When I lived in Manchester, I met the whole spectrum of drug users — the high-flyers like doctors, barristers, pilots, psychiatrists… and the low-flyers: part-time thieves, professional dole-collectors, and people whose career trajectory was “sitting very still, looking suspicious.”
Even in recovery, I still see them all. Addiction doesn’t discriminate — you can have a corner office or a corner shoplifting charge, you still end up in the same grubby living room with a half-broken coffee table and a dealer who calls everyone “mate.”
Jobs? Pure theatre. Some people wear Armani, some wear hi-vis, some wear the same hoodie they’ve slept in for a week. Strip that away and you’re left with the same twitchy eyes and the same half-baked excuses.
And education? Forget it. I’ve seen surgeons who can crack a chest open but can’t crack the habit. Barristers who can demolish a prosecution case but crumble the second a bag hits the table.
And no, it wasn’t just sniffing for me. I had one go at injecting — my “big leap” into the glamorous world of looking like an extra from a very low-budget zombie film. Just once. Once was enough to make me realise that if there was ever going to be a biopic of my life, I didn’t want that scene in it.
School might have helped if they’d been more honest:
- “How to say no to something you’ll regret before you’ve even put the cap back on the needle.”
- “Your mate’s kitchen is not a sterile environment.”
- “If it feels cinematic, it’s probably a terrible idea.”
The truth is, your drug experiences aren’t special. They’re just episodes in a series that’s been running for decades — the same plot, same characters, just a different idiot playing the lead. For a while, that idiot was me.
