You ever have that one friend who’s always too busy? That was me. Except I wasn’t building a career, launching a startup, or writing the next great novel. Oh no. I was chronically unavailable—but not for any noble reason.
I wasn’t spending quality time with family. I wasn’t catching up with friends. I wasn’t even going on wholesome little hikes or brunching like a functional adult. No, I was holed up in my flat—my sacred temple of… bad decisions.
My place basically had two purposes: meaningless sex and enough drugs to make Hunter S. Thompson blink twice. If my walls could talk, they’d scream, “Get out while you still can!”
Whenever someone invited me to do something normal, like hang out or exist in the daylight, I’d fire off some excuse like, “Oh sorry, super slammed today!” Meanwhile, the only thing I was slammed with was questionable life choices and an 8-hour playlist that no sober person would willingly sit through.
And I lied—a lot. “I’m not feeling well,” I’d say, which wasn’t even technically false because, let’s be honest, you don’t feel great after your third sleepless night and two meals of chewing gum and regret.
But in the moment? Nothing—nothing—was going to get in the way of the so-called “good time.” When you’re deep in a chemsex spiral, anything remotely healthy or normal starts to feel like a personal attack. “Dinner with mum? Ew. Emotional connection? Gross. Hydration? For cowards.”
Looking back, I wasn’t too busy—I was just on a first-name basis with self-destruction.
And honestly? The only thing I was committed to… was being committed (eventually).
