PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE

Hello, and thanks for dropping by.  You might already know that the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can also buy this as an ebook by searching the title on amazon.  If you do, I would be really grateful for a review - there are three already, and another would be good.  As for now, this blog is the frequent musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green, your loyal blogger, and ex-drug-addict, or something like that.  And here is today's helping...

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE

Possibly one of my favourite clichés, though I don't have many.

I find it hard to believe that some people are more intrinsically impatient than others.  I'm pretty sure that I have been, at different times in my life, both very patient, and utterly impulsive.  I can remember, for example, studying hard and long for my exams at school, knowing that each rereading of my notes would only perhaps instil another small fact, or half-fact, into my mind, and that perhaps only for a few hours or so.  But I plugged away, doggedly some might say, hoping that something would come of this repeated behaviour, over the months ahead.  Equally, I can remember, with scary recentness, my inability to abstain from crack for, literally, minutes, let alone hours or days and beyond.  Now, I see both these states of being as choices, at some level, rather than expressions of 'who I was'.

If it wasn't me choosing to score crack, regardless of the consequences, then who was it, what was it?  It certainly wasn't, in my view, a 'disease' that dictated my conduct until such time that I 'surrendered' to it, and followed the 'suggestions' in my twelve-step guide.  Yes, there is wisdom in such books, I do believe, but there is also fantasy, perhaps born of the early 20th-century American form of Christianity that informed, and still informs, the books of AA, NA, and the other 'anonymous fellowships'.  I chose to study, and continue styding for my exams, I chose to score crack, and smoke it, knowing how I would feel after.

I guess it's important, for me at least, right now, to express and acknowledge this, because I can look back on my using as a 'special time', i.e. a time where normal rules didn't apply, like when the laws of physics go awry on the event horizon of a black hole.  No, they were not special in any sense other than they were a time when I was using, against my better judgment, maybe, but using because I chose to - because, if I didn't chose, who, or what, did?  And there's this Ockham's Law thing, isn't there, which promotes the notion of choosing the most likely answer to any conundrum, until such time that something else becomes the most likely answer.

Perhaps this sounds like waffle, but at least I know now that I can't blame anything much for that fact, apart from the fact that I have chosen to write this, chosen not to reread it, and chosen to risk the fact that you, and even I, at a later date, might call it waffle.  If it is, then at least I've only wasted ten minutes of my time, compared with ten-plus years wasted on crack, and its consequences.  How much of your time have I wasted?  I choose not to answer that.

And that is all I have to say today.  Thank you for reading.  See you soon, I hope.

Oh, and this is a song I chose to write:  I'm Too Tired To Kill You

BEWILDERNESS

Hi, thanks for dropping in.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog (Jan to April 2013) are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict'.  You can read it here, or buy the ebook on amazon if you prefer.  If you do, please leave a review, because all feedback is appreciated.  From then on, this blog is the frequent musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here is today's muesli...

 

 

BEWILDERNESS

Some months clean from crack, and in reasonable mental health (as far as I can tell), I find myself as bewildered now as I was in the depths of my addiction.

Only two years ago, roughly to the day, I was using as compulsively, and dangerously as ever I did.  I can clearly remember a day when my mum came to visit, and I contrived to squeeze a tenner out of her by the most outlandish means.  I already had fifteen, but wanted twenty-five, so I could, on her departure, go round the corner and get two bits of crack and a poxy five-pound bit of heroin.  There was I, and my mum, when I went into the bathroom, texted a using associate, asking her to ring me in a minute and ask for a tenner that I 'owe' her.  I did this so as when I returned into the living-room, where my mum was, my phone would go, I'd pick it up, and have the live call from Kashka, requesting the tenner.  It was such a childish, petty, and contrived deception that when I think about it now, I wonder if I'm still that person, if I would still do such a thing.  I like to think I wouldn't (unless I was using, of course, and then all bets would probably be off).  But the call came, I pretended in front of my mum that Kashka was asking for the money, even putting her on to my mum, to confirm the request, adding that her partner, Gregory, hadn't been working for a bit, and so the money was needed.

