I think I am writing this more for my own sake than for readers,but if you do choose to read,I thank you in advance,cos this is really just experiences in text form,enjoy!
I can't tell these stories without basically giving you my life story(abbreviated,of course,so as to remain on topic).
It started at birth,at least,that's what I am told,my parents tell me I had colic and that I never slept,even as a child.
My first concrete memories start at age four,when I started school,I vaguely remember leaving my home in exploration earlier than that but from four onwards it's all still pretty clear.
As stated above ,I started school at the age of four,one year earlier than all my brothers and sisters and everyone I was at school with.
My parents expected much from me(we'll get into that later)
At four I remember being a happy,popular and quite confident child,I had loads of friends in school and impressed teachers and older kids by standing up to them in defense of others,in short,I had no complaints.
Halfway through prep year my family moved from a middle/lower class area and school,to a small,exclusive neighbourhood where status was a must.
I can't say that my problems started immediately,I was happy with my family,the new house,the surroundings.
Unfortunately things changed fairly quickly for me.
As soon as I went to school(I'm talking the same day)I made a couple of friends early in the day,all was going well.
Lunchtime came round and one of the kids I had befriended had given me some of his toys to play with earlier in the day,so I was quietly playing with them in the sandpit.
After a time I noticed several groups of kids in the vicinty and a couple of those groups seemed fascinated by me in some way.
No drama,I went about my business.
Later in the lunch hour,the kid previously mentioned,approached me in the sandpit,demanded his toys back,and made it clear in no uncertain terms,that no one in the class would talk to me,himself included,on top of that,another entire class had come to the same conclusion,and they were kids I didn't even know.
I have to say,I have thought about this much and seriously cannot think of a single thing I had done to deserve this,but life goes on.
Over the years,it became clear to me,even at such a young age,that status and money were paramount in the "suburb" I was living in,and that my parents were also geared to these purposes.
I also think moving a sensitive four year old half way through his first school year,had tremendous repercussions.
The only real friend I had,was only there for my forth year at school,every other "friend" I had were awful bullies,perhaps even worse than the ones that bullied from afar.
I became isolated,introverted and was constantly told that I was different.
Some people meant this in a positive fashion,others,not so much.
I estimate that I was about five when signs of depression started to manifest,and they persisted and progressed into full blown depression by age six.
At age nine I began to experience symptoms of schizophrenia,in the form of auditory and visual hallucinations,and if you can imagine how a nine year old would react to this,it's scary.
I didn't feel I could tell anyone about the hallucinations,for a few reasons.
The first one being that(once I had figured out that what was happening was not real)I thought if I gave these voices credibility,then they would begin to take over my mind.
Another one is that though I was pretty sure that I wasn't experiencing life the way others did,I had no concept of depression,my parents now say they know something was up,but as far as they knew,kids didn't get depressed,it was debatable in adults.
Consequently,it wasn't acknowledged for many years.
Because of the pre existence of depression,I didn't think I would be taken seriously,even if I could articulate myself.
Also,at the time I was nine,to be quite honest,I didn't know what the fuck to think.
My parents were also raising me Roman Catholic,and strictly,at that.
I thought I may have been possessed.
I could go on but really,in my nine year old mind,it just didn't seem like a good idea to talk about it.
I got to age eleven before I found ways to help deal with my symptoms,and the most effective thing I discovered in my short time on earth,was unfortunately marijuana.
Someone stupidly told me that emotional situations were best dealt with on pot.
It's not their fault however,that I started to use marijuana to deal with stress,unhappiness,anxiety and any other fucking reason I could think of to be perfectly honest.
By fourteen I was addicted,ignorant and only just beginning to see the error in my judgement.
I had also used(quite surprisingly,respectfully) a number of hallucinogens by this time,but I'll put that in a later entry.
I mentioned earlier that I had colic as a baby,but that's not where that story ends either.
My parents contend I have always had stomach issues.
At the age of eight,I had my appendix removed,even though it turned out not to be inflamed,the doctors didn't know exactly what to do.
This was also my first experience with pethidine,which wasn't insignificant.
I still remember the ease with which life in those two weeks passed,even at a young age,I could appreciate the benefits of drugs for the first time and it has never left my memory.
By the age of fourteen,the stomach issues had progressed to a point where I was sick more often than I was well,it got worse and worse until I was nineteen.
I have to admit that it took some convincing to get me to go to a doctor and it was my stomach that took me there,not schizophrenia.
I had been searching for a doctor from the age of sixteen but it wasn't until I was nineteen that I found a doctor willing to help.
But that is skipping ahead.
This is where things start to get complicated.
As I stated earlier,I was addicted to weed by the age of fourteen.
As my physical health deteriorated and deteriorated,I was forced to seek help from a doctor.
I didn't want to do it and sometimes I wish I hadn't,it lead me down a path I would have never expected,but I was just so ill.
I went to many doctors in the two and a half year I searched,at the time I was in a country town and resources were thin,to say the least.
I spent many nights in emergency rooms,and doctor after doctor kept saying they couldn't help me.
One of the primary reasons I found it so hard was that I was living with a heroin addict(doing my best to help her,though somewhat misguided in myself)and all my friends,both where I grew up and the even more isolated town I had moved to,were also addicts of some description.
In small town Australia,guilt by association is just a fact of life.
Here I am making out like I'm innocent.
I'm not,far from it.
At the age of nineteen,I was so frustrated in my search for functionality,and for a doctor to take me seriously,that I fell into a trap that I was trying to help others out of.
I started using heroin.
I hated myself the day I started using it,and I hate myself for it now.
I hate needles,but somehow in my need for pain relief and my desperate need for some rest,I overcame that fear in order to survive.
I still hate needles,can't even watch a nurse do it,so I can only tell myself that I was desperate.
It's not an excuse,but it was the truth.
I can give you many reasons why it came about,though.
At that time in my life heroin was so prevelant and available to me,that I never thought I would use it,I had seen the horror stories first hand,to me it just seemed insane.
But when push came to shove,I needed help to function and I wasn't getting any help otherwise.
It seemed stupid,but necessary.
I might add that when I look back on it,I never really had time to become a "real" addict,my affair with heroin lasted less than a year,and I only used at night,to kill pain and go to sleep.
I never really stayed awake long enough to enjoy a high for very long.
And I didn't use every night,but it will always count against me,and I will always hate myself for not hanging out long enough to find the doctor I found at nineteen.
Mostly because,I knew exactly what I was doing,what all the possible risks could be,had even seen it destroy people closest to me.
And I did it anyway.
It was stupid.
Anyways,at nineteen I met the only doctor that ever helped me,and that's where the fun really starts.
He may have been the only doctor to help me,but I have seen more drugs come and go in the fifteen years I knew him,than the other twenty I have been on this earth.
Read on,if you're interested,I'll post when there's time....Thankyou
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A brief introduction to a life of drug use