A Backward Glance Into the Future

A BACKWARD GLANCE INTO THE FUTURE

"Take care now, I do not believe anyone is hanging about out there, but
you cannot be
Too careful. Don't talk to anyone". Every week for the last ten years
or so, the pharmacist has said the same words to me as he hands me my
prescription, does he give a shit or is it his version of have a nice
day. I notice he doesn't say it to any of the other customer, perhaps
to him I seem vulnerable?

As he rings up my fee of 65 pounds he watches me as I carefully put my
package into my bag. It's a fact that all addicts have a sympathetic,
warm feeling towards their supplier, whether they be street corner
dealer or legal pharmacist, that is as long as we are getting what we
need, if that is not the case such feelings quickly evaporate.

As I leave the chemist shop I notice a couple anxiously eyeing me,
desperate for me to show them some form of recognition so that they can
then approach me to score. I ignore them somewhat guiltily as I have
stood in their shoes and no only to well the desperation of their
emotions, yet today IM not to be the lifeline that they are looking
for. I swiftly walk in the direction of the local hospital where I know
I can inject myself in comparative safety

Its hard for even me to believe, but after over thirty years of
continuos drug use I still look forward each week to picking up my
script, the process of injecting myself is as enjoyable today as it was
when I first tried it all those years ago. When I can find a vein that
is, which as the years go by becomes ever more difficult.

The sheer pleasure of the sight of the blood, flowing back into the
syringe on the needle entering a vein, gradually mixing with the clear
liquid that is the narcotic is as indescribable as it is illogical. It
is also such a personnel thing, total self. Perhaps this is one of the
main reasons that it provokes such anger and frustration in ones love
ones as it is impossible for a non-user to understand an addict's
motivation. The uninitiated, along with those in authority, such as
police, politicians and the medical profession increasingly resort to
the ludicrously simplistic notion of drug addicts being sad, bad, or
mad.

For almost all addicts the process of injecting the drug into ones body
is almost like carrying out a religious devotion. Indeed if one fails
to inject into a vein and are then forced to use a muscle, the feeling
of dejection, although temporary is crushing.

The gates of the hospital beckon, a copy of the Daily Telegraph folded
under my arm, I aim to appear as unlike the media stereotype addicts as
possible. T he security guard nods good morning at me as I stride
through the main entrance doors and into the building. I head down the
corridors that even the newest hospitals seem to be unable to do
without. Signs on either side of the corridor pointing off to
Pathology, ray, pharmacy, wards ten and eleven, staff toilet only, the
door to which I enter.

Although I've been through these thousands of times, the sense of
urgency and anticipation is as great as ever, nerves make me reach,
bringing up bile from the pit of my stomach.

Whilst trying to contain this from developing to me being sick I rip
the syringe from its wrapper, like a child who cannot wait to get at
their sweeties. I follow this by flipping the tops of two needles, one
orange, short, and the other green, long. Then before I sit on the
toilet I take a towel from my bag to cover the lower part of my body,
if I did not and I then had difficulty finding a vein I would leave the
toilet covered in blood looking like jack the ripper

Next I carefully take out four ampoules from the chemists bag, three
small, one large, returning the bag to my holdall. The long green
needle goes on the end of the works, tops of the amps snapped off and
beginning with the small ampoules and completed with the large the
liquid is drawn up 200 mils.

The green is exchanged for the short orange; controlling my stomach I
push my reading bins firmly on to my face and begin. Where to commence
is never a problem, one lives in hope and inserts the needle into the
spot where one last had a successful hit.

Gradually withdrawing the plunger, hope against reality that blood
flows back into the syringe, nothing. Repeat the process, pushing the
needle in and around under my arms flesh. Finally when no blood flows I
gradually withdraw the works. The blood drips onto the towl from the
wound. Its useless going back in here the veins collapsed, try
elsewhere, first old spots, nothing, useless, panic beginning to grip,
control, this is hopeless, try my hand, very painful, ah! Blood,
stop-shaking stomach calm, gently push in the plunger.

Ah no fuck, I cannot control it, I am out of the vein, the blood will
clot if I do not keep going and I will lose the lot, bullocks, the
thing people do for their pleasures. I sit there, silence, no rush,
disappointed, empty syringe, swollen hand, under its skin lays the
liquid, it will be at least thirty minutes before the drug takes
hold.

To hell with it, try again, same universal procedure, green on works,
snap tops of amps draw up narcotic, green off orange on, try back of
wrist this time, dangerous as near artery and painful as not much flesh
in this area.

Ah, Ive got it, the rich red of my blood flows like a mountain stream,
back into the works and mixes with the clear narcotic, steady,
carefully, gently, push in the plunger, its in, the rush of the drug
waffles over me. Peace. Sit quietly and enjoy it, the feeling of well
being, contentment, comfort within ones body, peace with oneself and
momentarily the world around you.

Now to clean up, check the floor for spashes of blood, wipe them clean.
Put the towel, used works, needles and ampouls into the side pocket of
my holdlall, wash my arms and hands, one of which is swollen and
painful, give the toilet the once over for any sign of my presence, its
clean. I then leave the hospital.

