A Family Affair

Two months before my 17th birthday my stepfather was released from prison and moved into the family home alongside my mother, brother and I. Along with an electric safety razor, his prison shoes and tattoo's, he brought with him a backpack full of opiates. Geoffrey Smith would be my 1st drug dealer, my second stepfather and the stepping stone that took me from recreational drugs to hardcore opiates. 7 years later, with the exception of my brother, the household will have descended into full-scale heroin and crack addiction... my mother, stepfather and I rolling about sick on the floor, lying cheating and stealing from each other. It would end with Geoff having both his legs amputated, my mother booking herself into rehab, and me fleeing London with 500ml of methadone, a bloodstained shirt and a french lover. This post details the bizarre descent of my family into drug addiction, how we managed through that and the past and present consequences of those years.

* * * *

In 1983, the year of my fathers murder, Geoff Smith held a barful of people hostage with a sawn-off shotgun after he discovered his wife was having an affair with the proprietors 18 year old son. After a 5 hours siege and coming down from a tab of LSD, Geoff exchanged four shots with the police and then surrendered himself and his freedom to the British Penal System. He was arrested and sentenced to 15 years in Wakefield High Security Prison. Of the 15 years he served 9, during which time he met my mother and married her inside. At the end of his jail term, released 6 years early on account of good behaviour, he boarded a train to London. As he had kept his release date a secret no-one knew he was on his way. One dull Friday afternoon I answered the door to a small, squat, grey haired man with pin prick pupils and an Adidas sports holdall. He shook my hand, introduced himself as my new stepfather and said he had come to stay. In disbelief I called my mum and watched in absolute amazement as she jumped into his arms and then dragged him off into the bedroom. It would be 12 years before he left.

The first thing I noticed about Geoff was that he slept a lot. During the first month I only saw him on a handful of occasions. Rather, he and my mother spent their days and nights couped up in their bedroom with a small television set... my mother occasionally staggering down the hallway and into the kitchen to knock up a peanut butter sandwich. I reasoned that Geoff's heavy and long sleeping was a prison habit he had yet to shake off, and to a certain extent I was correct. It was a prison habit alright... a prison drug habit. He had entered the system a drinker and dope smoker and had left an opiate addict, crushing down and snorting up tiny white pills boxed under the name of Temgesi... a strong painkiller doled out to the terminally ill. Geoff bought them by the box load from a friends mother who was dying of liver cancer. The active drug in Temegesic is buprenorphine, the same drug that Subutex, the heroin substitute, is comprised of. But at this time Subutex did not exist, buprenorphine was not yet being used as a heroin substitute.

From the moment I discovered what these little pills were I was intent on trying them. This wasn't the first time I had thought about opiates, I had had them on my mind a long time before Geoff rolled onto the scene... I had been half-heartedly trying to acquire heroin since I was 15, but didn’t know where or how to get it. It was not long before I approached Geoff and asked him for a couple of his Temgesic's. In order to befriend me he slipped me a few outside of my mums knowledge and warned me to not take more than one at a time.... and that’s what I did, and then I floated off to heaven. Within a month I was crushing down and snorting up the pills almost daily... using the same tube as my mother.

This went on for about a year, then our immunity increased and we were on 3 or 4 pills a time... from here on we had problems. Temgesic were very hard to get... They were almost impossible to buy on the street. When our supply was finished we put our lives on hold until the end of the month, until the next repeat prescription was ready. We would live in stretches of two weeks... and when the drugs were gone we’d all sit in miserable silence, staring at a blank TV that anyone was too bored to get up and turn on. Sometimes we’d buy a few grams of amphetamine and try to pass the time that way, but as the come down hit us we yearned for opiates more than ever. I learnt very quickly that you either use opiates all the time or not at all.... there is no comfortable middle ground.

This behaviour with buprenorphine continued for a little more than three years, until the day we received news that the mother of Geoff's friend had succumbed to the cancer that had gradually been monopolising her - our supply was cut dead (though not quite immediately). We convinced Geoff’s friend not to declare the death of his mother to her doctor and collect a final prescription. He done this and we payed him triple the price as agreed, but that was really the finish of it. With our last two weeks worth of Temgesic we schemed and planned our future supply. I convinced/paid my supervisor at work to go to a private doctor for a slipped disc he had suffered. I told him to say the hospital had once given them to him and they were the only things that eased the pain. Geoff’s method was a little more radical. He had a friend hit him in the chest with a huge mallet. Due to the blow he sustained three broken ribs and managed to convince his doctor to prescribe him Temgesic for that. Between the two of us we managed. We didn’t have as much as we needed, though at least we had some. But doctors are very wary about prescribing such strong opiates, especially for back and rib pain, and within two years both had lost their scripts and we were left in the lurch again. It was at this time that I started scouring the streets for Temgesic... approaching homeless people, new-age travellers, and alcoholics. But all avenues were fruitless, until I met Gerald, a new work colleague and someone who showed an active interest in hard drugs.

Gerald was the first person outside my household to even know what these drugs were. He told me he knew of someone that could reconnect the supply line. I met Gerald one evening after work and we travelled to a ground floor flat on The West Ken Estate. Of course, it turned into a Witch hunt, no-one showing up and no pills to be had. That’s when Gerald played his true hand and suggested that I buy heroin instead. “It’s exactly the same.. only stronger.” he said. “I can get that for you right now.” Without even having to think I gave Gerald the money and watched as he disappeared down an alley with a small hooded black boy. He returned a few minutes later, spat 3 small bags into his hand, wiped them clean and handed them to me. I gave one back to him and we parted.

I arrived home excited and proud. I felt like the breadwinner returning with the weeks pay... the food that would end everyone’s godless hunger and revitalize them back into the world of the living. I rolled the two bags on the table in the same way one throws gambling dice: “It’s heroin...” I said “A bag each.” Geoff was very happy, but my mother looked nervously at the bags. She didn’t say anything, but I could read her thoughts. She had lived with a junkie, my father, and she had never joined him in addiction, now, some 10 years later and at the age of 48 she was confronted with her son giving her heroin... heroin she knew she would take. And she did take it... we all did, and Gerald was right, it was exactly the same as buprenorphine only much stronger and much more readily available. After that first bag of heroin I knew I was/would become an addict. The fact is , I was a heroin addict long before I had ever even touched it. As for my mother and stepfather, well they enjoyed it just as much... and soon we were all regularly scoring and spending the evenings together.

