thinking of ME.

PS After years of waxing and waning "mental" symptoms that made me think I had depression and possibly mild bipolar I now have found out I'm schizoaffective. My mood has been constantly "cycling" since December 2010. Mostly towards mania (an excited non-druggy "high"). For me, schizoaffective means bipolar with (sometimes severe)
mania and flashes of depression (occasionally severe) with bits of schizophrenia chucked on top. You could see it as bipolar manic-depression with sparkly knobs on ... I'm on antipsychotic pills but currently no mood stabilizer. I quite enjoy being a bit manic it gives the feelings of confidence and excitement people say they use cocaine for. But this is natural and it's free, so I don't see my "illness" as a downer. It does, however, make life exceedingly hard to engage with...

PPS The "elevated mood" is long gone. Now I'm depressed. Forget any ideas of "happiness" I have given up heroin and want OFF methadone as quick as humanly possible. I'm fed up of being a drug addict. Sick to death of it. I wanna be CLEAN!!!

Attack of the Furry Entertainers!

Attack of the Furry Entertainers!

Thursday, May 03, 2007

From Depressed Acorns Miserable Oak Trees Grow

AT LONG LAST ...

Here goes ...

Promise not to yawn, please.

I'VE KEPT THIS AS SHORT as I can manage.


MY LIFE, up until the age of eight, was so uneventful as to be almost "boringly" regular. My parents seemed relatively happily married. The only remarkable thing I can think up was that, due to a hitch in the emigration process, I was born not in balmy Sydney, Australia, but in the damp United Kingdom. I mention this because I spent many years of my childhood feeling somehow out of place in what my Mum called a "cold country".

Looking back I was a happy child with one younger brother and churchgoing parents. Nothing remarkable occurred until my Mum had a crisis of faith when I was about seven. This spelled the beginning of the end`of my parents' marriage. Within a year they were separated (for good); there were no reconciliations. They divorced soon after that.

My Mum, who had been an apparently increasingly desperate-feeling housewife began her break to freedom by enrolling in college. The problem was (for me) that she spent so much time away that I never saw her. I tried to get up at 6am to be there when she kissed me goodbye. But I couldn't manage it. I was my mother's son. I felt utterly bereft without her. In her place they hired a French au pair called Elise. But Elise was no replacement for my Mum.

A year later my parents finally did separate. Elise flew home to Cointreau-land (her sister worked in the factory and smelled of oranges). My Mum quit home, leaving my brother and me in the care of my Dad. This was only ever meant to be a temporary arrangement until she got her career in motion. A good (male) friend of my Dad's took over our daily care. My brother and I saw my Mum every other weekend, which was sad, because all I wanted was to be with her. So I spent every othe Sunday eve back home at Dad's and crying.

We knew my future stepmother and brother for some time before amalgamation into one family was ever on the cards -- because they attended the same church as my Dad. They remembered my brother and me clearly from the day Harriet threw a barbecue at her house. Two timid children, who had never been brought up to speak our minds, or to ever venture further than unquestioning obedience to our elders skulked into Harriet's house under a dark shadow. Years later Harriet said she wondered what was wrong with us that day. Nothing: except for the stultifyingly suffocating home we came from. She and Jonathan recalled us clearly because we were so very inhibited, so obviously devoid of joy.

We continued seeing Mum at miserable fortnightly intervals. And I continued crying. I never, in fact, ever actualy stopped crying at that particular time. I missed my Mum so very much. I was so lost without her, my life had no meaning at all. Life was bleak. A wasteland. Featureless and void.

One afternoon, I remember sitting, alone, on a low wall. Inside I felt an acheing emptiness. I was missing my Mum terribly. All of a sudden, she came up and grabbed me from behind. My joy lasted but a moment as a gasp of disappointment gave way to embarrassed apology. A lady I didn't know had mistaken me for her own little boy.

Strangely I remember that trivial little incident as one of the saddest of my whole life...

The misery really hit the proverbial fan when all was actually going well. My Dad was seeing more and more of Harriet, a lady I really liked and who genuinely cared for me -- or actually loved -- me and my brother unconditionally from the moment she became involved in our lives. Paul and I got on really well with Harriet's son, Jonathan. When teh whole lot of us were together, it was like the family I no longer had. At the same time, my Mum was seeing more and more of a man named Brian. She lived in a single-bedroom flat near Windsor, where Brian spent more and more time. Their bedroom door was always barricaded every morning. As if at ten years old I didn't know what that meant ....

