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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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!

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

In which Gledwood says some more ratty things then tries to change the subject in order not to be too dismal

I WAS TRYING NOT TO SLEEP in order to reset my sleep pattern. It didn't really work because I ended up really tired lying in bed, woken by two people on my idiot phone, neither of whom I wanted to deal with. So I didn't deal with one and did deal with the other. Both probably wanted to borrow money but I don't mind lending it: I get it back next week ~ meaning I cannot spend it between now and then ~ and all is fine and dandy.

I missed the Horror Recovery Group Meeting this morning as I couldn't face it. Couldn't face the world. Couldn't face anything. I told my friend I was a manic-depressive and he said "yes, I know". I have been told I was bipolar since the mid 90s but I never believed my friends' diagnonsense. What did they know except having a mother and a sister with the disorder in one case, actually having it in another, and having spent over a decade in various mental units with depressive schizoaffective in the third. Most experienced nutters can not only spot another nutter at one hundred paces, but usually distinguish what flavour of madness they are customized by. And probably have a better grasp than doctors on what is real, what is exaggeration, what's a lie and what lurks hidden. Because mental states are far from straightforward. I call myself a manic-depressive now as I fit the descriptions in Emil Krapaelin's 1920 classic Manic-Depressive Insanity and Paranoia for "delusional mania" (though I was hallucinating heavily, not delusional as such), even "delirious mania" (when you get so excited you go into frenzy and automatic behaviour takes over. This is when I was so out of it I was losing the ability to speak English and this is why the neighbours gave me a wide berth for weeks afterwards. Because I expressed what I felt. Loudly. And what I felt was loud, loud NOISE in my head. Like a road drill of manic euphoria perseverating through me. It's quite depressing to know you have gone mad and yes I will talk about it again because it's an issue still ongoing, still unresolved and not being treated. The one bit of consolation I found in that book was that I'm not the only one to have been depressed enough into believing ~ or more to the point, feeling that no method of suicide would ever kill me; that I was immortal. That even when I did finally submit to that train, I would lie by the trackside cold, wet and naked and in pain with trains rushing past me for ever afterwards.

This is what Kraepelin writes about "fantastic melancholia" (page 93)

The ideas of annihilation, alredy indicated in the foregoing pages, may experience a further, wholly nonsensical elaboration. The patient has no longer a name, a home, is not born, does not belong at all to the world any more, is no longer a human being, is no longer here, is a spirit, an abortion, a picture, a ghost, just only a sort of shape. He cannot live and he cannot die; he must hover about so, remain in the world eternally, is as old as the world, has been already a hundred years here. If he is beaten with an axe on his head, if his breast is cut open, if he is thrown into the fire, he still cannot be killed. "I cannot be buried any more," said a patiet, "when I sit down on the weighing machine, it shows zero!" The world has perished; there are no longer railways, towns, money, beds, doctors; the sea runs out. All human beings are dead, "poisoned with antitoxic serium," burned, dead of starvation, because there is nothing more to eat, because the patient has stuffed everything down into his enormous stomatch, and has drunk the water-pipes empty. No-one eats or sleeps any more; the patient is the only being of flesh and blood, is alone in the world.

I used to be obsessed with the idea that The End Was Nigh. That only suffering and death awaited us. That Armageddon was coming soon. And let's face it, something is drastically wrong with the world so there's some truth in that feeling (and these were feelings, not "delusions" that I had). I'm quoting the book at some length because finally, at long last, I find I'm not the only one to have thought the way I have thought, to have felt the way I have felt.

And people wonder why I continued taking heroin!!

The only food I can bear to eat these days is live yogurt. So my insides are very clean indeed. I felt as though I had no sense of humour at all this morning. But a couple of drinks and a shot of heroin cured that. The day is now tolerable. I don't know what I would do without my drugs. And I do want to live without drugs, no matter what you feel on the matter: I know. I only find it so difficult because my motives are mixed. Like I said I want to die clean. I want to die. We all want to die sometimes. Old people ill in hospital want to die. Young people, lost and abused, often want to die. We all want death at some time. Addicts are famous for their unwillingness to live life on life's terms. It's not death they're scared of: it's LIFE. So when I say I want to live, I'm not lying. My problem is, I just don't know how to. It would be so much easier to die. And the lower you go, the more death seems like the only sensible option. I've heard suicide described as an escape from pain. But I think if I killed myself I would be doing the world a favour. I'm only a drain on the state for money. I am a manic-depressive junkie ~ and this is the point I was making earlier on when I got distracted. A manic-depressive junkie. The lowest of the low.