Heroin addiction is not like it is portrayed in film or book. One does not take it once and turn into a hopeless and desperate addict. Addiction is a slow process and progresses from gradual to constant use. It always takes a few months and in our case it took almost a whole year before we even became aware that addiction was looming. What started out as a weekend thing soon covered Friday and Monday. Wednesdays also crept in to the mix and before long we were using every evening. The start of the evening became earlier and earlier, until finally we were using on waking... the real sign of proper physical and psychological addiction. It is no coincidence that on entering treatment centres one of the first questions is : “Do you use on waking? How long have you been using on waking?”

The progression from Temgesic to heroin happened over many years, during which time many things changed. I had grown up and left the family home, and Geoff and my mother had given up the flat on White City Estate and moved to a small maisonette in Shepherds Bush. As I was spending most my time there, scoring or using, I decided it would be cheaper and easier if I gave up my apartment and move back in with my mother. We were all using daily by this time and when funds allowed crack also. But the exertions and the expense of drug life was fast catching up on us, and in a bid to keep ahead of the game Geoff and I were constantly borrowing or advancing money . We were living on our next months pay rather than our last. It was a precarious game and one that would soon fail us. We were building pyramids of cards in the wind... We were heading for disaster.

Our first bout of junk sickness did arrive... just as we knew it would. I was out of cash and my friend who would lend me money was not in London that weekend. Geoff had been refused cash at work and instead had been given a cheque... he had a long 4 day wait for it to clear. During the first morning we all sat together in the living room twiddling our thumbs and asking the other: “You’re sure you’ve got nothing? Not even £5???” We emptied out our bags and pockets again and searched under the sofa and down the sides of the cushions... but we were all out, there was not a penny in the house.. It was the first time in our addiction that we had awoken with not even the heroin to give us a morning boot. We were not ill, but we were psychologically uncomfortable. By evening we were all on our backs, snivelling and retching and sweating. Our yawns were so wide and so deep that we almost dislocated our jaws trying to get them out... and when we opened our scrunched up eyes, burning hot tears would stream down our faces. By nighttime body smells and fluids filled the room.... we were so sick we barely had the strength or inclination to go to the toilet. It pained to move and it pained even more to keep still. Buckets of vomit sat unemptied in the room and crusty mucus clung to the blankets and pillows. The muscles in our bodies had had enough... they rejected the brains signals to move, and would spasm now and again completely of their own accord. We each lay in our own little hell groaning and crying and cursing a world that could not float £10 through the window... Not EVEN £10 measly pound. We were in one of the main financial cities of the world, in our street alone there was ten’s of millions of pounds worth of property and possessions, yet if you need money right HERE right NOW you cannot get it... what the fuck is that!?

After 48hrs, real debilitating junk illness had arrived. We were sick through to the marrow of our bones, bed ridden with all poisons of the world breaking out through the pores in our skin. And there is no respite or escape. Sleep is impossible when you are ill – you must suffer hell with wide open eyes. We lay there like this for three long and miserable days, the clock ticking by in hour length seconds. We groaned and swore at invisible pains, cursing the day we were born and the world we born into. We damned the rich and the fortunate and we bellyached about not having a pittance between us. We cursed Geoff's employer and bemoaned the banking system that makes one wait four days for a cheque to either clear or bounce. We cursed almost everything, but we never cursed heroin... we just prayed for that. Each of us sending out silent messages to a God that none of us believed in.

After three days I made an emergency call to my absent friend. She must have heard my discomfort for although she had just drove back to London that morning she said she’d cross the city and bring me some money. I told my mum and Geoff and we sat waiting the three hours for her to arrive. She did arrive, on time as ever, and there ended our first bout of family junk illness.

We lived together like this for the first year of addiction, during which time we sold anything and everything we had. My guitars and music equipment. The video... the DVD player. My brothers fishing rods, golf clubs and stereo. My mother decided that her little collection of jewellery was worthless and so one afternoon we sorted through it and took it along to the pawn shop. Her and Geoff adding their wedding rings to the kitty. We flogged the two antique lamps I had stolen from work and finally we sold the television. We ended up spending our evenings consuming heroin and crack and staring at the square dust patch on the wall where the TV used to be. To raise more money Geoff & I started doing private building work on the weekends... me knocking up cement and him constructing walls that we could crouch behind and smoke crack. Once an elderly client caught us on the pipe and asked what we were doing. We said it was a special substance that is blown into the wall and which hardens the cement quicker. At the end of the day we were paid and told not to ever come back.

But these times, by no means wonderful, did have their worth. Through the joint use of heroin and addiction I bonded with my mother. We had the same concerns and the same priorities and when we got high we spent the time talking and going over the past. She started taking some care of me, scoring for me and making sure I had heroin to get to work. In the daytime she’d pick me up clean needles and return my used ones. She done all she could to keep my injecting clean and free from disease. For my part I helped keep her in dope... leaving her money for a rock of choice each day. As we fell into sickness together love would be shown by the other managing to raise some money and then sharing their heroin with the other. I have memories of hanging around street corners, both of us scanning the street for a sight of our dealer.... rushing home with a pocketful of heroin and crack and smoking or shooting away our illness. Ok, it’s not the usual thing that brings a mother and son close together but it worked for us. Through the ordeal of heroin addiction we managed to understand the others suffering. Her past problems and behaviour suddenly made sense, and in that moment I forgave her all.

The first year and a half was rough trek, but then the good times came. I had been provoking trouble at work due to the conditions and the treatment of some of my colleagues. One Thursday morning I was called into the directors office, fired and handed a cheque written out to the tune of £10,000 on the agreement I took no action. I accepted the offer it in a flash. Two weeks later I landed a top job managing an accountancy company and for the moment our financial worries were over. But as one problem goes, so another fills it’s place, and with my recent payout and my newly acquired directors wage I started scoring crack every evening. And not just for me... for my mother and Geoff too. Soon the household waited desperately for my return from work... knowing that I would arrive with my hands full of crack and smack. It was the crack addiction that finally blew the biscuits out the tin.