To the station and onto the
Tube to spend the rest of the day up west, as the Train trundles along
I gradually become mellow, as the first fix seeps into my blood stream
and tops up the firsts the strength of the two hit me I begin to gauche
out my eye lids drooping until I drop into a dreamy sleep.

The opening of the sliding doors at Tottenham Court road station
startle me awake. I am quickly out of my seat and up the escalator at
the ticket barrier it hits me like a thump on the head with a brick,
after unsuccessfully searching my pockets for my ticket I remember that
I had put it into my bag but where the fucking hell is my holdall, its
gone oh Christ more to the point where is my weeks supply, as to the
ticket, its of no importance any more.

I am back down the moving staircase like a shot; I reach the platform
from which only minutes before I had alighted from the tube as happy as
harry. It's deserted, no tube train, no people, no bag, crestfallen I
slump down on a Bench seat. I could have left it on the tube, if so it
is gone, the same being true if I left it in the hospital toilet as IM
not the only addict to jack up there, if another had found it he/she
would think it was Christmas day, gifts an all.

The thought of a week of having to score illegal drugs makes me feel
sick, the risk of arrest, having to put up with the hassle of the low
lives involved, how one quickly forgets, then there is the cost, the
shear waste of money I just cannot go down that road, not yet
anyway.

Look on the bright side, thankfully this happened after I injected
myself, that gives me a day to sort something out. If this were not the
case I would now be in a steadily increasing state of panic,
accompanied with ever increasing withdrawal symptoms.

Still feeling mellow my thoughts wander, if you watch all those
discussion programmes about drugs on the radio and television one would
simple phone a drugs helpline, which in turn would advise that one see
their GP or attend a Drug Dependency Unit. What a joke, over the years
I like many addicts have approached general practionors, their response
to my presence has without exception been one of two things,
helplessness or fury at having a drug addict in their surgery.

Their was the attractive doctor who flirtatiously crossed her legs as I
sat down, and then after I had explained why I was their fled her own
consulting room as if I was about to molest her. After a minute or two
the receptionist came in explaining that the Doctor has an emergency,
and in any case she did not feel that the practice would me right for
someone with "my problems.

As for Dr Angry, he is the type who believes that your heaven sent to
work out his, (this type is always male) frustrations on, he has the
added bonus that you're a junkie, therefor no one will take your word
over his no he has the right to give you the peace of his mind which he
would like to give to all of his wretched patients.

"Pull yourself together you feckless, winging layabout", he hasn't
bothered to ascertain if you work, for in his mind 'junkies don't.
"Your not ill, in any case this Practice does not treat people who self
inflict illness on themselves".

All this is nonsense as he daily treats people who have high blood
pressure or heart decease through obesity, lung cancer or asthma
through smoking but this fact makes your presence all the more welcome
as he has things he needs to get off his chest, in any case its no good
pouting this out, as by this time the good doctor is into a Hitler
rant. As his rage subsides, nine out of ten times he to will resort to
the receptionist to eject one, thus confirming in his own mind that all
addicts are trouble.

Finally there is the helpless GP, these can be of either sex, very
polite, in some cases even charming, Sadly they explain every thing is
beyond their control. "Of course they sympathise", confirming that
sympathy is between shit and syphilis in my dictionary."Naturally I
would like to help you but as IM sure you are aware it's the new rules
from central government that restrict me, im not even allowed to
prescribe methadone to you". You both know this is nonsense, but
there's little to be gained by interjecting as the doctor would either
resort to the tried and trusted receptionist or more likely ignore you
and go on to expand on his/her problems, which of course at this time
make it impossible to treat me".

You leave the Surgery feeling that you have just found a new friend,
when in reality you have been dumped on.

How about the drug dependency units would they be worth a try? First
established in the late nineteen sixties in a fit of panic by a
government spooked by increasing media coverage of drug abuse by
working class youngsters who had wised up to the fact that their were
doctors who if you crossed their palm with silver were prepared to
prescribe you narcotics, something middle class drug users had always
been aware of.

These Clinics replaced over night the British system of treating
addict, which allowed GPs to treat addicts by prescribing drugs such as
heroin and cocaine at low cost. Thus having the additional benefit of
not making it worth while economically, for major criminals to get
involved in the drug trade, as there was very little profit to be had.
The advantages to the addict were enormous, their supply of drugs was
clean, and the amount of time per day they had to spend on drugs was
minamalized to how long it took them to administer the drug into their
body. The rest of their day could be spent on living a normal
life.

Whereas the system of DDUs has been, for many people who have used them
worst than useless? As far as wider society is concerned it has been a
disaster, with the supply of narcotics passing from the local GP to the
local thug. On the bright side a number of careers have been built on
the backs of these unfortunate beings.

Many of the councillors and nurses who work in the Drugs industry
transferred from the large psychiatric hospitals that were closing
around that time, they had no expertise in treating addicts nor did the
doctors who over-saw the system. Policy and practice came down from
central government. Any Doctor who stepped outside these 'guidelines'
first found themselves carpeted by their superiors, if they refused to
change their ways arguing that their patients came first, they would
find themselves smeared in the media as the junkies friend etc. short
while later unemployment beckoned them.

