I was born a junkie.
Literally. Mum and dad were both addicts, inevitably I became one too, entering this world stoned and only shouting my first cry after being slapped a few times. They all thought I was dead. Mum said I was born sleeping, but also admitted she had taken a good dose of heroin and booze as soon as she went into labour, and that might have caused me to sleep through my birth.
It was 1971 and not a lot was known about babies with addiction then. Mum spiked my milk with whisky and sleeping tablets to get me down at night. She said I screamed, never cried, just screamed until she gave me my milk. She stopped the milk when I turned ten.
Dad used to put hash and grass in my dinner and often gave me acid. He claims it was like some kind of father-daughter bonding where we would paint on the living room walls, pretend we were elephants and listen to Pink Floyd.
Neither made good parents but I had a happy childhood. I was oblivious to my exposure to booze and drugs. Mum and dad were hippies, free spirits and into group sex. You don’t know any different when you’re a child and it’s not until you’re older you realise you lived against the norm.
I’m pretty sure they named after their favourite drug though.
By the time I was 11, I was drinking straight vodka, sniffing gas and glue, smoking, and stealing some of mum and dad’s drugs. I never went to secondary school, no one noticed or cared. I hung around with a gang of rough boys, they dogged school and we spent our time setting fire to things, shoplifting and drinking super lagers, “cause they were cheap.”
In hospital for liver problems at age 20 for 6 months, I was downing 1 or 2 bottles of vodka a day. I was violent, homeless, and on first-name terms with the police. Detox was so bad that I never returned to drinking, ever. Not easy, but I had drugs to continue my lifestyle, quickly progressing onto harder drugs like heroin, crack and cocaine to balance my loss.
I was 30 when I finally got clean.
Or so I thought.
Prescription drugs invaded my life like wildfire. I’m not even sure when or how it started, it might have been a legit script from the doc. Benzos kept me stoned, opiates wrapped me in a soft blanket and sedatives made the world go away. I thought I was on top of things, I’d gone through a late education, I was running my own business, owned my house outright plus a villa in Tenerife. Although one blinding memory plagues me, I stopped in the middle of a yoga class to pop some morphine, I could feel the shaky, sweaty signs I needed a fix while in down dog. I was the teacher.
I was nearly 50 and had eaten the equivalent of a chemist, maybe more. My dog died. I cracked like an egg, screaming for days, overdosing on every pill and powder I could find. Every stash I’d carefully cultivated was ransacked until I was on my knees searching the carpet for another pill. I went for a walk on the M8. I went for a walk on the railway lines. Then I broke into the vets, where my beloved had gone.
Using a crowbar and a hammer, I got through the padlocks to an exam room next to the medicine cupboard protected by a steel door. The hammer got me through the plasterboard, a hole big enough for me to crawl through. I was blind with intoxication, the labels on bottles blurred. I wanted the stuff they used to put animals to sleep.
A fire crew smashed the wall down to get me out on a stretcher, paramedics retrieved the bottles of poison I’d injected, and countless police officers assessed the damage. I was in a coma for days then I faced prosecution for several charges. I was facing many years in jail.
I got lucky.
The High Court Judge was sympathetic and gave me probation for one year including three mandatory rehabilitation sessions a week.
That’s where I am now. Outside a building in Bridgeton that populates a fair number of undesirables and ironically right next to a tenement, I used to buy smack from. I wonder if that’s part of the process, a test of willpower.
Pressing the buzzer in the hope that no one answers, so I can go back home. I’m slightly devastated when the door unlocks. With a sigh, I take one last draw of my fag, then fling it to the kerb.
Ready to meet the scum of the earth, the reprobates of society, the beggars from the streets asking for 50p. I barely take notice of the guy who greets me at reception.
“First time here?”
I’m guessing I stick out like a sore thumb; I know I don’t belong here. He obviously thinks the same. He can tell just by looking at me that I’m in the wrong place.
“Uh, I’m here for the drug thing?” I don’t know what else to call it.
Avoiding eye contact, I manage to sign the sheet he slides towards me. At least I know my name, not sure about the date and time. Fumbling in my pocket, I produce the card I need signed for my probation officer and hand it over.
“Yeah, we sign that at the end,” he says. “In case you do a bunk after 5 minutes, you need to do the full four hours.”
Right, mortified doesn’t quite cover this moment. The only thing worse would be if he asked why I was here. “I broke into a vet and tried to put myself to sleep,” isn’t something I ever want to admit to. I stare at the floor letting my hair hang down my face in a pathetic attempt to disguise my shame.
“In there,” he points. “That’s your group.”
I anxiously look around and see a couple of men moving through an open door, so I follow. Inside it’s empty other than chairs arranged in a circle. My stomach plummets and heat creeps up my body. I don’t want to do this.
