Today, I’m tackling two important blog posts. The first one will dive into the critical role of having a strong support network during recovery. But I know that for many, this isn’t always possible. Some of us have to face this battle alone, feeling lost, confused, without direction, and wondering if there’s any way out of this nightmare.
In the early stages of my addiction, I was in deep denial about my ability to stay a “non-addict.” I convinced myself that I could “take it or leave it” whenever I wanted. I remember pacing around my home, repeating this lie to myself over and over.
The drug suppressed my appetite, leading to weight loss, which I initially saw as a benefit. It changed my lifestyle completely—I could eat as little as possible and skip the gym, all while thinking I was staying slim. In reality, I was destroying my brain cells and physically wasting away, becoming a mere shadow of who I once was.
Through the support groups I’ve joined, I’ve come to realise that I’m not alone in viewing crystal meth addiction as a disease. Accepting this wasn’t easy, but it’s clear now—addiction is a disease. You tell yourself you’ll limit your use, go to bed at a reasonable time, but before you know it, days have passed, and you’re far from home. For many of us, this addiction has stolen our lives. I’m incredibly lucky to be alive to share my story.
In my posts, I’ll delve into everything I’ve done to pull myself out of this mess—the feelings, the experiences, the highs, the lows, and everything in between. This isn’t just another blog; I’m a real guy from Manchester who made a massive mistake by getting caught up in the chemsex scene. While I can’t promise that my journey will guarantee your sobriety, I hope it sheds light on the deadly grip this problem has on the gay community.
Building a support network is crucial for recovery. It’s not always easy to find, but it’s essential for overcoming addiction.
At the height of my addiction, I became a prisoner in my own home, only leaving for work. I was using crystal meth and GHB almost daily, except when I was so physically exhausted that no amount of drugs could give me the highs I craved. I lost count of the times I knocked myself out from consuming too much GHB. It’s a miracle I survived the drug cocktails I was concocting at home, known as poly drug use. I didn’t even measure the amount of GHB I was mixing with cheap bottles of Vimto, Fanta, or still orange Lucozade from the local newsagent. When I ran out of mixers, I’d take it neat and rinse my mouth with tap water, either spitting it out or swallowing it to get every last bit. This destructive routine went on for at least 2-3 months.
I minimised working in the office, and when I did go in, I hated it. I knew I looked terrible—like an AIDS victim. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror at work. I was plagued by severe anxiety and smelled awful, no matter how many times I showered. My skin had a horrible sticky residue. I planned my commute to avoid large groups of people. On Fridays, I’d treat myself to an Uber home, even though it was more expensive and took longer than public transport, just so I could rush through the door and start using again.
Using chemsex drugs gave me a sense of purpose and allowed me to be an object for other men, usually anonymously. Most of them didn’t even know I was under the influence because they were given specific instructions on what was expected of them upon entering my home. It’s frightening how many fit, seemingly sober, good-looking guys between 18 and 50 went along with this. I’ve met so many that I’ve lost count. I feel like I’ve had enough sex for a lifetime.
I was incredibly lonely, with only a few real friends. But honestly, I can’t say I’ve had many true, meaningful friendships. The few I do consider friends were either failed dates who offered friendship out of sympathy or people I initially met for sex, and something more developed. Crystal meth made it okay to be alone, endlessly scrolling through Grindr, searching for hookups for hours, days, and weeks on end.
Deep down, I knew I was killing myself. I’d tell myself that next week I’d start fresh and get clean. Eventually, I was forced to confront my reflection, whether in a mirror or during video calls for work, and it became unbearable. I didn’t recognise myself—I looked like an AIDS victim. But that notion disappeared once I consumed more meth. Just a few puffs, and I thought I looked normal again. How wrong I was.