My mum, about 80 at this point, gave me the tenner, checking with concern that I would take it round to them as soon as she left, and wouldn't misappropriate it.  I assured her I'd take it safely round.  Then, when she left, as soon as her train pulled out of the station, I almost raced to Kashka's place to spend my twenty-five quid.  This felt as compulsory, as natural, considering the context, as breathing.  My stomach was churning about for about an hour before she left, and I had to go to the loo once or twice, and then, when she left, I couldn't get away quick enough.  Needless to say, my twenty-five quid lasted me about half an hour, with an inadequate cushioning provided by the smudge of heroin to follow.

Now, after months of faltering progress, I'm in the fortunate position of not feeling, or behaving like that.  But I'm as bewildered about this as I was about being in such a state.  Years passed, with me using compulsively at the very moment money dropped into my account, regardless of the danger, or consequences.  I might struggle a bit, as an overture to using, but my head would be an agonising haze, my gut in turmoil, and I knew I was going to use, whether it was in one hour, or two.  Now, by no means 'out of the wood', I am beginning to get up in the morning, not even thinking about whether it's a 'money day' or not, without having to hope against hope that, somehow, I wouldn't use that day (knowing, however, that I would).  I no longer am at the cashpoint at two in the morning, literally waiting for the cash to drop into my account.  I no longer have my guts fall out as soon as it's a possibility that I could use.  I might have told you (if not, I'll tell you now), I was once on my way to a twelve-step meeting, on the bus down the road, and the urge to go and score was so strong, so physically insistent, that I actually shat myself on the bus, and had to go into MacDonald's and chuck my shit-filled pants in the tampon-bin in the disabled toilet.  Yes, that's how cutting-edge my using got.  I then went a scored round the corner, still smelling faintly of shit.  Needless to say, I didn't make it to the twelve-step meeting that day.

Now I don't go through this.  I can think to use, about using, muse on the subject sometimes a little too dangerously, a little too in a spirit of euphoric recall, or euphoric projection, imagining how a use-up might be now, after some months clean.  Could I, as I've seen a few people do, use responsibly now, once a month or so, do it right, get a pipe, rather than wander around Shepherd's Bush until I meet someone I can score through.  Maybe I could just buy a couple of bits of crack and a bit of heroin, come home, watch a shopping-channel and/or some porn, and have a safe little session on my own.  And I do believe I probably could do that.  But, I don't really want to risk it, and nor do I want to wake up the next day with the compulsory hangover that even a couple of bits of crack gives me.  I must have spent tens of thousands of pounds of my own, and other people's money, on all that, and I'm not sure I really want to line the pockets of my local vendors anymore.  So, even despite myself, I'm holding a line, not going there, being 'vigilant'.  And yes, I'm still having a tumbler of red wine some nights, eating a bit of weed, playing the odd 80s arcade game, writing a bit, tinkling on my keyboard (a gift of recovery, as they say), and leading a relatively normal life, without empty cupboards, without constant money worries, depression, remorse, rage and fear of the telephone ringing.

Even though I hate the clichés, in particular if they rhyme, I'm trying to adopt an 'attitude of gratitude', rather than snipe against all I've lost, still mourn, and miss.  Yes, I sit here with my relatively new computer, nice blue rug beside me, denim armchair and beanbag awaiting, and food in the cupboard, enough for a doomsday-prepper, as it goes.  I still have an overdraft, but at least I have a choice of trousers to put on in the morning, a few nice liquid-soaps in the bathroom, and a nice laminated Audrey Hepburn above the bath, too.

Perhaps Audrey is my higher power.  If so, then I'm an Audreyist, an occasionally content, bewildered, better-nourished 'addict', sorry, 'functioning addict', sorry, person.

And this is a song I wrote, if you'd like to listen...
Tarantula

And that's all for today, thank.  See you tomorrow?

LOVE AMONG THE WHEELYBINS

Hi, and thanks for dropping by.  As you may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can read it here, or buy the ebook on amazon, if you prefer.  If you do, I would really, really appreciate a review, because there are three positive ones so far, but all feedback is craved, and appreciated.  I've got a friend coming round in a bit, so here is a quick story I wrote a few years ago, entitled 'Love Among The Wheelybins'.  At the bottom, there is a song of the same name, which you can listen to on youtube if you click on the link.  It's by me, obviously...it's quite dark...