Crack is a much more desperate addiction than heroin.... it’s effects don’t last as long and the come down leaves the user wired and willing to do the most daring things to raise money for the next rock. Because I was buying the crack and all were reliant upon my return from work, there was a certain amount of animosity which began to develop towards me. It wasn’t long before money disappeared from my wallet or rocks of crack and heroin started going AWOL. Geoff would go out to score and return with nothing saying he had been robbed or lost the money. Then the bedroom door would close and from inside I’d hear the unmistakable blabbering of crackheads.During the evening the door would open and smoke would pour out like opening a freezer on a hot day. “Oh, it’s just the cigarettes.” Geoff would say “They’ve changed the gauge of the papers!” I didn't care, I was in the living room piping by myself... it was the theft and lies that annoyed me. I suppose they just wanted some power and control over their own addiction... I understand that. It’s very difficult holding a habit and relying on someone else to fund it. My mother was in the middle, and like any half-decent junkie used her position to best advantage. She wandered between living room and bedroom, taking the benefits of both. When Geoff thought she was coming in to collect my dirty plates and cups, she was actually sneaking crack outside of his knowledge... collecting it in rolled up tissue and smoking it on her own later or when we were at work. All these lies and sneaking made for an angry and explosive house. It was not long before Geoff smashed an ashtray into my head and I knocked out two of his teeth with my elbow. We never recovered from that fight or from me pitifully flicking him rocks of crack on my return home.from work.

During the next two years crack and heroin took all our money. I was still living within my means, but Geoff had borrowed, stole and sold all he could to fund his addiction. His latest idea to raise funds was taking on private and undeclared building work... work he neither had the qualifications nor the tools required in order to carry it out. What he did have was an almighty drug problem that pushed him to insane lengths to get money. 50Ft up, fixing the tiles of someones roof for £100, he slipped and slid. He held onto the guttering for as long as he could and then strength robbed him of his grip. He let go and dropped feet first to the ground, breaking both ankles and shattering both shin bones. He was in hospital for 5 months and two weeks after his release he was hit by an infection and both feet bloated up and turned brown. This infection would eventually rob him off his legs and leave him wheelchair bound with a crackpipe hidden under the blanket that covered the stumps of his legs.

With Geoff out of action and all the fuss and expense of hospital visits, my mother decided it was time to quit drugs. She applied for a detox programme, and after waiting 4 weeks she started out on a Methadone Maintenance program. Since that day she has never taken heroin again... though her crack problem still lingers on. After giving up smack she still continued to allow me to live and use in the house, and she still continued to score for me in the daytime whilst I worked. In turn, I continued to keep her supplied her with a healthy amount of crack each evening.

Two months after the amputation of his legs Geoff returned to the house, but in his absence things had changed and so had he. With no legs he used my mum as a servant and shouted orders for crack cocaine at me from the bedroom... threatening to chuck me out the house and phone the police if I didn’t comply. Finally we all had had enough, Geoff too. My mother was in no position to look after a disabled and demanding crackhead, and after months of incessant arguing Geoff left. I carried him downstairs and wheeled him to the Social Security offices. I rolled him to the reception desk and left, putting two rocks of heroin and £100 in his top pocket With no handshake and no goodbye I was gone... though in truth I was expecting to see him later and hear some half-arsed story as to why he was back. But the strange thing is, I, nor my mother have ever seen him again... he disappeared without word or trace or legs. Maybe he was more fed up with drugs than I realised... maybe sitting at the reception, at yet another person’s mercy, he had looked down at himself, at the place where his legs used to be and realised that this was not a good place to be at his or any age in life. Maybe he regretted ever coming into contact with my mother or me. Maybe he chucked the heroin away and used the money to help get himself back on an even keel. On the other hand, and more probable, maybe he fiddled as much money as he could from the social services, wheeled himself back d own the Uxbridge Road and spent it all on crack and smack. If I had to hazard a guess I’d say he done just that.

I continued living with my mother, working, scoring and smoking white together. But I was becoming bored of that life and the crack was beginning to affect me badly. I was turning into work dishevelled without having slept and with a bag full of needles and heroin. I would spend the first hour with my office door closed whilst I searched in desperation for a vein. One employee found a needle in my office and another popped his head over the toilet cubicle one morning and saw me digging for veins and with needles scattered over the floor and a crackpîpe sitting on the cistern. He tried to blackmail me and then left in a rage after his complaint was received as lies and nonsense by my directors... No-one else believed him either. Though I never considered quitting heroin, I was constantly cursing and promising to stop smoking crack. I started going out in the evenings or staying late at work so as not to be around dealers. My mum would score my heroin and her crack in the daytime and by the time I arrived home all that would be left were my bags of brown and my clucking mother. It was in this period that I met a french girl, fell desperately in love and began a romance that would finish with me getting onto a MMT program and then exiting London for Lyon and a heroin addiction on alien soil.

On informing my mother of my plans to leave she had mixed feelings. She was happy for me but her mind showed off other fears. What would she do without me? Who would fund her crack addiction? I felt terrible for this... I felt guilty. I had kept her in crack for the past three years and now I was leaving her with nothing. But my life had taken an unexpected turn, and it was a turn that I had to take. It was a fresh break, away from London and away from crack and heroin. But more than that I had fallen in love.... there was someone other than myself to think of, and I couldn’t keep my partner living in the hell she had experienced in London. The decision had to be a selfish one... I had to leave London and those left behind would have to fends for themselves. If my mother would be without crack, well so would I... we’d have to live that together.

My mother was strangely quiet in the week leading up to my departure. We sneaked crack in the house past my girlfriend, and we took turns occupying her whilst the other hit the pipe. The quiet was only broken by half arguments... my mother throwing bitter and sarcastic comments towards me, yet not having the stomach to finish them. Well she did finally get it out.... on the morning of my departure she could hold her anger nor hurt in any longer. She broke down and started crying and asked what would happen to her? To me? What started off as quite healthy despair and fears ended in her accusing me of abandoning her to the dogs... of getting her hopelessly hooked on crack cocaine and then deserting her. She was also jealous that I had found and chosen another women to spend my life with over her. It all came out and as I descended the stairs with my suitcase of clothes ready to join my girlfriend in the waiting taxi, my mother came running down the stairs crying and threw a bag full of my old needles at me:

“They’re yours!!! Fucking take them to France.... don’t leave your shit here for me to tidy up!!!”

The needles hit me in the side of the head and scattered everywhere.... over 300 of them. Two lodged in the side of my neck.and dangled there until I pulled them out and threw them on the floor. Silent with anger I turned around and climbed in the taxi.

“Stanstead Airport, is it?” asked the driver.

