Chemsex wasn’t just a part of my life — it was my life. Day after day, night after night, I gave myself over to it. Meth. GHB. Whatever was there. There were no pauses, no breaks. Just the same cycle on repeat until I couldn’t tell where I ended and the drugs began.
You tell yourself you’re in control. You tell yourself you can stop when you want. But that voice in your head is lying — it’s the addiction speaking, not you. If you’re even wondering whether it’s taken over your life, let me save you the suspense: it already has.
I thought I could outrun the truth. Until I started waking up in A&E. Tubes in my arms, the sting of IV fluids, the harsh smell of disinfectant clinging to my skin. Doctors looking at me like I was already halfway gone. And still, I went back. Again. And again.
That’s what the spiral does. It drags you down so slowly that you don’t even notice you’re drowning. You think you’ve hit bottom, but then the floor falls out again.
And then came the coma. My body finally gave out. I don’t remember slipping under — only opening my eyes much later, disoriented, my body weak, machines doing the work my body couldn’t. That was death, knocking, hard. And I had almost answered.
That was my reckoning. I realised I wasn’t surviving anymore — I was gambling with fire. And fire doesn’t forgive. It doesn’t negotiate. It burns until nothing is left.
If you are where I was, you may have to give up everything you think you need. Friends, routines, whole parts of your life. But in exchange, you get the only thing that matters: a second chance. Rehab, asking for help, letting someone else hold you together when you’re falling apart — these are not signs of weakness. They are the only way out.
Because if you don’t take that way out, the fire will take you. And I promise you, it does not care who you are.
