As if, Emily.

Diary of a teenage hedonist.


Waiting for your dealer is the slowest form of waiting known to man.  You want to score, so you call your regular supplier.  They promise they will meet you in half an hour, usual place, usual time.  You go.  Wait.  An hour ticks by but it feels like two.  You call again and are rewarded with “I have something I have to take care of, be there in ten”.  You wait twenty before you call again. Your mouth is dry.  Palms sweaty and your stomach is in knots.  Mailbox.

            I’ll admit that my dealer is normally super, but there have been times when I’ve waited in the designated place for three plus hours and then have finally been told it’s no longer possible.  I wonder what can be more attractive than the €50 I am holding in my back pocket?  The answer is, of course, heroin.  Like most dealers, mine is also an addict.  I know it’s not personal; I realise I am not as attractive as a spoon and a needle.  However, I can’t help feeling let down.  Don’t we have a relationship?  Don’t I support your bloody habit?!

            The truth of the matter is, no matter how well you think you know your supplier – whether you’ve given them a Christmas card or loaned them a few quid – to them you are just another whiney junkie getting on their wick.  They are safe in the knowledge that no matter how badly they treat you, you rely on them.  They can take their pick of the whiney junkies; a good dealer is hard to find.  I am writing this as I wait for my dealer.  Waiting for your dealer is the slowest form of waiting known to man.

Relapse, the art of self-sabotage.

I made the decision to leave rehab about three weeks ago.  In the run-up to my two week stint, I hadn’t injected for over a month.  Whether that was due to apprehension of what awaited me in the clinic, the fact that I was on a substitute or simply because I had run out of clean veins, the fact was that I wasn’t at the same stage as the other people there; I didn’t feel that the atmosphere there was conducive to further sobriety.  Despite all the warnings from the staff that I was just about to hit the worst stage of withdrawal from my substitute, I left.  And I didn’t inject in the three days of pure hell that followed – withdrawal from Polamethadone is truly the worst I have ever experienced.

So why did I throw that all away, barely a week later?  With the memory of the pain fresh in my mind, why did I go to the Bahnhof area of this dirty, druggy city?  Why, upon seeing my dealer again after two months, was my response a smile instead of the revulsion I had hoped to feel?  And why fucking why, after deciding the €40 hit of brown I had taken wasn’t as good as I remembered, did I proceed to inject the next day and the day after that?

The last day was the worst.  Crack.  Unsatisfactory hit after unsatisfactory hit; €20, then €40; no more veins.  I finally stopped trying to get high and then the guilt set in.  The realisation that I had once again cleared my bank account when the rent on our flat is due.  The bruises, the needle marks.  I felt once again that I had hit rock bottom and was mentally chastising myself, promising to scrap all of my kit and tie myself to a chair to stop me going out, when a little voice made itself heard above the babble in my head: “it doesn’t matter if you throw out all of your needles and cut up all of your bank cards.  You will still find a way.  Let’s not be too hasty, all this talk of never again!”.

Hello, voice of addiction, my old friend.  I know you.  I have faced you before and I will face you again.  I was the victor once, when we were still talking the alcohol game.  But when facing the prospect of losing your last vice, you are playing dirty…I am losing strength and patience.

Day Ten – Termination.


Having managed most days to write something, I can quite clearly see my mental decline.  I have decided to speak to the social worker tomorrow and when nothing comes of it – or even if something comes of it – to leave.  It’s not healthy for me to be surrounded with people who glorify using or even just talk about it factually (as all of us do; I am not excluding myself from this behaviour but I have recognised that I need to avoid doing it).

            I have gleaned something positive from this: I have rekindled my love of animals and have realised I have somehow retained a bit of the information I collected as a child.  Clearly having bombarded my brain with chemical comforts hasn’t done that much damage (fingers crossed!).  I have also learnt a few new things too, plenty of fuel for my dream cottage fire.  But I think it’s better to leave now.

And the following day, I left.  I don’t regret that decision, despite the relapses.  The intensive drug discussion and self-inventory that rehab brings can work to help some people build the platform to support them in staying sober; with me, it works exactly the opposite way.  I get increasingly turned on by the idea of ‘breaking the rules’ and taking drugs.  As an example of the scale of the problem, when they took blood from me on the second day I was so happy that they used a huge needle!  And every time I tried acupuncture, I was spurring the poor doctor on to dig the needles in deeper just to try and satisfy my craving to inject.  No, I maintain that not discussing/thinking about taking drugs is the best method for me (although maybe that means I should stop writing this blog?!).

Day Nine – Insurmountable Odds?


No one is here for the first time.  Except me.  To clarify, from the 20+ patients in residence I am the only one here in Station P- for the first time.  No one is the first time doing a stint in rehab, not even me.  That makes an 100% failure rate of rehabs here in Germany.  What does that tell us about drugs, kids?  That they are impossible to forget, once you have tried them.  That there are some ills in the world that you can’t heal.  Of course, the stories and the substances differ, but they all come to the same conclusion.  Drugs stay with you, through good times and bad.  “Let’s celebrate – have a wee dram!”.  “Gosh, I feel terrible.  I know what will help”.  And if you manage to abstain, you become an outcast.  A smug arsehole.  And no one wants that.



