Getting Clean

The joys of trying to get clean

So I am currently planning to get clean. Its been two years in the making so far since my last dismal attempt. I spent New Year in a detox centre going through hell and then within two weeks I was back on it. It was a Friday and I was at work. I remember getting into an argument at work with my boss and another member of staff and having to walk out the office because I was about to throw someone through a window. I went home hoping to talk about it with my old man and ended up having a massive row with him. I could have easily thrown him through a window as well. I'm quite a placid person on the smack but seem to flip out very easily when clean which is one of the reasons I always end up back on the gear, I get tired of waking up in police cells with sore fists. So I stormed out to avoid a fight and ended up scoring some gear.

Later that night I went home and at the back of a drawer found an old bottle of methadone. My Dad was supposed to clear my room whilst I was in detox but he had obviously missed this well hidden bottle. So feeling like shit and thinking I was probably getting the sack on Monday as well as thrown out the house in the morning I guzzled the lot down. I didn't die or even OD just slept for the rest of the weekend. It was later that I realised the bottle was one I had watered down with the intent of selling it to get some score money. So I was saved by my own deviousness.

Anyway that was the end of that little drug free break in a 10 year period of opiate abuse. I am one of those people that when "clean" only need to dabble once for it to snowball back to heavy habit. It has taken me years to come to that knowledge but for some reason everytime I will go through pure hell getting the shit out my body but within a couple of weeks will have forgotten that hardship. "One little boot won't hurt" seems to be a recurring sentence that always leads me back to where I am now today. Its something that I hope I can manage to stick to next time but knowing how my brain works when clean, which is totally different from now, means that the only chance I have of surviving those first 4-6 months off gear is by having one of those fucking expensive Naltroxone implants injected into my stomach. So if anyone wants to donate the £1000 needed then post a comment and if I get enough responses I might put one of those Paypal donate buttons up. Otherwise its another dastardly bank loan for me. Oh the joys of smack. If only I could put aside some of that money I spend each day on it I'd have enough for 5 implants by October. But that aint going to happen is it. Thus the dilema at the heart of my addiction. A score in the pin is always goin to win. Laters.

My Mum

Mum sits there,

In front of the tele,

Tray of food sitting on her belly.

Eating, thinking,

Watching Eastenders.

What’s in her head I think and wonder,

Washing, ironing,

Cleaning, shopping?

Her house is proud,

But I don’t see her stopping.

Or does she aspire to greater things?

Probably.

But I wouldn’t know, she is only my mum,

With me as a fuckup as her only son.

Wasting time with my dangerous habits,

My selfish behaviour.

Does she think she could have made better?

Does she want me to succeed?

Does she want me to be good?

Healthy,

Alive.

All I want is my shirts to be ironed,

And the funny thing is,

She doesn’t seem to mind.

That’s why I love her so much.

My mum.

By DoubleDipped (2000)

Gear Pixies

The gear pixies are here,

They’re at it again,

Stealing stuff,

For personal gain.

It was here a minute ago,

I saw it there.

No one would nick it,

No one would dare.

The only people,

With big enough balls,

Are those little pixies,

3 inches tall.

They come round here,

When everyone’s stoned,

And when no-ones looking,

They nick your bone.

Your smack, your cash,

Your pills your hash.

When they go pinching,

They make sure your mashed.

So you blame your mates,

You have a go,

But where your gears gone,

Nobody knows.

You check all your pockets,

You jump up and down.

You check all the tops,

You check on the ground.

Your gears disappeared,

Into thin air.

You punch a wall,

You pull at your hair.

Wherever its gone,

One things for sure,

Whatever you had,

You have no more.

Those pixies have robbed you,

They’ve done you good.

They’ve sneaked in your gaff,

And stole what they could.

So while your crying,

Dabbing at tears.

Just think of those pixies,

Smoking your gear.

By DoubleDipped