“That’s it, mate.... Stanstead. Get me out of this fucking shit hole!” And with that he moved out and slowly pulled away. And as the blood rolled down my neck and soaked through the breast and collar of my shirt I turned my head and peered out the back window. There was my mother, on her knees in the street, sobbing hysterically amongst a pile of old needles as she gathered them together and put them back into the bag. She never looked up, never looked back, and I didn’t expect her to either. In a lifetime of alcohol, violence, sexual and physical abuse, she had never given me so much as a sorry or a pair of regretful eyes. And as the taxi moved and my mother became smaller, I once again surrendered, “I Love You, MUM!” I shouted “I LOVE YOU!” And as the last word slipped out my mouth and the first tears slipped out my eyes so my mother slipped into the distance... Smaller, smaller, and smaller until finally she was gone.

Thanks for sticking with me everyone... my very Best Wishes to All, Shane. x


Unknown said...

wow that was as always beautifully written Shane..
My eyes were wide and I reread it twice

couragerqd said...

I truly hope this will all end up in a book someday.


Anonymous said...

Incredible, I could relate to a lot of this because it's so familiar. Thanks for sharing, it's nice to know that so many things remain the same, even in somewhat different circumstance.
Peace man

mikimbizii said...

Amazing, wish you turn it into a book someday. You are great at describing every small detail.
Best wishes

Kat Skratch said...


Hello lovely! :) Wow. I thought I had an idea of your life based on all the entries you've posted. I had no idea it had happened thusly with your step father. Or for that matter, how bad the addiction was when you were sharing it with two other people. Shit man, your life...
I hope your life is more settled now. That you have people who love you, and aren't after you for your money or your ability to score.
If not, we love you here in blog land and we want a book apparently. Heh.
Wow. Shane, you're amazing with everything you've come through.
Thanks for sharing this entry.


Changedit said...

Shane, as usual a pleasure to read despite the dire content. Many things hit home, albeit I never bonded with any parent that way ... I just never bonded with them.

I just recently learned that Buprenorphine, which I am getting for arthritis pain maintenance as transdermal patches, is used instead of Methadone. Strange that, here I was thinking I am drug free, when in fact I am on 20 microgram of synthetic Morphine per hour.


Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...


Thanks for all you say. You reread it twice!!! It was a little long hat one, I wasn't sure anyone would read it evene once! lol

Hope you're well... thoughts and wishes, Shane. x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...


Many , many thanks for this and the last comment... I did read it. Whether it makes it into a book or not, it'll always be here... free and available to all.

My thanks once again... BW, Shane. x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya Sasha,

You're correct... many times events are different but the emotions that they stir are the same. I feel that also sometimes, even when reading blogs that on the surface seem to have very little to do with me.

Thanks for reading and commenting... it means more than I can say. Peace returned, Shane. x

Syd said...

Shane, it's a sad story. I wish that your mother would have gotten help and that you hadn't become addicted to crack or heroin. What a terrible time.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...


Hey ya...thanks as ever for your words!

I've a feeingno publiher will ever touch me I've ad a couple of meetings wth agents, but they always run a milewhen they realise it's not fiction.. that I really am what I write I am. Anyway, it's the creation and the expression that is important to me, and I'd rather write for free for people that ap^preciate it and accept me for what and who I am... that's the best deal I can ever have.

I hope you're well... all my thoughts & wishes, Shane. x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya Kat,

The first year of addiction is always hard... it's a shock andone has to readjust to that and work everything around the drug. Yes, my life's much more settled now... it's a good thing. That I'm writing and painting and keeping a blog is proof of that... it was not possible in London. They weren't the best times, but in a way I enjoyed them... I was happy writing that post - thinking of all the crap and nonsence we got up to. Even my memories of Geoff made me laugh... him smoking crack in his wheelchair! ;) I wouldn't change a thing... of anythng in my life... it's almost been a comedy.

I hope you're feeling better... I'm be across to your blog as soon as I'm finished here.


Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...


Yeah, that's strange about the buprenorphine... though I have heard before it's used in the treatment of arthritis.

I think I was just lucky to have finally bonded with my mother, and though we parted on bad terms, that was 4 years ago and now we have a wonderful relationship. My brother and sister still have huge hang-ups about our childhood & I don't think they'll ever forgive her for the drinking and behaviour.

Thanks as always for time and words & nice to see you on the JU! Love and Wishes, Shane. x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...


Hiya and thanks for the comment. It's probably more terrible reading it than living it. In life we have to accept things and come to terms with them. Those things happened over many years and in between that was life and daily details. In the post all the strange and bizarre and sad events are compressed as if they followed one another. So it probably sounds much worse than it actually was.

Hope alls well over there... all good here. My best wishes, Shane.

Greta said...

man, that was a long read. The prove you're writing so well/ good English is that I can't just skim over your entries to get them. No, I must sit and read carefully. But as always, worth every minute.
This here begins feeling like a jigsaw puzzle, every post a new piece of you.
Also noticed what I take for my scent bit. Love, Greta!

*** ******** said...

another enthralling read. thanks.

Unknown said...

You should look out for someone to help you publish your life into a book dude!
oh, i just saw that a lot of people made the same comment xD hahaha!

oh well, I don't know what else to say, you already know what I think, I say it every time I cme here and leave you a comment!

Take care
Stay Strong


Sarcastic Bastard said...

It is a sad, but very compelling, story.

I wish you happiness in whatever form you desire.

You are loved.


Anonymous said...

It gives me a great pleasure to devour all you write, as I admire your style of saying things. :)
I hope I will get to know a bit of you, among all your passionate readers^^. Have a wonderful night.


Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

By nighttime body smells and fluids filled the room.... Buckets of vomit sat unemptied in the room and crusty mucus clung to the blankets and pillows.

Hiya Greta, maybe you took that for your scent???

You're right, it is a jigsaw puzzle - for you and for me. It's a puzzle of how I got here.... to be what I am today. The posts are the answers as to why someone that is not depressed nor unhappy would reject life.

Anyway, thnks as ever for your words and time... they mean more than you'll probably ever realise.

Love and Wishes, Shane. x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Benedict, thank you very much. Take care & BW, Shane.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...


You don't always repeat yourself!!! lol But yes, I know what you think and it touches me. Thanks as eve and always for you comment... Love and hopes, Shane. x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya SB,

Yeah, it's sad how many broken lives there are... aand they were broken even before drug addiction.