One Friday night my Dad took me for a long walk. It was just like the walk he took me on when he told me he was getting divorced. Only this time the news was happy. He was marrying Harriet. I was delighted. The next day Paul and I went to stay with my Mum. When he was out playing she took me aside and told me she and Brian were getting married: would I like to come and live with them? I responded by bursting into tears. More than anything I wanted to be with my Mum. But I knew what circumstances were dictating. This was never going to happen now. So in the midst of all this happiness I was more miserable -- by far -- than I had ever been in my life...

The human mind has an odd way of playing tricks upon its owner. Rapidly I was distracted from my dilemma about who to tell what about living where:- a new crisis loomed. I became ill. Drying off after swimming (the only sport I've ever truly enjoyed) I encountered drops of water that would not pat dry under the towel. They were blisters. And as I fell ill with chicken pox my mind flipped out.

I became obsessed with the idea that I was dying of cancer. This had nothing to do with the chicken pox. To me, a ten year old, cancer was an illness with no specific symptoms, an invisible cause ("radiation") and you didn't know you had it till it was too late: you were dying.By my next visit to my Mum's I was already in a state: crying all the time. Convinced that a mole I had picked off my arm years before was now going to kill me. Looking around at the trees, the clouds, the sunshine on the river I mentally said goodbye to these things, knowing I wouldn't be with them for very much longer. What was the point, in fact, in living what little time I had left? All was meaningless. All was "vanity". Better to die now and have it over with. Why suffer the intermediate waiting-time of life? Death took everything. I would rather die now. And I was just ten.

It's the story of my life that when I've been in great distress it usually goes unnoticed. This was the case now. Although my Mum did say I was "a bit low" after I spent the entire weekend in floods of tears, nobody else seemed to notice me. Weddings came and went. Both parents got remarried the same weekend. Only my brother and I were not invited to my Mum's wedding. Sour grapes, I expect. My Mum and Brian thought they'd snookered my Dad into relinquishing custardy of Paul and me; obviously not having counted on his marriage which was coincidentally timed and no deliberate war-move in my divorced parents' ever-deteriorating relationship. Fate was playing awfully strange games with my future and I knew who I was meant to be with, knew where I was meant to go. Never having been brought up to speak my own mind I never had to chance to say where I really wanted to be -- with my Mum. Aside from the first time, nobody ever asked me. And besides, even if I had said it, who would have listened? What would have happened? Fate placed me with my Dad. Or, if you want a religious interpretation, God ensured I stayed with my Dad. I knew this at the time. Unhappy a I was, I knew there was no point in arguing, knew where life was taking me. It nearly killed me; but weeping and near-defeated by depression, I came compliantly along.

That was my nightmare.

Harriet and my Dad went to Spain. Jonathan also flew to Spain with his Dad who had coincidentally booked his summer hols ther months in advance. In the midst of all this excitement, my brother and I were left back in clement England, packed off to a kiddies' summer camp runy by my Dad's church. My mental state spiralled down and down. I spent all week at camp worrying about this cancer. An idiot grown-up had told me that worrying about it could actually bring on the disease. This was the coup de grace. A perfect vicious circle was set up. The more I worried, the more I convinced myself that my worrying had made me terminally ill. As far as I was concerned I was a walking corpse. As other kids whooped and yelled and had fun:: I withdrew. And worried. And worried ever more.

Back home I had a telling dream. Trying to tell my Mum I had this cancer, repeatedly - but she would not listen. Nobody paid any attention whatsoever until that morning when I woke up screaming.

My Mum assured me that she would never abandon me like that. (She already had done.) Harriet told me some people were "sensitive". She had been a "sensitive" little girl. But I was "extra sensitive". She kept asking why I was crying. But I had no answer. I was just very , very unhappy.

