I just took speed on a public train

It’s base, so it’s kind of dampy-wet-sludgy speed that arrived in the post this fine morning, delivered by my postman, who, coincidentally happens to attend my drink/drug addiction clinic group on a Wednesday. And yes, I bought it off the dark web, I know, I know, it’s very illegal and dangerous, but while I’m not being good, I am being careful.

I am on the train, I feel the pull.

That oh, so familiar feeling. The warm excitement and feeling giddy with how very ok everything will be soon.

I covered the baggie of drugs with my wallet to move it into the larger, main part of my backpack. Opening it quietly with both hands inside my bag, I scraped up some speed with my long metallic nails that were bought from Claire’s accessories when I still had money to my name. Using another nail I scraped the speed off from the underside of my index fingernail to the surface of my thumbnail, and quickly and subtly put it in my mouth and licked it off. I could feel the cold, near-solid mush sitting on the tip of my tongue in a ball, and it was starting to dissipate so I quickly drank water as if I were swallowing a slushy pill.

On a different train later in my journey, about 10 minutes later, the speed hit me like a fucking rhino, and I had to hold onto the yellow handrail to prevent myself from falling over.

And that, my friends, is the story of the time I took speed on a moving, very public, train.

Stay sane,


I did coke with a 14 year old.​

Unfortunately, this isn’t clickbait.

I was in a grassy park somewhere on my travels and my naughty friends were swimming in the river (I don’t know if we were allowed to or not, and it made me paranoid about getting into trouble…) They were darting across the cool water, floating along with the current from the weir. It was wonderfully dangerous and gave me intense anxiety and excitement simultaneously.

I was sitting on the bank next to the best-friend-of-the-girlfriend-of-my-friend’s-friend’s-son, and we were giggling together, talking about everything and nothing. I had coke on me, and I was having one of my rare moments when I was feeling generous, and so with the girlfriend-of-somebody and her best friend, we cut up lines by the bank, on the grass, by a path, in a public park, and snorted my cocaine right then and there.

I got rather sunburned sitting in the park all afternoon, doing line after bittersweet line in the fading sun. We went back to the flat I was staying in together, I was too hot and needed to have some time indoors. We did a bit more coke and then started talking about deep stuff, and it turned out this girl who I had spent the afternoon with, who I had talked about our years of sexual experience, who I had smoked with, who I had done cocaine with…was fucking 14.

After discovering this, I told her to go back to the park. I didn’t do any more coke with her. I got my things together and curled up in my bed. And then after having a very quiet cry to myself, I got up the next day and went to an NA meeting and bore my soul to my micro world.

Addiction is cunning and deceptive, but today I realised that addiction is heartbreaking. How can a 14 year old be onto coke already? I was using at 14, but she has already had years under her belt, using hard drugs.

Praying for her, and other addicts,


I’m hearing voices…seriously.

I’m in my friends flat away from home, and I’ve been up misbehaving all night, and I am sitting on my bed in the spare room…and I can hear so many people chattering away, it’s bizarre.

I can’t tell if it’s the sound of water running or if it is a person talking. The sounds are outside of my head; I know it’s always important with hearing voices to clarify whether they’re internal or external voices. Mine are external. They sound like they’re coming from all around me, in the air.

It’s not dramatic like it is in films, it’s not hushed whispers building in volume for the camera to zoom in on the protagonist for their ‘scream shot’. It’s just little me, in my room, with some other people talking in the dark around me. I can’t actually make out what they’re saying. I hear bits of words…almost like they’re talking in that language they have on that computer game (the Sims, I remember now).

I don’t like it.

Oh, it’s quietened down now. That’s nice.


The highs aren’t as high, but the lows are so, so low.

It’s hell, living here in my head.

White doesn’t even get me high any more. It’s like this eternal “oh just one more hit will get me there”, chasing this unreachable high that never comes, like tomorrow. It’s tormenting me.

My nose is totally fucked. I can see all the way up it and it doesn’t feel like nose any more. It feels too soft and squishy on the inside, and yet strangely dry. Mercifully on the outside it looks relatively normal, there is dry blood around the nostrils and they are subtly deformed in shape under certain lights. But I know it won’t be long until it gets really mashed up.

People ask me, “Why are you doing this? Do you even want to stop?!”

Oh boy. Would I love to stop. I would do anything to stop. There are moments in my addiction where would practically sign off my first born child if only it meant that I could be free of this horrendous illness. (And yes, it is an illness).

I want to stop so much, but it’s so hard. It’s almost too hard. When the world caves in, and my mood swings kick off the one thing that is a constant is drugs. It’s terribly sad to say this, but sometimes it feels like they’re my only friend in the world. They take away the pain like nothing else. They give me ecstasy in a world full of agony.

And I know how bad they are. I know that they’re slowly killing me, my relationships, my future and my academic career. But the fact that, despite knowing all of this, I still continue to do this to myself, exposes how potent the grip of addiction can truly be.

I have every faith I can get clean one day. One day very soon. I want to quit by choice, not circumstance. And I’m so nearly ready, but like every addict, I’m looking for that one last time.

And like tomorrow, it’s never going to come.

Hi, here’s another cocaine themed poem for you to enjoy

This beautiful piece of art was composed

At a time when cocaine has been up my nose

My mouth is numb and sore are my gums

The teeth they tingle, my dry nose won’t run

Everything is intense

Everything makes sense

Everything is so crystal clear

Everything is…almost perfect.

My eyes are alert and my hands both shake

My pulse has rocketed and my mind is awake

To music I listen, new sounds I do christen

Like nothing I’ve ever heard before

My mouth feels like candy floss

My self loathing, heartbreak and loss

Has melted into clarity and

Everything is…almost perfect.

My IQ has soared and there’s a novel in me

My trappings are gone and my spirit is free

I am the God to whom you bow and pray

So I pray to myself, “let this feeling stay”.

I glance at the time

I’ve reached my decline

Everything was…almost perfect.

Tell me…

Where is the bag and my cards and my straw?

Line after line and I’ll always want more.

Look at me now and you’ll look through a ghost.

But I have cocaine and it’s perfect. Almost.

I’ve accidentally lost a stone

When I was in rehab my weight was 156 pounds, which is 11.1 stone, or 70kg.

I weighed myself yesterday. I am currently hitting 142 pounds, which is 10.1 stone, or 64kg.

Where did the weight go? How can I not have noticed it slipping away? And how can I still not see that it has gone?

The scales are telling me one thing but my brain is telling me another.

I have an ongoing eating disorder and have had one since I was 8, which sounds ridiculously young but that’s just how it panned out. I cannot see myself losing weight, I don’t realise that my habits are unhealthy and I love (and I mean really love) when the number on the scales goes down.

It’s a bit weird because when I take drugs I actually am unable to physically eat anything. I become so aggressively un-hungry that I can’t bear to eat. So I have to pretend that I am eating, and I get lots of chocolate bars and snacks and throw away the food inside and keep the wrappers so it looks like I have eaten, so that when a meal time comes around, I can say I am “full”.

It’s quite fucked up, and I hate how I have to do this. I hate the lying, and the deception, and how bad the lows feel in between the highs. I hate who I become when I’m in between hits, I hate how much it hurts me, how much it hurts my darling mum, my dad, my brothers and my friends. I hate having to snort drugs to feel human for a short while, and I hate how I can’t stop no matter how hard I try.

I will get this one day though, mark my words. When I use, I used to think it freed me from my human prison. When I get clean though, then I’ll be truly free.

Plodding on,