Love returned as ever, Shane. x

Greta said...

Yes, exactly, this was my scent bit. I find mine even when they go unintended ;-)

Maybe you're just like me who won a deathride ticket on birth. they pick you. it's not your own choice??

and if i hadn't realized what commenting means to you i wouldn't do it the way i do.

all this being cleared up... bonne nuit, Shane :-) Greta

Anonymous said...

It's amazing how many people actually believe your made up stories. If any of this shit is true why don't you prove it- police records, etc.?

Sarcastic Bastard said...


Fuck you, you cowardly motherfucker. If you've got something to say, at least have the balls to put your name to it.

The main reason people read Shane's blog is because of his painful honesty. I have NOT ONE DOUBT that everything he relates is true. That's why his writing is so unmercifully good.

You Sir or Ma'am (we can't know, since you are an Anonymous pussy) can piss off. Leave my friend alone. Why are you reading his page if you don't believe him anyway? You read him because he is an excellent and compelling writer, and you must be jealous that he has so many readers.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya Anonymous,

Thanks for reading again... i'm sorry it was a little a long, but I wrote it with you in mind.

You obviously believe it's true, why else would you be so passionte about it? Anyhow, it's not my job to prove it's true... I just write the posts. All names and places are real, it's a very simple thing for any reader (incuding yourself)to verify them. If you're unable to do that, I can't help you.

Anyway, thanks again for reading and digesting and commenting... that's another 30 minutes of your precious life that you've sacrificied here... it really means a lot.

Hope you're well... Love & wishes, Shane. x

Anonymous said...

Yeah, Anonymous, mind your step. There are ways of tracking down anonymous posts to IP's if nothing else. You really wouldn't want me and S.B. to get on a plane from Ohio and come pay yer dumbass an educational visit would ya? Don't troll where you've got no fuckin clue assholio. I have intimate knowledge of addiction, and I'm here to tell ya, you obviously just posted without reading because anyone with a modicum of intelligence can see that what Shane writes about is VERY real. Go commit your fucktardary somewhere else ya sad TWAT!

Anonymous said...

Quick somebody come slap the red off my neck please=P

Greta said...

Haha Anon, I'd even keep reading if it was all made up.

Because it's not only the truth content that makes a fascinating story.

Nothing fascinating about you though, Anon.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

SB, Sasha & Greta,

It's due to wonderful people like you that I continue to have hope in humanity. If I leave my writing, after 20 years, with nothing but your friendships...well, thats the greatest success I could have.

Thanks for the support and for all you say... My Love & Respect, Shane. xxx

May said...

I'm here for the first time and it's interesting how we live through so much craziness and insanity and yet at the time it's just life. From the outside there are people who would say, Why the fuck did you live like that? and the answer would be, Because I did.
Now I have to go digest this big hunk of you that I just read. Cheers.

raptureslyric said...


I am a fan of your art. You're writing is also very beautiful, I have a few questions...

1) In an earlier blog you wrote you realized you were a junky when your best friend died, and then you write your first junky memory is when you took your walk to your mothers. But prior to you were already a junky and had experienced dope sickness? The timeline is confusing me.

filthy lust said...

once again i was hooked.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya Andrea,

It's a bit confusing because the length of time that the last post covers. That was from 1991/2 - 2003/4. My first bout of sickness was just after my friend died (year 2000). the sickness I refer to in this post is after that... it would be 2001 (I think) as that's the date I gave up my flat in Fulham and moved back to my mothers. You have to keep in mind I didn't start using heroin properly until 1999 (as I say in the post, "7 years later (from 1992) we would all be junkies") and I was never sick before that as I was using Temgesic and never suffered physical withdrawal from them.

Also, the main dates are always correct, but there may be some smaller incidents that I estimate the date on I never kept ddairies or journals, and it was only since coming to France that I have detailed them years. So it is all (except present posts) written in retrospect and I do not always remember exact dates.

Thanks for yourr comment, and if anything still doesn't make sense, just mail or message.

Thanks for all you say & for reading and commenting.... My very best wishes, Shane. x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...


Wen I speak in this post of coming home with heroin, that would have been early 1999, and it would be the start of the lead up to addiction. As I say, it took nearly a year to realise I was hooked. Also, if you remember from the post where my friend died, Gerald was mentioned there as the first person to put me onto a dealer... in this post it returns to that, as Gerald scored the three bags for me. So it all does fit together.

All This Trouble... said...

Still reading along...

Bar L. said...

Shane, My Dear Shane! I have missed reading your blog and your stories. This one was incredible...but aren't they all? You have to write a book! You really do!

FYI - my son is in jail so he has three weeks clean from suboxone and 6 weeks clean from heroin :) I am not happy where he is but I feel hopeful.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya May,

Welcome to Memoires of a Heroinhead & thanks for reading and commenting.

We have to accept the things that xome our way because if not we become as crazy as the events themselves. In many ways, craziness is that... it’s a reflection of the things we cannot accept.

Thanks again for your time... & I hope we’ll speak more soon.

Take care, Shane. x

JoeM said...

I came here via Dennis Cooper's blog which you recently posted on, curious about the son of a Nilsen victim. But hours later I'm still reading and almost forgot why I came here in the first place.

Really fascinating insight into addiction and particularly Heroin. And all the other stuff that came up: abuse/romance/childhood. And so poetically written - Heroin as 'the missing inch on a lopsided chair'. I especially admire the non self-pitying, that's life attitude. Given what you've been through this is refreshing, in an age when rich superstars who have everything going for them but still manage to fuck up, constantly moan and blame everything but themselves for their plight.

I can't believe any publisher would turn down what you've written so far - I mean, economically, the Nilsen aspect would sell it alone.

Anyway, a few questions. You say Heroin is very damaging physically to the body. But I vaguely remember that doctor who invented the electronic device to cure Heroin addiction (I think she was Scottish, helped Eric Clapton) said that actually H was one of the least toxic drugs - far less harmful to the body than alcohol.

I'm wondering how someone like Keith Richards, who was a very long time user, could have survived so long if it's that toxic.

Also, before you spoke about toxicity I was going to ask if you thought it feasible, if the user had an endless supply, to use forever - and if so, why long timers like Keith Richards and Nick Kent stopped (Kent I think became a bit of an anti-H proselytizer).