As September came, I went back to my last year of primary school. This was a year I spent obsessing, worrying. As cancer subsided, "germs" took over. Dirty hands. Contamination. Obsessed me. Nearly everything was unclean and not to be touched. Most especially money, which I refused to handle unless immediate handwashing facilities were available. Using the toilets at school or in public places was a particular ordeal. The taps were too dirty to touch and turn offwith my newly-washed hands so I often just left them on. The push-down variety I often pushed with my elbow. Even though I was pushing to wash clean, why contaminate any more than necessary (it was my hands I was bothered about; not my elbows). Remember those towel machines that ran a kind of eternal dishcloth in a loop? I had to pull this by the very top where it came out of the divice. Otherwise I was just touching a million other people's filthy germs ... And no way could I touch the door in any way except with my foot when I eventually was clean enough to leave. If I could not somehow manoevre it open with my foot, I had to wait for someone else to leave or enter and then make a run for it ...

Many years later I discovered the meaning of all this hypochondriaisis and obsessions. I was basically suffering from depression that evolved into obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). This OCD lasted two years and was severe enough that at winter-time my hands chaped up so bad from the repeated washing -- maybe 100 washes per day or more -- that they chapped and cracked open, esp. between the fingers, and bled.

Harriet salved them in olive oil and tied them into plastic bags each night, which helped me a lot. I defeated OCD only by sheer will. I didn't want not to be able to handle money, telephones, pens (especially other people's), cameras (they touched people's noses which were full of filthy snot...) Yes, I had it bad. But I did not want to be opening doors with my elbows for the rest of my life ...

My Dad recalls a time I was unwilling to take down a bottle of disinfectant from a dusty utility-room shelf because it was dirty. Some days I was scared even of handling the soap (because other people had touched it)...

Ever so gradually the symptoms receded and faded. I helped them along their way by going against the obsession. I.e. if I thought I would die because I'd trodden on the pavement cracks:: I put this to the test by treading on them deliberately. I wasn't so scared of dying anyhow...

I never got completely better, though. Depression came in repeated waves all throughout my teenage years. Kids at school (jokingly) called me a drug-addict when I was walking round in a daze. My stepbro once called me a dinosaur. He was right. Tho dinosaurs, I would expect, had keener reflexes than I did in those depression times.

Insomnia kicked in sometime in my mid-teens. I remember on adventure holiday, staying in a tent. Lying awake after a full days' strenuous activities - hillwalking, swimming etc etc. And I stayed awake till dawn.

Brian, my mother's husband, turned out to be a nasty, childish, domineering man. When, on alternate weekends, he drove us to our mother's house, car conversation turned into interrogation. He jibed at my Dad and Harriet, his church, our family, everything I and we stood for. And tried to make me answer for it. I hated him for this. Utterly loathed him. I had books about deadly toadstools and knew the one I would get him with: amanita phalloides -- the death cap. Most toxic fungus in the world. Give a low dose and death is more drawn-out and more painful. But death inexorably comes. I don't know why I didn't serve him this in his chicken and mushroom pie. Oh yes I do: because search as hard as I would (and I really did look) I never found anything stronger than a fly agaric Would I really have done it? Well I didn't, did I? I could have burned him alive in his bed but I didn't. Eventually I learned that hatred harms the hater far more than the one who's hated. So take my advice: chill out and love everybody. I know what I am talking about.

(RE: the toadstools --
Correction: I did once find a "panther" (amanita pantherina), which looks like fly agaric but with a greeny-grey cap. And that is fairly poisonous but I was too scared to touch it (doesn't that say everything?!). And wasn't at all sure it was fatally poisonous anyhow. So there you go ...)

...Of all the addicts, of all the junkies, saddos, psychos, nasty people and plain weirdos I have ever known before or since Brian came along, none has ever come anywhere close to making me feel as insulted, degraded, disrespected or injured as that man did. He loathed all my family stood for and he made his loathing plain. How I hated him!! He and my Mum bought us presents that we weren't allowed to take home. They took us out, bought us sweets, tried all they could to lure us away. But I just did not want to be in that sad man's presence.

After a year or more of this, the Court-Appointed Welfare Officer (a type of social worker) who had never listened to my point of view, set up a meeting with her and my mother where my mother put to me emphatically what she had only communicated through my Dad/etc before :: If I wanted to see her, I had to see Brian also. She knew I didn't want to see the Monster but she would not budge. So I had to sit there and say well then I don't want to see you then. I was thirteen years old when I chucked her out of my life. I never saw her again until I was nineteen.

