Blogger, Student, addict.

Dear Reader,

As you may have noticed in the title, one of the three words listed above is a bit unusual. The truth is, I am 20 and alongside being a (rookie) blogger and a (sort of) student (I’ll address that later), I am an addict.

I have been an addict for as long as I can remember. It all boils down to having a bit (understatement of the year) of an addictive personality. The type of addict I am means that I work in binges: so, I can function without needing to give in to my addiction for a while, but eventually I will snap and need to get my fix.

A fix of what, though?

Well, it started out with bubblegum. When I was a kid, I would pretty much buy strawberry hubba bubba in bulk and binge on it until I felt sick, and then not touch the stuff until months had passed and I was hit with another craving.

Then it moved onto alcohol. I found out that I liked feeling the effects of alcohol when I was a young teenager. I could binge on alcohol, and get absolutely plastered without having any signs of a hangover. This was dangerous though, as I quickly became psychologically addicted to it, and binged on it at weird times- including mid-week mornings and alone in my room after lights out. Often I would binge on it so much I would become physically dependent on it and would get the shakes in the morning before school.

Then along came drugs. I had dabbled with legal highs and solvents before even having drunk alcohol, but my “hard” drug addiction emerged in my later teenage years. It started out in a pretty textbook manner: I smoked weed with my friends, and eventually, I started taking harder things, and then harder things on my own.

By 19, I was addicted to cocaine. I would binge on it over the course of a few days, and then somehow be able to leave it alone for a short while, until I would come crawling back to it.

By 20, I was addicted to methamphetamine. Again, I would binge on it like there was no tomorrow (and at the rate I was going at, it often felt like there wouldn’t be). I managed to completely quit everything for a while, but my addiction thrives off chaos, and I started to use again when things got tough in my personal life.

What about the student part?

Well, was a student. I was a student in a Russell group university, and my grades were (miraculously) quite good. But my University had to ask me to leave to sort myself out. There weren’t really any other viable options, and I am so grateful to them for giving me this amazing opportunity to sort myself out and then return as a clean and sober 21 year old.

But the thing is, I do actually have to return as a clean and sober 21 year old. 

Fancy joining me on my journey?

Much love,


“Kick you out? That’s the last thing we’d do.”

I could be kicked out. I might not be, but under the right conditions, I could be. 

My mother told me today that it came up in conversation while I was away the topic of kicking out people’s children and the lengths people have to go to to get kicked out. 

There was, following this revelation, no consolation that this would of course never happen to me. There was no, “oh, but don’t worry, we’d never do that.” I was denied a “no need to worry”, leaving me with, therefore, a need to worry.

What the fuck? Why do I even bother? They are having conversations like this and it could get there at one point if I fuck it up enough, it doesn’t make me feel particularly fucking secure at all.

And I’ve put a spin on it, apparently. I have twisted it, so that I am making it sound like they actively want to kick me out. No. I know they are not going to kick me out right now, they are not thinking about kicking me out, they have not been thinking about kicking me out. I am fully aware of these things. 

The thing that is making me angry is how my mum doesn’t understand what I am trying to say, and thinks I am twisting it, which as I have explained earlier, I am not.

The thing that is scaring me is how it is the last thing they’d do…but it’s still on the list.

1 week clean.

And somehow, I woke up today not feeling angry. I didn’t want to waste my money on drugs. I didn’t want to shout at the world. I felt free from the desire to use.

I’m sitting on a train in London and it somehow feels easy right now. I’m aware that it isn’t always going to be like this, but I have to find a way to protect my future self while I still feel this strong.

What can I do to help the version of myself that desperately wants to use? What can I do to stop the me in the future from cutting a line and snorting it through a McDonald’s straw cut into three? How can I stop the future Helena from going and buying a bag of gear and smoking it in my friend’s flat?

I need to be tactical.

Watch this space.


One relapse, please.

There’s so much pressure to stay clean and I hate it. My life has suddenly transformed literally overnight to listening to my mother connect dots that just aren’t there. I hear her say how its so good I’ve finally stopped, how she is so proud I am back to normal and come to my senses after all this time, how I am back to being myself.

It has been 6 days since I stopped and I know I am going to use again. I cannot deal with the world. It is so FUCKING boring. 

My day consists of eating a pint of ice cream while watching Keeping up with the Kardashians, going for a walk and listening to the same Mamma Mia soundtrack songs on repeat and going to buy a chocolate frappuccino from Starbucks, cleaning my already immaculate room and then sitting in it patiently waiting for time to pass. I also sleep to pass the time, and in the summer heat, it is alarmingly easy to drift off.

I long for that excitement in my life- the numbing of my mouth and tongue and gums and the rush of energy that’s like nothing else. The creativity that unlocks itself and the wave of euphoria that hits me like an overweight elephant running like it fucking stole something.

I cannot process how my mum thinks that after 6 days I can be ‘back to my old self’. It has been 6 days. 6 DAYS. 

Let me live!

I’m addicted to crack

Yes, you read the title right. And although crack isn’t technically physically addictive (that is to say, smoke it enough and your body will never become dependent on it), it is psychologically addictive, to the absolute max.

And stupid, stupid me decided it might be a good idea to smoke a lot of it, and now I can’t stop.

Alongside crack I am also doing coke upwards of 25 times a day. If you, faithful reader, can recall my post where I tracked how many times in one day I did cocaine (23 I think?) you’ll know that this number is not completely ridiculous.

The thing is, and I really don’t know how to put this, is that I am such a middle class addict.

I love smoking crack, and listening to the Mamma Mia soundtrack, and singing along with the wonderful Meryl Streep. I love waking up, doing the first line of cocaine for the day that I laid out the night before as my wake up line, and getting in the shower and using imperial leather shower gel. I thoroughly enjoy going for long walks in the neighbourhood and chatting to neighbours, going for cups of tea with friends and going to the cinema…whilst on cocaine. I make an excuse to leave for a moment and pop off to the loo and make a lovely little line and snort it up my nose. It’s this scary gangster rap drug, but actually for me it just isn’t like that. It’s not scary. Cocaine is not evil; crack is not bad. To me they are simply ways to function at a higher level, to either chill out or to be on my game.

It gets dark when I don’t do it. The walls start closing in and I feel so weak, lightheaded and angry. The world is not my friend any more. I feel bitter, and, almost like a jilted lover, seek my revenge on the world for daring to break my tired heart.

It’s amazing, safe, fun, exciting, necessary, required, desperate, maddening, awful and horrific all at once. And I can’t stop.

I’m not eating.

I’m not eating. 

This evening at dinner, I ate alone in the kitchen, with my coat on. I had lined my pockets with plastic bags and put the food in there. I put the plastic bags in a ziplock bag and went out for a walk. I put the ziplock bag outside my house and returned my coat (it is a hot day so a coat would make me dizzy). I put the bags in a public bin.

I cannot explain why I am not eating. It is an addiction perhaps, or an obsession, a hobby, a habit, a ritual, a sacred ritual. I don’t know. All I know is to count calories and pounds I lose and think of the number that represents who I am. 

I am 175.5cm, and 139 pounds. My BMI is 20.1 and that irritates me.

It’s a peculiar feeling, hunger. It grows on me, in every sense of the word.