Also you say, re creativity, that H 'stops all output...nothing ever gets done'. Yet later you said it didn't affect your painting or writing 'It doesn't work like that'.

Anyway, I am now addicted to this blog and it's haphazard (autobiographically) output. I wonder what you're going to spring on us next...

Lou said...

I understand the jumbled time thing. Daily heroin use makes time irrelevant. There is only scoring time, and using time. All things that happen in between are really of no concern. Even by being around someone using daily, got my time all off kilter. They were up at odd hours, sleeping at the wrong time, etc.
That damn heroin can really get the non user all befuddled!

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya JoeM,

Firstly, thank you for venturing across and donating your time to me and my words... it’s something that still continues to surprise and move me.

When I said heroin was very damaging to the body I was referring to the administration of it – especially injecting. It’s the means to get it into the body that damages, and not so much the drug. I’ve also heard that heroin is one of the least toxic of drugs, but you have to keep in mind that pharmaceutical heroin and street heroin are very different things. In their journey from harvest to usable drug, I think the only thing they share in common is that they are derived from the same plant.

If the user has a constant supply, yes it’s feasible that he/she could use forever. However, veins don’t last forever, and even with the cleanest of heroin the veins collapse and disappear. Eventually, for all injecting addicts, it becomes almost impossible to administer the drug. So there are other factors which affect this question. When I left London each injection was taking between 30mins – 2 hrs... an enormous amount of wasted time.

There are a few reasons why long term users may decide to quit. I mentioned this in a previous post, so will quote you what I said then (also it ties in with long-term usage):
“... what will be surprising is just how quickly a completely stabilized addict will feel completely stupid using just to feel normal. Once the highs and lows are removed from heroin addiction, the addict is as good as permanently straight... there is very little difference. And if one is straight using, one may as well be straight and not using... I myself sometimes feel this... but then there is a drought.”

I have repeatedly said throughout my blog that “heroin is full of contradictions”.We’re hitting on a few of them here.

Around creativity...

Heroin doesn’t affect one’s creativity... that is true, but it does affect the artists time to create or produce.And it’s not even the heroin in itself, but the lifestyle around it. After the time spent finding, buying, using, etc, there’s not much time left. Add to the mix one’s work or means of funding the addiction, and one is left creative but with no output to show for it. When I finally left London I had years of thoughts and ideas and paintings and poems and books fully formed in my head... but that’s where they had stayed. I had still been mentally creative, but had nothing physical to show for it. This is where a substitute did help me, it allowed the addiction not to be so desperate.... it wasn’t absolutely essential to score or to worry about gear each day. With methadone to back up my habit it gave me the time and the freedom to do some of the creative things that I’d always wanted to do. I am not a great fan of methadone as a heroin substitute, but it does have it’s worth.

I hope that covers it? If not or if there’s anything else you’d like to ask/know you can either post another message here or send me a mail.

Thanks again for your message and all you say...

My very best wishes, Shane.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Filthy Lust... I thought you had deserted me!!! lol

Glad you're back and still enjoying... my thoughts & wises, Shane. x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...


Hiya... always a pleasure to have your words of experience here.

You know, when I first started this blog I had to literally sit down with a pen and paper trying to work out and estimate dates for everything. Even now there are smaller events that I have trouble placing.

Hope alls well for you Lou... not too bad here. All my best, Shane. x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...


Nice to have you back... I will send you a mail a little later.

Shane, x

Tonyoneill said...

Hi Shane

I found your blog via Dennis Coopers blog too. Its funny, reading this, seeing your pictures, looking at the people who influence you, it was almost like looking in a mirror for me. I will definitely be coming back, to read all of the stuff I have missed but I just wanted to thank you for sharing all of this and I also wanted to say that I think you are a very fine writer... I would echo a lot of what other people were saying on here - this stuff could be very easily put into book form. I saw a picture on here of you holding my last book, so if you had time to read it then you probably know my stuff and a little of my story... feel free to pay me a visit over at tonyoneill.net and drop me a line if you get the chance...

all the best man, and keep typing...


JoeM said...

Thanks for taking the time to answer those questions. I'm clear now that it's the veins that you meant when you said H destroys the internal organs. I know you said that after using needles you can never go back to inhaling,but if it becomes impossible to inject wouldn't that be not only an option, but necessary? What is the difference between the two methods - presumably you still get the required H inside.

Tell me if I'm asking too many questions - I'm Scottish. Gore Vidal said 'The Scots are a nation of lawyers' - he felt like a Scots question/answer session was like an Inquisition.

I remember your quote about
being straight on H so why not straight off it. I wondered what '...but then there is a drought' meant. A drought of H so that you have to come off and remember how awful being straight is? I wonder if the 'straight' of being on H isn't really not the same 'straight' as being clean. Maybe you still need that inch or even 10th of an inch. I suppose the only way to find out is to go completely clean for 6 months or so. The writer and alcoholic Jeffrey Barnard went off drink for 2 years but decided life was too dreary without it, resumed round the clock drinking until he had to get his legs cut off, then died. But he said the years he would miss was worth it.

I thought re the creativity thing that you couldn't write on H days but could on Methadone days, just due to the effects. But I suppose since you say that doctors lawyers etc use it invisibly (not to mention the likes of Keith Richards, Nico, etc) it makes sense that you could also write. I just had the stereotype image of the junky blissed out on a mattress.

Anyway, sorry to go on. You got some favourable comments on the Dennis Cooper site and he re-linked to this page.

All the best.

Herbert Barry Woodrose said...

I read this slowly over the course of a day. You're killing me man.

This is an incredible piece.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya Joe,

No you’re not asking too many questions... I always encourage them. The comments section here is almost more important than the post section... you was right to mention it on the DC blog. As for Scottish blood... well, I understand and forgive you for that! ;)

H destroys the veins but also the internal organs. From what I know (& it’s not much) it damages the kidneys, liver heart and lungs. Also injecting H introduces many foreign bacterias to the body, some of which are still probably unknown. I don’t know too much as I avoid medical books... having read the blog, you know why.

What I meant about “then a drought comes”, is that no matter how hard one tries to manage their habit, you are always reliant upon other forces. If the traffikers have a delayed or captured shipment then there is nothing and that is a low. After a low you use heroin and it gives you a high. These highs and lows in many ways fuel the addiction... especially longterm addiction. If these are removed, you have a constant and regular supply of heroin, the addict very soon becomes bored by searching for hours for veins just to feel straight. I sometimes feel like that... and then there is a drought (it all starts again.)