And that, my friends, is my childhood.

American psychiatrists have said that abandonment by the mother predisposes the "patient" to all manner of downfalls in adult life. They also say that childhood misery hardwires the brain to a future of unhappiness. Maybe that's true for others. Maybe it's not. It's certainly true for me though ...

So that's it. That's me.

Not much of a story, but a lot for me.
I found a painkiller that has nearly killed me. Don't know which way I'd be better off sometimes, anyhow ...

Sorry if this is more boring than you expected but I wasn't going to jazz up the truth to make it any more delicious. I don't "blame" these things for anything ... having said that I was hung up on a lot of them for many years.

Well I don't know what else to say so I'm off to fetch some cyder.

Have a nice day!

And don't be nasty to children.

***

Here's a piece of music that came back from Spain & v much reminds me of a certain time. I had never seen the "video" before ...

Jeanette - Soy Rebelde

Brings back all manner of memories ...


***

A website I found just now, if anyone's interested: Paediatric Cancer "Blogging for a Cure" ...

***

24 comments:

Queenie said...

Ah babe ((((hugs)))), you know what I am so proud of you.
I know how hard it is to get things and thoughts down in black and white, you have been so strong (why don't grown ups listen to children?).
Your no miserable oak, belive me. Take care.

RUTH said...

Finally Gleds the story of "WHY"!!! Nothing any of us can do to change the past...only you can change your future. For now just one mighty big (senior citizen) {{{HUG}}} coming your way.
Rx

Audrey said...

Gledwood, Ive often visited and enjoyed what youve written, never left a comment till tonight..

They say the good thing about bad childhoods are that they end, this story was written by a man with a big heart..Youve come a long way, have more to offer than you perhaps believe, in spite of everything in your experience or perhaps because of everything in your experience. Your story is anything but boring, more very real and very moving. I admire your strength.

Dont know if youve ever heard of this man before, Ive attended training he runs, quite a guy..mini Billy Connoly thought you might like the link for your blog
http://www.roncolemanvoices.co.uk/
His work and training focusses on recovery and he is quite inspiring, on top of that he is a great laugh, small in stature, big in humour

Much strength to you and respect

junky said...

Gled I'll get to it I swear, I have to go to hospital to e with my Dad, alot that going around I guess.

Wayward Son said...

I know why adults do not listen to children. It is because they speak the truth. And as we all know by now the truth will slay you quicker than a speeding bullet.

Gleds, your a pretty amazing chap without the weight of a troubled childhood and an addiction to opiates. When you add those things to the mix you give Helen Keller a run for her money in the admiration department.

I'll end this postulation with this. Each of us has a troubling childhood as unique as our fingerprint yet it remains a common bond between us all as well as proof of our humanity.

WS

IVY said...

You really capture the morbidity of adolescence well. And while I'm sure there are many who can identify with some feelings of paranoia, thinking you have cancer, yours (obviously, as you noted and described) went really far. This eclipse into your mind ends like a music piece that stops mid phrase drifting into some sad lilt and slowly dissipating getting softer and softer... No angry confrontation between you and mom? Instead of getting angry you turned to depression and fear and anxious morbid thoughts. (When I was that age I too thought weird things like that for a long time but my parents helped me through that stage.) Without anybody to tell you the bedbugs were just that; and not just once but every nightl they became an evergrowing presence. How did this lead into heroin? What do you think about this now?

xxsnowyxx said...

Maybe sometimes i also got depression but i think that ur story is really a true example of what a bad childhood is. one day, happiness will come to you.

Edyta said...

Hey!
I have read your story, tell u the truth, i was kinda waiting for it :) U sure got to go through lots in your childhood. So did I. My parents also divorced. But i tend to forget the past.
Sure, those memories really DO hurt. SOmetimes i even have these visions back from the past. Just like that. Just like a movie. I see myself & other things that i have seen.
I think your mother just didnt want to admit that she made a mistake. Of course, I doubt that she would admit that to a child or teenager. I think she loved Brian so much & she thought he'd change & quit being so drastic.
I think she was afraid of MORE radical chages, u know?
Anyway, who am i to decide & judge.
Hope you feel fine & u r smiling now :)

Nicole said...