Maybe that's why heroin addicts invariably crave death while undergoing withdrawal. Even the supposedly gentle taper at detox units is enough to induce severe melancholia in the susceptible. Ie me. Which is what annoys me about an African nurse, who has no experience at all of opiate addiction and probably none of mental illness telling me with a wide smile that the detox and rehab group session would be really good for me. This clinic I have no option but to go to, really sucks. I am never listened to. There is no dialogue. I wish the staff would do what they're effectively paid to do. Dispense methadone scripts and let you go home. The NHS could save a great deal of money if they would only install a swipe-card activated machine on the wall. It could spit out our scripts and then let us go our own way to sort out our own lives. The way we have to do, every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week that we are not in this clinic with its bullshitty group therapy and Nazi nurses.

You know why Buta was angry with me the other week? Because I came in, stone cold sober but zombified. I don't know whether I was depressed or not but all I did was act the way I felt. And I know now what that bitch assumed. That I'd been using gear. So she was persecuting me for being ill. Doing something no kinder than tipping a man out of his wheelchair and trampling all over him. That's what she was doing to me and I would love to be Christian and forgive her for it, but I never can trust her again. I always knew this clinic's agenda was to cut me off the methadone on the highest dose possible, to do all they can do to push me into suicide. That is what they are about. That is what they're there for. I want to make a formal complaint about them to the local Health Authority. If racist and homophobic language is forbidden, so should persecution of the sick be, and that's what they're doing to me. If I'm not sick then I'm simply a wastrel and I should die. This is the truth of the matter.

I need to get OUT Of this fascist drug clinic and ideally into one that is privately run. Or else I'll just get my script cut down as swiftly as possible because I would rather be off methadone and ill than on it and ill. I'm going to feel ill whatever way; whether I actually am ill or not.

Then I need to write all these amazing books. Problem with writing about myself is what you read here and what you've read for days. It puts me in a bad sour and aggrieved mood because I do not like myself. But I don't mind writing about other things. I never intended to be a memoirist though I did consider penning memoirs to make cash. What I'm doing now is following a passion of mine and writing for children. I looked around the kiddies' section of WH Smith, the major bookseller in the UK (though they actually sell more stationery and magazines than books). I looked through the childrens' books of the ilk I want to write. And was disgusted on the one hand and heartened on the other that NOBODY appeared to be writing anything remotely similar to my ideas. Nobody at all. So the field is wide open. I have bovver boots at the ready and I'm willing to give this nasty world what it fully deserves: I'm going to KICK IT'S FUCKING HEAD IN. Long as my book achieves sales into eight figures I'll be happy. What am I saying: nothing will make me happy, I know that. But I'm angry enough to be all loving and kind and spin enchanting webs of mystery and illumination for the inner child in us all and to spin this luscious entertainment forever on in glorious ever changing forms like shadow puppets playing the Play of All Ages against the wall.OK so I’m bracing myself again. To kick the world’s head in yet again. O Gledwood just write this fucking thing and stop fretting about it. All I can think is how I’m not going to children’s schools, not giving interviews. I think I’ll be like Lemony Snicketts or the other one and be a recluse. Better to put your energies into producing masterpieces than to do the rounds of primary schools full of screaming brats. Ukh. And can you imagine what the parents would think if they knew the author of this amazing non-wizard-oriented book was a dirty HEROIN ADDICT? Ukh! Beyond the pale!

Well I’ve said enough. Sorry this is a ratty post. Maybe I should start blogging about the world in general or just anything else bar my self self self; know what I mean?... Will anybody ever comment or are my posts now un-comment¬¬¬¬-on-able...?


unreleased "official short film" accompanying the track...



Anna Grace said...

Gledwood I feel the same as you do. I hang on to one little stand of life that might make me happy, such as my book comming out, now its to see the sales in September. In a way I feel imortal too, I fear I wont die in my suicide, that I'll just relive it over and over. That the brain never really dies, and just repeats endlessly your death.

I litteraly HATE the sun! Its not suited for my mood. I'm down mostly.

I like you self, self, self posts. Please don't stop writing about yourself.


Gledwood said...

Yeah but afterwards I think WHAT did I put o man what did I say and how much of it did I really mean (or would I really mean now, that's the point) I only post what flies through my head in the moment.

Isn't it totally boring?

Yes I had this constant fear that I wouldn't really die. I wouldn't say it was a delusion, it was a recurrent idea that tormented me. I had another idea that I was meant to die though, so I don't know what I thought, I just had these ideas. I didn't realize they were common ideas.

I much prefer winter to summer. I often prefer night to day. I prefer being awake alone at night. There's nothing else I'm "supposed" to be doing because I can't do it; it's night. So that's what I do, sometimes. I wish something would make me happy no drugs any more I'm ashamed to have said so very much about drugs. Totally ashamed. That's why I never wanted to be a drugs writer. I knew I could write about drugs but thought I would never get away from them if I did.

I hope you're OK. OK as can be. Yknow...................xx



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