Yes, you can create under heroin.... lets think of creating as working, well all addicts work. Whether it is legal or going out robbing every day. It is still 8 hrs of attention and two bus journeys per day. Methadone allows you to work bettr because it is less of a sedative and more of an upper. You don’t feel methadone except for the sudden desire to do things (but that doesn’t come immediately). Still, for the best part of my addiction I never used methadone and still held down full time jobs. Maybe it was that which stopped me producing... maybe I was just exhausted???

The junkie laying on the bed does not really exist. It can be like that at the start of use and for ten mins after a fix, but it’s not an image that I am familiar with. Film has to show the gouch, the junkie nodding out... if not the injection would seem pretty ridiculous, but the gouch is a privilidge that is afforded to newer users or very strong gear. From my experience a junkie takes a fix and then gets on with the things he has to do. I Take a fix, wipe the blood, pull my trousers up and say: “Ok, I’m ready, let’s go.” I’ve never experienced the group euphoria that was shown in Trainspotting and I’ve certainly never keeled over and sunk through the floor!!! haha

All my best JoeM... keep reading & send your questions any time.


JoeM said...

Thanks for those replies.

Yes - 'Oh your Scottish...now who do I know who's Scottish...'

That makes sense about the return of the highs making it seem worthwhile to keep on with the drug. I do (or used to do, far less now) a bit of binge drinking and I've never understood those 'maintainers', people who drink all the time but never get really drunk. What's the point? Unless it gives them just a little 'glow' they wouldn't be able to do without.'Functioning alcoholics', who hold down jobs etc. If I want to drink I have to leave it until I've got a week off work or something.

Jesus, being on Heroin must be the hardest job in the world! All I have to do is walk across the road to the off-license.
(Maybe that's why some H users look down on alkies - I remember the Scottish writer/addict Alexander Trocchi was a bit like that, in his writings anyway,like Irvine Welsh looking down on speed users. I can't remember the insulting label for speed, something like 'Morningside Cocaine' - Morningside being a poncy middle class part of Edinburgh).
I bet when H addicts come off completely they have tons of energy.

Also it's true, having a job ruins the creative output. I write, but when I come back from 7 hours of brainless librarianship I don't have the mental energy to do anything creative, even if I've got the time - but when you work all day you've got stuff to catch up with as well.

Oh well, maybe one or both of us will strike it lucky and make a fortune - then probably drink or drug ourselves to death!

All This Trouble... said...

If I won the lottery, I'd be dead in a week. And I believe that holds true for most of us.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya again JoeM,

In London I could score heroin within 45 minutes without fail. If poss we always try to buy in advance... just in case the dealers phones are turned off. It is hard, but in a way scoring becomes an enjoyable part of it. It is where many events occur and for many addicts is the only time they leave the house.

You're right about some H users looking down on other forms of addiction. They see H as the ONLY addiction, the most dangerous and the most significant. The addict enjoys the idea of being reckless of living one shot away from death, but that is not really the truth. It is not as risky as what addicts would have you believe and it is very difficult to OD. I will write more about this in a post as it is too long for a comment.

Strike it rich? Well I'm diggng with a headless shovel (must be one of Nilsens old tools)so you'll probably beat me to the kitty... maybe we'll meet each other during the dig - who knows? Whoever gets it, the NHS will surely end up funding the cost - shall we order livers now?

'Stoopid Slapped Puppies' said...

Incredible writting.
A couple of things made me think really hard.
The shared experience and that helped build a relationship with your Mum, reminds me of my Dad and football, we always used to go and even though I have not seen him in nearly a year when I go to see a game and the teams run out I just want him there beside me, ya know, the things that build and hold reelationships, weird really.
I have never taken heroin and I don't think I ever will, but if I am honesst it walks me like a dog on a lead somedays, there used to be days when I wanted it so much, not just the drug but the whole act of taking it, I think like a ritual is how i saw it, but somehow I knew I would get consumed and I am not sure I'm ready for that just now, you describe that so well here, its kinda confused but when I was 15 a boy in our class committed suicide and we were taliking in class to a psychologist about it and someonee said 'but why not' and the psychologist said something like, because theree's music and boys and girls and love and beauty' and it just stuck with me.
I know these things exist for you and heroin doesnt stop that but it helps me as does your incredible writting nd life, never stop man.
As always Love and Total Respect to you
Nick XX

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya Nick,

You know, in many ways I write for the eyes... I write to have friendship and comfort and love. I've never had that and I need it. I used to travel around on the underground and during the travel I'd gently lean against people (men or women) and take huge pleasure in the warmth that they gave off.. the comfort of resting upon someone, of having someone accept that. No-one was aware I was doing this intentionally, they must have just thought I was a little sleepy. And I get the same feeling here, behind the posts, when I read yours and others comments. In what is a very hard world, so many people are so soft.. and it has surprised me and filled me with hope.

When the teams run out... yeah, I understand what you speak of there. Even now when I go to score I still remember the times with my mother. Both of us out in the pissing rain cursing the dealer and thinking of the pipe... laughing and joking at how ridiculous we were, at how unblievable our situation was. Yes, it's the same... fond memories and they are worth more than anything. I think especially when they are unexpected, when what you thought you’d never have actually arrives.

Im glad you have a good head about heroin... the world doesn’t need great people like you strung out and passive. I never encourage or discourage heroin use, I know it to well to get involved in that, but I am always pleased to hear someone say “It’s not for me.” of their own accord. I also get a feeling you will gain more from observing others experience with it than going down the road of using yourself.

You are correct, I have kept my passion for life, for love and for beauty, but the majority of addicts do not... in the main once H makes an appearance all else turns to shit. I've never fallen out of love with life.. just out of love with myself and angry at a relentless world. That isn't the case anymore, but it was when H first started taking a hold. And it helped me, it possibly saved me, and that is why I have no regrets of the drug, the damage it has done to me or my ongoing addiction. As I keep repeating, it has helped me as it has killed me... as so many things do.

I think what I am really wanting to say here is thank you for ALL you say, and all you are. And if I make you reflect, so you have the same effect on me. You also make me think and wish I had left my teenage years as fucked but as together as yourself... questioning the world and everything in it. I think around us, and around the blogs and the people we are, that something is taking off... I think life is about to deliver. Do not forget these words Nick... in another life I was a prophet.