Just been subjected to a round of drug nostalgia from two of the hardcore old junkies.  Tales of cold turkey, drug abusing parents, bartering codeine for material…it begs the question, for someone who has had such a privileged upbringing – with parents who have always tried their best to show me that I am loved and supported – how did it come to this?  I try and justify it with my crippling depression.  I try and justify it, because I have to.  Because I can’t foresee a future without drugs.  I am going to ask the Doctor to increase my Sertraline.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck it all.

Rehab – Day Eight


I need to pull myself together.  Of course, my whispered plea that I would dream of him wedged itself into my subconscious and whaddya know?  The start was a bit confused: trying to establish if the dreams I had where he comes back and isn’t dead, were dreams or reality.  When my subconscious decided they were in fact real, there he was.  But dreams are not real.  And I know he is dead.  I know he is dead.  That’s a fact.  I was at the funeral.  I watched the coffin going down.  So I need to lock that back up.  I have to stop thinking about him.

Rehab – Day Seven

This rather small, rather miserable entry for my seventh day at a rehab clinic in the German countryside requires a bit of background explanation.  When I was about twelve, I fell in love.  Hard.  We were together – or as together as people of that age can be – for about a year.  My love for him never went away and we kept in touch in the intervening years until, in the depth of my alcohol addiction and his heroin addiction, we were once again in a relationship.

He made the decision to end it.  He couldn’t cope with both of our addictions.  I fell apart.  He, by all accounts, fared better.  Until seven months later.  He had overdosed and died.  I won’t trivialise how I feel about it by attempting to explain further.


Secret Garden treasure hunt and colouring book.  “Draw here what the padlock is locking away”.  I want to draw J—.  I miss him.  I love the way your hair, hangs over your eyes.  Crush me with your stare.


Rehab – Day Six


Well, it inevitably kicked off last night.  Walked out to have a cigarette to find D—-, S——– and some others having a heated discussion with B– (who from here on in will be known as ‘the asshole’).  He said something about me which I didn’t catch, so I asked him to repeat it and bang, we were off.  He tried to get the others on side by saying that my angrily flushed cheeks were a sign of guilt.  I set him and the others straight.  Shouting followed and he then admitted that he’d said he “would fuck me hard” but I should have noticed that he didn’t say my name (true) and didn’t look me in the eyes (false).  Talk about objectification!  I was pretty sick of his slimy face by this point so I left but unfortunately, because I had forgotten to breathe during the argument, I started to hyperventilate.  Alf—, who works here and is amazing, managed to eventually calm me down with a star-gazing session.

I feel really uncomfortable today, because despite the fact that I wrote down every exchange I had shared with the asshole, there seems to be no consequences for him.  I noted that he had invited me into his room to translate Beatles lyrics (I left ‘for a cigarette’ because I felt weird about being in his lair), given me sweets (which I gave to S——–) and did not once during all the conversations we had say he would rather I wasn’t so vulgar – not that I was, but as anyone who has spent any time with me will know I can sometimes be an over-sharer – which is what he later said.  Fuck him.  Almost everyone, including some members of staff, have since come to me and said he’s really not worth anything.  So he’ll not be using up any more of my page or thought space.

S——– is in a bad mood.  Despite the fact that I have tried to council her and have shared my laptop and tobacco, she believes it’s appropriate to chase me down the corridor to tell me off because I accidentally let the door slam.  Whoops, she has just stormed in and out of the room without saying anything to me!  I like her, but for now I think it’s best to avoid her.  I need to try and avoid everyone, actually, I am sick of the small talk and worrying about whether I am offending people or not, blah, blah, blah.  It’s always going to be difficult when one considers that we are all in withdrawal, all have a myriad of background problems and some of us are simply not very nice people.  I’m sick of pretending I’m one of the nice junkies.

Speaking of nice junkies, A— left yesterday along with – although pointedly not in the same car – all of the Russians.  Apparently the others’ urine samples had come back positive from the laboratory and he wasn’t being allowed to be retested.  Guilt by association.  It’s a shame; I found him interesting and it means I have lost an ally.  It feels really empty without them and I can’t be bothered to get to know the new people.  When I was cleaning out the hen and goose sheds, I could imagine that I was the only one here and that they were my animals.  But as soon as I re-enter the building and am confronted with a sea of miserable faces, I am reminded that I will never be able to afford a nice house or to have animals.  I might as well go home now, take a hefty dose of calming, warming H and slip-slide quietly into the darkness.

Rehab Day Five – It’s downhill from here!


What a shitty day.  I neglected to note down last night the exchange I had with B—, but it’s important in order to explain exactly why today has been shitty.  It’s not the main reason, but it counts so here goes: shortly before going to bed, I decided to go down for a smoke.  B– being the only non-Russian there, rather than read I decided to converse with him.  I made some comment about how sexy the actress in the French Krimi ‘Spiral’ is.  Unremarkable.  I then said goodnight and began making my way down the corridor.  I turned around to see that he had, in fact, followed me.  He then made some comment about imagining fucking me.  I responded that I thought he had a girlfriend, to which he replied that he had coincidently just broken up with her.  I proceeded up the steps with him following and making comments about my behind.  I then told him to go and “wixx’ eine” – go and have a wank – and went into my room.