LOVE AMONG THE WHEELYBINS

At the end of an alleyway behind the Shepherd’s Bush branch of Superdrug, we find Kenny, the illegal alien, a Carribean beanpole with mashed-up teeth and a tendency to take too long to score.  We find Tom, middleclass emotional cripple, who’s finding his job in counselling increasingly hard to hold down, having been introduced to crack by a working-girl he visited one night when lonely, angry, and all pent up.  Picture also Faith, toothless nightgirl, skinny as only years of chasing crack can make you, saved from the grave by an almost-daily diet of chicken and Snickers.

Tom was skulking around for over an hour looking for someone to score through when, about to lose hope, he stumbled on Kenny and Faith exiting Costcutters.  Kenny offered him a blaze on a ‘try some, buy some’ basis, and within moments they were out of sight, down that narrow alleyway they all three knew from previous times when gagging for a pipe.  There they lurked by a cluster of grimy wheelybins, metal sentries at the base of a fire-escape leading up into a tarry black sky - a discreet little spot, a tiny white shard in your latest A to Z, where mainstream eyes don’t pry.

Kenny and Faith are old hands at their respective roles now.  He wants a favour, a sexual one, of course, accompanied by a good old lash on the pipe.  But Faith hasn’t stayed alive for thirty years, dishing out favours in bathrooms, bin-chutes and basements, without learning the rules of that infernal and eternal game of ‘gissa blowjob, gissa pipe, gissa blowjob, gissa pipe…’  She gives nothing away for nothing.

Kenny takes a lash, and down goes Faith, unzips his paltry jeans, reaches in, and there’s his ghastly dick on display in the dinge, wrinkled and limp.  She’s really got her work cut out tonight.  And after a minute or two it’s clear the coke has played its insidious trick again – however Faith toils, Kenny’s cumming in his head, but things are just not happening down below.  ‘Are you finding it hard to get hard, love?’ she asks, like some darkside Samaritan.  ‘It’s the white,’ claims Kenny, taking matters into his own hands.  He’ll get a hard-on if it kills him – which it might – his heart’s pounding around 120 a minute.  He still craves that meeting of ecstasies, that point where two rivers of dark treacle coalesce, foam into rapids, and smash torrentially down the rocks of death-defying delight.  Yes, he still hankers after that unholy grail, where the high of the orgasm tallies with the high of the white.

‘Gissa pipe,’ says Faith, looking up like the gargoyle of seduction she knows he longs to see.  He loads up a big one with a cruel nonchalance, then licks it himself.  But Faith’s far from defeated, for she knows he’s now at his weakest.  ‘Gissa pipe darling,’ she pines.  He sets one up, offers it her, lights it, and watches her suck hungrily on the smashed-up biro that juts from the Evian bottle in his greasy maulers.  She leans back, takes her buzz, lets out the smoke.  He eases her back into position, and abnormal service is resumed.

Tom, marginal in a marginal world, gazes jealously on, still waiting for his intro.  ‘Sorry to ask, but could you do me a pipe when you’re free?’ he enquires with flaccid politeness.  He can’t let go of his passive realworld etiquette, even in this amoral nook, where mainstream eyes don’t pry.  ‘Gimme five minutes with my woman,’ lords Kenny, knowing that his favourite cashcow won’t be going anywhere when there’s still a rock on offer.  So, resentfully patient, Tom sits down at the bottom of the fire-escape, and waits.  A sliver of him wishes he had the guts to get up and go, but the rest of him whispers, ‘it won’t be long, it won’t be long…’

But take away the pipe and this trio would probably never have met.  And soon their separate existences are to resume.  After a night of back-and-forthing to score, via Tom’s cashpoint, of course, the party finally grinds to a halt, and our brave threesome come scuttling from the shadows into the sharp light of the morning rush-hour, and resume their disparate lives.

Stooped and gloomy, our hapless middleclass hero paces home along heavily peopled pavements, feeling like an alien on his own planet.  In ten minutes he’ll be staring angrily at porn on his laptop, until crashing into bed and praying for sleep, and to wake up unscathed at some point later in the day.

Kenny, meanwhile, striding down some unsalubrious sidestreet, feels in his pocket for the twenty stone he saw fit to hold hostage.  A couple of tenners console him further that he’s probably got another couple of hours smoking in him.  Who can he go to who won’t be on him for pipe after pipe?  The alley’s out of bounds now – Superdrug uses those bins during waking hours.