My Caps Locked LOVE returned, Shane. xxx

David said...

I found your blog only today. You are totally different. I have never seen a person like this before sharing all his experiences in such a detailed way. Surely a great experience for me being here. I think you are a very confident person.

Suzysoo said...

I too found your blog today (not even sure how now) I have been reading for nearly 3 hours now! You are an amazing human being for enduring what you have, and then sharing it with us. I will read every word you have written here! Best wishes to you x

Barricade said...

A curious point you make about agents recoiling from the reality of the tale.

I find that surprising.

If you have a book format of the posts, I could bounce it off an agent whose shark nature is also animated by personal empathy.

Re smack and creativity?
In the end a habit is like a dull civil service job, repetition, deceit and monotony kill or at least pacify whatever animated sparkle is left in the user.

If you wish, you can leave a message and I'll get back to you.

It's a matter of indifference to me whether your lottery win of bad luck is embellished or not.

It works.

Take care, man.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya K, I think we swapped a few words some months ago so I won't give you the CAPS LOCKED welcome, just a hope you're keeping well.

I'm sometimes guilty of heaping agents and publishers in the same mass grave, so let's say it's more publishers who seem to be scared of the real deal. They want the tales but not the life. They kinda seem to wish you could write this stuff and then meet them to sell with a nice full set of white teeth and a healthy complexion. It's a business Kevin, and business is scared by anything which may be unpredictible. Sure they play the cards of the 'gamble of investment', but the last thing any serious business will do is take a risk. And I'm seen as a risky option. That's the feeling I get anyway... but I'm sure there is the right person out there. It gets closer everyday. I feel it creeping up like death.

Smack & creativity. Doesn't exist. Someone is either creative or not. Smack, nor any other drug, can give someone what they haven't got. I NEVER peddle the myth of drugs and creativity. Au contraire, I consistently stamp the idea down, and have stated various times here that I can't produce anything under heroin. My mind is still active, and I still create mentally, but it stays there and never gets out. I think out of all the words written here there was maybe one very short post I wrote while actually on heroin.

I think ALL writing is embellished. Facts are embellished with atmosphere. Our take on life and experience is an embellishment too. There is no factual truth in words, but there can be deeper truth - insight. The bare facts don't tell it as it is either. Unbiased, detached reporting is just as embellished as anything because that fails to give humanity to the situation. That stands for any medium. The artists role is not to tell the truth; it's to express it. They are two very different things.
It's like music. It's in the embellishment that people find their own truths.

Anyway, You keep well... All My Thoughts & Wishes, Shane.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hiya K, I think we swapped a few words some months ago so I won't give you the CAPS LOCKED welcome, just a hope you're keeping well.

I'm sometimes guilty of heaping agents and publishers in the same mass grave, so let's say it's more publishers who seem to be scared of the real deal. They want the tales but not the life. They kinda seem to wish you could write this stuff and then meet them to sell with a nice full set of white teeth and a healthy complexion. It's a business Kevin, and business is scared by anything which may be unpredictible. Sure they play the cards of the 'gamble of investment', but the last thing any serious business will do is take a risk. And I'm seen as a risky option. That's the feeling I get anyway... but I'm sure there is the right person out there. It gets closer everyday. I feel it creeping up like death.

Smack & creativity. Doesn't exist. Someone is either creative or not. Smack, nor any other drug, can give someone what they haven't got. I NEVER peddle the myth of drugs and creativity. Au contraire, I consistently stamp the idea down, and have stated various times here that I can't produce anything under heroin. My mind is still active, and I still create mentally, but it stays there and never gets out. I think out of all the words written here there was maybe one very short post I wrote while actually on heroin.

I think ALL writing is embellished. Facts are embellished with atmosphere. Our take on life and experience is an embellishment too. There is no factual truth in words, but there can be deeper truth - insight. The bare facts don't tell it as it is either. Unbiased, detached reporting is just as embellished as anything because that fails to give humanity to the situation. That stands for any medium. The artists role is not to tell the truth; it's to express it. They are two very different things.
It's like music. It's in the embellishment that people find their own truths.

Anyway, You keep well... All My Thoughts & Wishes, Shane.

Dan said...

I have a simple question, in your post, first injection, you do not describe your first contact with injecting as you did here. For most of the time, I've thought your blog posts were based completely on real events. I can't help to ask, are certain things not real?

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Dan, what the fuck are you talking about? This post doesn't go into the first injection and only talks of injecting in a brief sentence. I'm not sure what you're reading and why you're so keen to try and find holes in the text. You won't. The time frame is all there, maybe read them again and pay a little more attention. I've also repeatedly said that ALL writing is fiction... the truth is never found in ANY writing, not even in its simplest form. Once you start creating atmospheres and describing people and things from your perspective it's no more the truth than when our eyes see the only colour which isn't there. Anyhow, there's no inconsistency and you must be pretty sad to imagine one and write concerning it. After so many thousands of words have you nothing else to remark? I'm starting to think you're a sad, pathetic, bitter cunt. X

Anonymous said...

Sorry for the anonymous but I can barely see right now to sign up.. My name is ken and your story from what I read and think it is real as hell... I lived this life myself, some things are too hard to just make up.. It started when I was 15 smoking weed.. Then turned into every other drug under the sun. Too waking up to heyron everyday. That or hating the world, with everyone and everything in it..

Anonymous said...

I hit submit by accident.. Anyway thanks for sharing that. I was glued to the screen. even oceans apart we aren't that much different good or bad. I pray my daughter never sees the kind of shit we did .. Thanks


Anonymous said...

Hey man, it's pretty interesting, the way you say you got into opiates, through buprenorphine, cos I got into them exactly the same way; I started snorting them when I was an 18 year old alcoholic, I thought it was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and within 3 years, thanks to my using subu's I quit booze. Thing is, I eventually drifted toward skag & banging up and have had some pretty heavy habits but it's always bupe I come back to (I inject it), usually after several months on brown. I find brown easier to come off of than bupe, go figure. It's like crutches and it's hard to do without them. I know lotsa people are saved by buprenorphine but I reckon there should be more information and warning about addiction to buprenorphine, people forget it's also an opiate. Love your blog by the way. x

JFB 4-8-15-16-23-42 said...

Your writing is amazing!!! I am currently on bupe and it helps me tremendously!

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