Hesitantly I take a seat, placing my bag down at my side, aware I must look like the rabbit in the headlights. Five men take the other seats, all chatting away like best friends. I snatch glimpses of them as I become fascinated with the stitching on my jeans. Once the room grows quiet, I look up again, it’s just us, five men and me, the only female.
“Do you know the rules, Crystal?”
My head turns to the guy on my left wearing a grey ‘staff’ t-shirt, exposing forearms covered in tats. I can make out a few anchors and female names. I look up to his tired scraggy face. Handsome, despite the bags around his bright blue eyes.
Taking my gawking at him as a sign that I don’t know the rules, he then proceeds to rhyme them off in a rehearsed manner.
“Did you understand me?”
“Perfectly,” I have no idea what he said.
“No many people here get my accent, ken?” Accent? Right, east coast. “Good, I’ll start then. I’m Graham and I’m an addict, I’ve been clean for 12 years and 1 month.” Tipping his head, he indicates for me to say something.
He’s throwing me right into the fire.
I look around at the faces again, my mouth is dry, and my fingers are cramping. I’m a confident person but now I feel like I have stage fright, maybe I’m only confident when I take drugs. That’s why I’m here, drugs. My brain is babbling, so I rub my forehead. Pull it together.
I give an awkward wave to no one in particular. “Hi, I’m Crystal.” Silence engulfs me as they continue to stare. I look to Graham who gives me a nod to continue, what does he want me to say?
After a while, Graham smacks his hands together making me jump. “Crystal is new to the group, so instead of an update, let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves.”
My stomach plummets so hard I think I might need to go to the toilet. Sitting in a room with these men who will have nothing in common with me is a nightmare. Can I lie? I’m not telling them what I’ve done. Maybe I can say I’m addicted to cleaning or something. Yes, cleaning and I got addicted to the smell of the products, but it was really the cleaning I was addicted to, not the sniffing.
Graham goes first. “I’m from Aberdeen, I worked on the rigs most of my life, like most folk fae there, ken? I was an engineer and made an obscene amount of money, but it was boring as hell, nothing to do, so I got into drugs ken? Then I started bringing the drugs in, big time and got caught. 10 years in the jail, lost everything.”
He tells me he started on glue as a teenager and I brighten up, we do have something in common.
“I’m rehabilitated and now a drug worker. Your drug worker.”
Once he’s finished, we’re allowed to ask questions but I’m in a brain fog. I listen to the others probe and move my head at the right moments, a nod or shake here and there.
Ricky, the big red-headed guy goes next. In a soft-spoken voice full of remorse, he tells us that he was a bus driver. He knocked down an old lady and dragged her, under the wheel of his bus, for the length of Queen Street before he noticed. He was wasted at the time and subsequently jailed for a long stretch. She died obviously, no one could survive that.
My eyes filled up throughout his story even though I’ve never been a crier. My tears were for him though, not the woman, she would have hopefully died quickly but Ricky would be tortured his whole life. It would have been a tragic accident if not for the drugs in his body.
I had no questions for Ricky. I only wanted to hug him and take away his pain.
Tommy then takes his turn. I’m most curious about this sweet old man with a cheeky smile and good patter he’s been chipping in. His eyes are on mine the whole time he speaks, I can’t help but smile in return at his bubbly character. He owned a car showroom which translates as ‘gangster’ in Glasgow, and he beat his neighbour to death one night.
“Seriously?” I wasn’t expecting that, he told the story so endearingly. He must be a sociopath. “What did it feel like to kill someone with your bare hands?” I ask the first and most inappropriate question that enters my thick head.
“I used a hammer and I was junked up,” he shrugs like he couldn’t care less. “He was my best friend; since we were nippers.”
Oh. My. God.
Moving on, Frank was a pharmacist who dabbled in his own supplies – opiates – something else I can relate to. While in a haze of opiates wrote some dodgy prescriptions resulting in a patient dying from a heart attack. Paul is last, he was a high-flying solicitor with a major problem with coke and almost killed a kiddie in a hit and run.
“Am I in the right group?” I burst out and we all laugh.
“Sorry Crystal, I should have said, this is the court-appointed group, you’ll be with us until your probation ends ken? Do you think you can tell us what got you here?”
I nod. My story is going to sound tame. I haven’t killed anyone or been in jail. I take a deep breath and do my best to relax. I have to do this.
“I’m Crystal and I’m an addict. I’ve been clean for 6 weeks.”
This short story was part of my English Literature and Creative Writing BA degree coursework. I was awarded a 2:1 in 2023. I am now studying for an MA in Creative Writing. I think the stories should be read, rather than collecting dust in my Mac. So, for fun, I’ve posted them in their original form, unedited and imperfect. Please feel free to share your thoughts below.
Oh, and some are autobiographical, can you guess which ones?
Carolyne