The one and only thing I don't get in any of this is why your mother married such a c*nt and I'm deeply saddened to hear what you've been through, what you're going through and sincerely wish you better days ahead.

Lone Grey Squirrel said...

You really had a tough time in your childhood. Yet the way you relate it shows that you've grown beyond those influences. Oak trees don't have to stay miserable. It all depends now if you keep staring at the ground or look up to the sky. You're doing well. Keep going, brother. God bless.

Little Lamb said...

There you go. I always said divorce is harder on the kids than the adults. You proved it.

My parents never divorced but I was afraid tbey would one day.

IVY said...

??? NO ANSQQQER

IVY said...

NOOO ANSWER JOHHNNY APPLESEED

Deb said...

Gled, your story really touched me...so much of it is similar to my own.

I don't delve into it on my blog (because my kids read it). But I really understand the pain in your entry here...and the OCD/depression (which I've battled also!!...to the point that my hands bled in the cracks too). And to think, now I have to handle money all day long...it's still pretty yucky, but I keep hand sanitizer in the drawer!

From what you've described re your aching for your mother - Linds is experiencing that now with her father. I'm quite sure that her very deep rooted depression is linked to their relationship. When we separated, he wasn't available much for her and she longed to be "Daddy's little girl". The sadness that you've described is exactly what I see in her now.

Remember the old adage, "children should be seen and not heard"?....it's crap as far as I'm concerned. If children are not heard, it all goes inward and stays with them, gnawing on the insides. Sometimes I really think it's the adults that need stifling.

I just think you turned out to be a wonderful human being, despite your upbringing. I'm so sad for the little boy in you. You, my friend, are wonderful to share this. And I agree with Queenie...no miserable Oak here. Just a beautiful weeping willow maybe.

(I heard a good saying the other day: "Anger is only one letter away from danger". I thought it made perfect sense)

Take care gleds. You're alright by me.

XO

Gledwood said...

Ivy I did answer your query yesterday ("not well" ...) I said it is all in the past. I.e. I DON'T really think about it. It wasn't really that this lead into heroin (though heroin appealed because it was deadly and I sought a means of suicide/overdose) ... also heroin was forbidden and thus intensely glamorous to me. Especially during a time in the 1990s when snorty cocaine was getting v popular with all classes of society - people thought they were so cool doing it and yet heroin was tabboo so the heroin appealed in that way ...

Really the problem with heroin wasn't that any of this childhood stuff directly LEAD to heroin but once I'd found heroin I never wanted to leave the insulated hibernating cocoon it put me in ... does that make sense?

Gledwood said...

& thanks very much for your support everyone

ggirl said...

Well, you know about OCD. Aren't you aware that depression is mostly chemical? Do you not know that insomnia is a symptom of depression? You're engaging in self medicating. They have so many ways to treat depression now that are far more effective, without major side effects.

The minute you mentioned your mom's new boyfriend, I knew he was going to be an asshole. Furthermore, you didn't "chuck" your mom. She made a choice. She chose Brian. That's her responsibility. It has absolutely nothing to do with you.

As for abandonment leading to many other problems, I suppose that's true. I also know that people have a certain range of happiness or unhappiness that they're born with. You can make a few adjustments, but unfortunately, you are what you are. (I get to say this because I have chronic depression, too.) You were probably hardwired already. Of course, Mom was a major contributor to enhancing that predisposition.

I also have reasons, some genetic, some the result of bad bad childhood:
(http://ggirl.tblog.com/archive/2004/09/)
I am who I am and ever will be. (However, I just got a new med--Lamictal--and the world is a much sunnier place.)

I'm so sorry for your childhood sadness, Gled. I understand how it goes. Take care.

IVY said...

Yea, I guess. I didnt know you answered it before. I didnt see where. Still dont. Oh well. So your answer is the two are separate. Okay.

Women on the Verge said...

Gleds-

Ruth , as usual, is very wise... nothing can be done about the past, we only have control over the future. I hope that by writing this all down it will have a cathartic effect and you will be able to put it firmly where it belongs... in the past. You've got an amazing mind gleds, and take it from the mom of a very bright kid, the brightest kids are usually the most sensitive because they can see all the possibitities in any situation... they're the 6 yr olds who worry about overpopulation and global warming. Sounds to me like you were one of those kids...
*Hugs and kisses* from one of your cyber-moms

Ethel

Gledwood said...