            This morning I had a nice time at the Sauna with A—, one of the Russians.  Then during the group meeting, B– said in front of everyone that someone had made sexual advances towards him and he would rather that the topic of sex was off limits.  Funnily enough, I had already related last night to S——– and A—, both of whom then supported me…but still, what an asshole.  He then spent the afternoon wandering around with his top off.  Equality.  Not just equality, but truthfulness!  Ugh.

            Also just went to the village for a chat with a psychologist, who seemed at a loss as to what she should do with me.  We spent an awkward twenty minutes together, in which she repeated how hard it would be for me to get away from drugs and commented that from my appearance she would expect that people would try to hawk to me, before I eventually said “I don’t know why I came here”…to which she replied “no, nor do I”.  Professionals!

Rehab – Day Four


Arose at roughly ten past seven this morning and immediately – for the first time, might I add – let the geese, hens and ducks out of their nightly quarters.  After furnishing them with grain, I collected the night’s batch of eggs.  They are relatively small and have a pale, blemish free shell.  In the grain store is a print-out about the breed, the name of which I must remember to note down, as they are rare hens that were on the edge of extinction, according to M——- (the blonde lady; she comes across as very ‘farm-y’ and showed me yesterday the incubator, full with eggs waiting to hatch tomorrow).

Being here has made me think about my future, whether I want to live in the city or not.  I think I’d like to move to the outskirts of F——– after (if I am able) either a Studium or an Ausbildung.



Why can’t I feel anything?  I know why: the anti-depressants.  I don’t feel depressed, naturally, but I also don’t feel happy…or anything, really.  I keep trying to make myself sad but it doesn’t work.  I am sick, sick, sick of it.  I want to take drugs.  I want to inject myself with heroin or crack.  At the moment, even though I am still on Polamethadone – Al— just came in to ‘lend’ me his tobacco, filters and cigarette machine because he knows I haven’t got any money or Tabak.  It would have brought a tear to my eye if I wasn’t made of stone – I would – oh God, just came back and told me to finish the tin.  Yeah, shed a tear but pretty sure it was just for show – definitely hit that brown.  I need sister Heroin to soothe my soul.  Golden brown.

Rehab – Day Three


My day began bright and early with my duties as bird handler.  I washed out water troughs, dampened bread and seed for bird consumption and then set myself the task of cleaning up the muck heap.  Of course, as soon as I had finished the hens and two upright Indian Runner ducks were scratching away for worms in the freshly turned earth, blithely redistributing the carefully stacked straw.  I don’t really mind; as far as entertainment options here – so far – go, reordering the muck heap is top of the list.

A few of us went for a pre-lunch stroll down to the next farm in the area, which lies in a dip in the land and is decidedly ramshackle.  According to our accompanying nurse, it used to be owned by a family who were well known in the area and was kept beautifully but was then bought by a couple who promptly divorced and let the maintenance slide.  The man’s new girlfriend is not farm friendly, so he lives with her in the village and drives over every so often to fulfil his obligations.  The farm is home to a herd of sheep, a few goats, geese, hens, a horse and an enormous male turkey who is terribly territorial.  As soon as he spotted us, he puffed out his feathers and started patrolling along the fence making vaguely threatening noises.

My stomach is now also making vaguely threatening noises after an extremely oily lunch of veggie nuggets and vegetables.  I say vegetables somewhat generously, as what I actually got was more of an indeterminate sludge in an obscene amount of butter.  Given that the nuggets were also fried I think my digestive tract is now well greased, which as anyone aware of the effect of opiates on the bowels will know, is a bonus.



I am once again a human pin cushion.  I don’t believe in acupuncture, but I (obviously) believe in needles.  This day has been far too long and I have been far too mouthy.  There was the bike ride, just me, B– and a nice member of staff who has also had the pleasure, twice now, of sticking needles in my ears.  After a brief paddy from me on the first climb, I proceeded to trounce both boys spectacularly as they both had to resort to getting off and walking.  My Dad would have been so proud…that, or 50 metres ahead of me lost in his own battle to speed to the summit.

After the evening round, three Russians, my roommate S——– and of course B– were driven into the Dorf for an evening stroll.  The Russians seemed particularly keen on chatting with me, feeding me with cigarettes and sunflower seeds in return for being in their photos, which I assume will end up on the internet with the caption “nailed her” – or the Russian equivalent.  As a result of all the attention I realised I was being very, very talkative, to the degree where I pissed off even myself.

Upon returning to the bright yellow prison where I am currently residing, I asked S——– to help me with the birds – she was a bit down and I hoped to take her mind off her problems, however briefly.  She made the decision to go first into the gaggle’s lair with the intention of enticing them in, not realising that this action would result in her exit being barred by four hissing geese.  One of them inevitably went for her, in what I can only describe as a calculated attack, attempting to fell her with a beak blow to the knee.  Luckily she managed not to fall face first into the dirty straw and has lived to tell – somewhat shakily – the tale.