The student addiction package. Part 1.
I am most certainly an addict though I’m no longer a student – thank the lordy lord above us.
Every assignment in my first year was a tragic mess, written or produced hung-over in the early hours, scraping by and getting away with complete and utter murder.
It was remarkable that I was allowed to stay at my chosen institute; below ten percent attendance and grades that didn’t reflect my abilities whatsoever were serious threats to my academic success. After being thrown a lifeline by an extraordinary woman, my course tutor, I managed to pull a few ideas together and actually produce something decent, as a means of showing the university’s board members that I was a credible student making worthy use of my time at such a fine and brilliantly student focused institute/business/company/fucking scam.
Perhaps it was a fluke, or something they over looked, but I did it anyway. Still hung-over / under the influence. What the hell was I doing? Everyone else seemed to be getting as twisted as I was but managing to go to lectures on time etc.
By second year I realised what the problem was. I am a complete and utter addict, when I thought people were on the same level of drug and alcohol abuse as me, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
A crazily incorrect assumption. I drank daily, abused uppers, downers, trippers and various research chemicals.
In second year we had move up in responsibility, no longer protected by the halls of residence we outrageously took advantage of. Now we had been set free on the public, a house in a student town on a real road with real humans living side by side. Students were scattered everywhere throughout the town, though on our road we were solitary, lone rangers.
My second year of University, was much of the same – Drugs drugs drugs, drink drink drink. But with a twist. Now I was drinking wine for breakfast, with benzo’s. Etizolams to be more precise.
Now for someone already prone to bouts of insanity, dissociative behaviour and flashes of unstoppable anger followed by long periods of depression – Those little blue legal drops of delight were a double edged sword.
The blue dreams came in varying shapes and sizes, a single dose without booze is a perfectly brilliant anti-depressant, a beautiful give-a-fuck drug to make everyday inside my head easier.
Did I take some 2Cb? 2Ci? 2Ce? LSD, Coke, and too much MDMA on top? No problem there my swingy chinned friend, pop a couple of these and you will sleep. For a very long time.
They had a Pringle like effect. They just kept falling down my throat.
First of all, Etizolams were so incredibly cheap and to bulk buy was cheaper. You sell ten of them at a pound a pop, from a bag of fifty and you’ve broken even. Unreal right? The abuse was resounding, months of blurry morning, looking at the bag of treats realising I had taken way more than one or two, sometimes it was eight and recalling nothing. Waking up to a calamity of a house.
I was never particularly clean; I had horrible hygiene all the way through second year.
Even after smashing through my bedroom door with fists and kicks, it took me a month or so to even sweep up the glass on the floor. I would walk glass everywhere, bare footed. I bled, I got cut. But for whatever reason, my brain was/is completely fucked to the point I actually needed help, or to go home to London and sort everything out.
But onwards I pressed chugging the lazy blue pills, blissfully ignoring all that was important.
Completely forgetting about myself. My needs.
Those of which I still ignore daily.
For months my friends and I continued to up the bar – taking large quantities on actual club nights out – and making a whole host of mistakes.
One friend, one with a personality so addictive that he could make Charlie Sheen blush, ended up having a seizure and that is with him now, for the rest of his life. Medicated everyday to stop them from happening. But now that Etizolams are banned – and good derivatives are hard to come by, he drinks PURPLE DRANK daily (Promethazine & cocodamol) as well as chewing Xanax all day – which was after he blew a grand or so in a month on coke, taxi’s and takeaways. And weed (obviously).
One friend fell down a whole flight of stairs face first – I missed the action because I was fucked at home out of my mind. But when I finally got to see what happened, it was another huge shock to the system. For everyone I think. His face, was like that of Quasi Modo’s. His forehead nearly split open vertically through the middle, the scar is still there. The scariest part is that he managed to walk into his housemates’ room, say he’d fallen down the stairs (covered in blood) to which his roommate replied. ‘It’ll be fine go to bed’. – He was also fucked to shit on Etizolams. He could have fallen into a Coma or died – And no one, not even himself would have given two shits.
It’s quite hard to explain where or when they emerged, but they did like a lazy volcano and at one point or another hit every single person who dabbled in a different way.
For me, it was the ultimate addiction.
More, more, more!
If I began to withdraw, become agitated and foul. There was always someone nearby sitting on an extremely large batch, or another who was waved and feeling generous.
The whole situation was completely fucked up. When Eti’s got banned, analogues and alternatives filled the gap in the market. Discheleroetizolams, Diclazopams (which put me in hospital but that’s another story), Climazolams and many other forms of Benzodiazepines flourished during the great blue depression – The banishing of Etizolams left a huge black hole in the Benzo market. Stronger and more expensive options appeared though I only fucked with them a few times – each of which filled me with regret and later resulted in a long bout of depression – or, they were too cheap, not quite good enough – and thus the addiction almost stopped – After my bout in hospital, an attempted overdose at the end of my time at University – I gave up on them. Almost.
Now Xanax are around – not quite as cheap as any others but they are safer, granted you don’t drink with them. But why would I take a bar of Xanax without a four pack of £2.50 lager – Or a cheap bottle of red wine. Nothing feels better – blow jobs come close.
Best thing about Xanax is you can crush them up and sniff them down. Straight to the dome and sofa bound.
I still haven’t learnt my lesson.
This is currently an ongoing problem – I never quite got away – What was the point of this essay?