Ggirl, I was just thinking about what you said, the brain is chemical so it follows that depression is very chemical as well ...

V interesting point you made ...

Gledwood said...

Sorry I didn't answer everyone individually I wasn't trying to be rude or nothing. Just there was a lot to think about!!

Debs you made some v good points too.

Gledwood said...

How are you Ethel? I hope you're OK. I know you weren't well lately.

6 year olds should not be tearing themselves to pieces about the state of the world. It's not fair.

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I WANT OFF METHADONE AS QUICK AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE!

METHADONE ~ A FATE WORSE THAN DEATH







Heroin Shortage: News

If you are looking for the British Heroin Drought post, click here; the latest word is in the comments.







Christiane F

"Wir, Kinder vom Bahnhoff Zoo" by "Christiane F", memoir of a teenage heroin addict and prostitute, was a massive bestseller in Europe and is now a set text in German schools. Bahnhoff Zoo was, until recently, Berlin's central railway station. A kind of equivalent (in more ways than one) to London's King's Cross... Of course my local library doesn't have it. So I'm going to have to order it through a bookshop and plough through the text in German. I asked my druggieworker Maple Syrup, who is Italiana how she learned English and she said reading books is the best way. CHRISTIANE F: TRAILER You can watch the entire 120-min movie in 12 parts at my Random blog. Every section EXCEPT part one is subtitled in English (sorry: but if you skip past you still get the gist) ~ to watch it all click HERE.

To See Gledwood's Entire Blog...

DID you find my blog via a Google or other search? Are you stuck on a post dated some time ago? Do you want to read Gledwood Volume 2 right from "the top" ~ ie from today?
If so click here and you'll get to the most recent post immediately!

Drugs Videos

Most of these come from my Random blog, which is an electronic scrapbook of stuff I thought I might like to view at some time or other. For those who want to view stuff on drugs I've collected the very best links here. Unless otherwise stated these are full-length features, usually an hour or more.

If you have a slow connexion and are unused to viewing multiscreen films on Youtube here's what to do: click the first one and play on mute, stopping and starting as it does. Then, when it's done, click on Repeat Play and you get the full entertainment without interruption. While you watch screen one, do the same to screens 2, 3 and so on. So as each bit finishes, the next part's ready and waiting.

Mexican Black Tar Heroin: "Dark End"

Khun Sa, whose name meant Prince Prosperous, had been, before his death in the mid 2000s, the world's biggest dealer in China White Heroin: "Lord of the Golden Triangle"

In-depth portrait of the Afghan heroin trade at its very height. Includes heroin-lab bust. "Afghanistan's Fateful Harvest"

Classic miniseries whose title became a catchphrase for the misery of life in East Asian prison. Nicole Kidman plays a privileged middle-class girl set up to mule heroin through Thai customs with the inevitable consequences. This is so long it had to be posted in two parts. "Bangkok Hilton 1" (first 2 hours or so); "Bangkok Hilton 2" (last couple of hours).

Short film: from tapwater-clear H4 in the USA to murky black Afghan brown in Norway: "Heroin Addicts Speak"

Before his untimely death this guy kept a video diary. Here's the hour-long highlights as broadcast on BBC TV: "Ben: Diary of a Heroin Addict". Thanks to Noah for the original link.

Some of the most entertaining scenes from Britain's top soap (as much for the poor research as anything else). Not even Phil Mitchell would go from nought to multi-hundred pound binges this fast: "Phil Mitchell on Crack" (just over 5 minutes).

Scientist lady shows us how to cook up gear: "How Much Citric?" Lucky cow: her brown is 70% purity! Oddly we never see her actually do her hit... maybe she got camera shy...

And lastly:

German documentary following a life from teenage addiction to untimely death before the age of 30. The decline in this girl's appearance is truly shocking. "Süchtig: Protokoll einer Hilflosigkeit". Sorry no subtitles; this is here for anyone learning German who's after practice material a little more gripping than Lindenstraße!































Nosey Quiz! Have you ever heard voices when you weren't high on drugs?

Manic Magic

Manic Magic

Gledwood Volume 2: A Heroin Addict's Blog

Copyright 2011 by Gledwood