Faith, bleary-eyed and beaten, returns to her pitch near Costcutters, which she violently protects, lays out her coat for coins to be thrown on, falls asleep, and dreams.

Perchance our three travellers will meet again, round the back of Superdrug perhaps, where the steely wheelies loom, where the fire-escape zigzags up into an oil-black sky, where mainstream eyes don’t pry.

And here is the song, 'Love Among The Wheelybins'...

Love Among The Wheelybins

And that's pretty much all I have to say today.  Back tomorrow...

THE HEADSTRONG ADDICT

Well hello, and thank you for passing through.  You may already know that the first 22 posts of this blog (Jan to April 2013), are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict'.  You can read this here, or get it as an ebook or kindle on amazon, if you prefer.  If you do, please leave a review if you can.  And so, here is today's post, about the casual loss of over a decade, and how this can be put right...

THE HEADSTRONG ADDICT

It sounds like a confessional from a twelve-step meeting, 'I was too full of self-will, too headstrong, thought I knew best...but then I got honest, got with the program, surrendered to a higher power of my own understanding.'  But how can anyone sift the headstrong from the addict.  Maybe headstrong people become addicts, because, for whatever reason, they want their thrills quick, effective, and very, very noticeable.  Then, with their first reference point in place, all subsequent attempts at the summit are measured against it, for intensity, value for money, and immediacy.  They now become even headstronger, as another layer of impatience settles like silt.  Ah, how this escalates, as our hedonistic hero strives, stretches, falls and flails, for the next mythic peak, time after time, month after month, and so on...until, skidding to a slow halt like an Eskimo on gritted, cracking ice, they come to rest, wounded, angry, tired, and bewildered.  Then what does our once-headstrong hero do?

Pause, regroup, bitterly berate oneself for squandering all those years, friendships, possible relationship, jobs, money, health, and so much more.  How do you start redeeming the loss?  With more impatience than one's ever thrown at a set of situations, and an angry sense that one deserves it now, one's suffered, sinned, but repented, as if this is tantamount to so many stamps on your coffee-shop loyalty-card, entitling you to a drink of your choosing, any size.  Ah, the righteous fury of the sinner than repenteth.  Addiction is like a trickster-angel, plucking at the tops of mountains to make the summits seem even more seducing than before.  Once an innocent explorer, now, enthralled to the idea that the ladder goes on for ever, you negotiate the valleys and troughs, whilst sizing up the next summit, wishing yourself away, but acting like you want to stay.

And I guess most ranges don't just end with a big old mountain, as some kind of finale, but they crease, fold, and falter into lessening climes, more accessible and amenable to all.  This is where the headstrong yeti must learn to get on, at a different pace, learn a differently punctuated dance, hold to new ideals, ones it may or may not recognise.  It can feel like the old lows, those agonising daylong comedowns, have now just been diluted, scattered like seeds across rolling meadows, where the general whisper is that good weather, and time, will make it all worthwhile.  What to do with that impulse for instant yields?  Should we find another drug, go GM, go Jesus, somehow rad?

The first few seeds may be watered with tears, though nowhere near enough to germinate and grow.  No, part of this harvest is luck.  Can these people, scattered liberally about, be right?  Can there be virtue in waiting, investing, rather than lunging at the one-armed bandit with whatever change you have?  They never experienced that rush, can't draw the comparisons I can draw.  Am I to trust this world I left, shunned, and rejected for so long?  Was I ill, or just too full of self-will?  Was I done to, or did I do?

And slowly, as the hurricane of self-doubt unspools like a slow giant, whispering its last, I find myself, sitting here, at a west London window, slightly open, with traffic growling, and the warmth of my radiator reassuring me I'm looked after.  I still have my hi-fi, because it was too heavy to take to Cash Converters...and they wouldn't have given me much for it anyway.  Pink Floyd on the hi-fi, a CD given me by a friend I met in the thick of my addiction, and so maybe even during those years, some good things were stepping into place, waiting, patiently, kindly, to see if I wanted to stagger from those last baleful blusterings of a storm of my own making.  Time passes.  It takes untold strength to not move with it.

And that, you'll be relieved to hear, is all I have to say today.

Thanks for dropping by.  Back tomorrow.

P.S.  Here is a youtube link to one of songs, if you'd like to hear it...  Get Out Of My Room