I arrived at the hospital in full-blown psychosis after being awake for days, my body wrecked by dangerous amounts of crystal meth and G. I was beyond exhausted—physically drained, mentally shattered. My brain was fried, tangled in confusion. Then came the voices. The hallucinations. People who weren’t there. Reality slipping through my fingers.
I had no memory of how I got there. My mind was in chaos, spiraling. I called for help, and when it came, I was taken to the hospital. But that’s when the real nightmare began. For the next three to four days, my subconscious played a twisted, punishing game. My brain became my own worst enemy. I’ve written before about my psychotic episode, but over time, the sharpest memories have faded—though the scars remain.
Chemsex in the NHS is poorly understood. There are no proper statistics, no real acknowledgment of the deaths, overdoses, or long-term psychological damage it causes. The experience of seeking help in London versus Manchester can be wildly different. The system is patchy, inconsistent, and dangerously unprepared.
This post has two sides: First, the fact that I arrived at the NHS essentially overdosing, desperate for help from my NHS trust. Second, the brutal reality that I didn’t get the care or answers I needed. I knew something was wrong. I was begging for someone to explain what was happening. But no one told me I was in psychosis. No one told me the hallucinations weren’t real.
The silence was deafening.