Increasingly these clinics became a stinking swamp of self interest, as
far as those they were set up to treat, well their only junkies, they
self inflict their illness, in any case you cannot believe a word they
say.

As far as my problem was concerned they would be no good. The earliest
appointment that I would be able to get would be in six weeks, then I
would have to sign a contract agreeing to reduce my intake of drugs
over a three month period, ending with total abstinence. They then
would give me a prescription for fifty mils of oral methadone to be
picked up from the chemist daily between 10am and 5pm.

Not enough to touch the sides of my habit and in any case a daily pick
up would make it impossible for me to keep my job. As I have said worse
than useless, most people will put up with a degree of patronising and
inconvenience if its worth they're while but for most addicts these
clinics are not worth the input.

Of course some may feel that I have another option, use the loss to
attempt a drug free live. Sadly I don't see it as an option, why not,
well, experience, I have no wish to spend the next two years with
continuos diarrhoea, nor months of sleeplessness, nor when I cannot
take the aforementioned any more, do I want to drink myself into
oblivion to get some peace. If truth will tell, nor do I wish to
sacrifice the comfort and pleasure I get from the drug of my choice and
replace it with the aforementioned torment. Just as I presume cigarette
smokers would rather they had not first started, having reached a
certain age and failed to kick their wretched habit after a number of
attempts, they accept their addiction, despite the dangers to their
health, and even value the pleasure it gives them. Little is free in
life.

I have got to get myself into gear. If I don't, come tomorrow I'll be
in shit creek, there is nothing for it but to telephone my private
doctor, after all over the years I have paid her thousands of pounds.
Some may think that it is strange that she was not my first port of
call. However thirty years of dealing with the medical profession has
taught me that truthfulness is not always the best practice. A doctor
or for that matter a drugs councillor who advises one, has enormous
power over the addict to whom they prescribe. Being human they may well
abuse their power, or at the very least they will have subjective
prejudices, which they may or may not over come.

Only a fool would lay oneself bare to someone who has such power over
him or her. Many if not most of the medical profession, comfort their
own prejudices with the mistaken belief that all drug addicts are
congenital liars. In reality addicts are like most people, they do not
willingly hand a weapon to someone who may at a later date use it
against them.

Any addict who is lucky enough to find a sympathetic doctor has to be
careful what they say to them, as something they said years before
could be dredged up to be used as an excuse by the doctor to dump the
addict. This is especially true when the political wind of treating
drug users change, as they periodically do.

Still, needs must, I make the call."Whats your problem,"she answers in
her pararie province drawl, talking to me as if I am a child, I have
never discouraged this as I judge her to be someone who is not cruel to
children. I explain my situation to her in a haphazard manner due to
being nervous, after all this women has it within her gift to make my
life extremely uncomfortable, or not over the coming week.

To be fair she listens patiently as I ramble on, its amazing the
different attitude the medical profession displays to you when you
cross their palms with silver. Finally she asks about my veins, I
replied that they had not improved with a sense of immense relief, she
was talking, the door had not been slammed shut, I would get some kind
of replacement script.

She recites correctly what had accrued in the hospital earlier that
day. That is on failing to get a hit into a vein I had tried again,
successfully. She didn't have second sight addicts are no different
from the rest of the human race, creature of 'habit'.

"How do you carry your bag", she enquired," I hook it up over my
shoulders onto my back", I reply. I laugh at the absurdity of it, I had
been walking around, stoned and panicking with the bloody bag on my
back. And all knowing "goodbye" comes down the line then it goes
dead.

THE END

A BACKWARD GLANCE INTO THE FUTURE

"Take care now, I do not believe anyone is hanging about out there, but
you cannot be
Too careful. Don't talk to anyone". Every week for the last ten years
or so, the pharmacist has said the same words to me as he hands me my
prescription, does he give a shit or is it his version of have a nice
day. I notice he doesn't say it to any of the other customer, perhaps
to him I seem vulnerable?

As he rings up my fee of 65 pounds he watches me as I carefully put my
package into my bag. It's a fact that all addicts have a sympathetic,
warm feeling towards their supplier, whether they be street corner
dealer or legal pharmacist, that is as long as we are getting what we
need, if that is not the case such feelings quickly evaporate.

As I leave the chemist shop I notice a couple anxiously eyeing me,
desperate for me to show them some form of recognition so that they can
then approach me to score. I ignore them somewhat guiltily as I have
stood in their shoes and no only to well the desperation of their
emotions, yet today IM not to be the lifeline that they are looking
for. I swiftly walk in the direction of the local hospital where I know
I can inject myself in comparative safety

Its hard for even me to believe, but after over thirty years of
continuos drug use I still look forward each week to picking up my
script, the process of injecting myself is as enjoyable today as it was
when I first tried it all those years ago. When I can find a vein that
is, which as the years go by becomes ever more difficult.

The sheer pleasure of the sight of the blood, flowing back into the
syringe on the needle entering a vein, gradually mixing with the clear
liquid that is the narcotic is as indescribable as it is illogical. It
is also such a personnel thing, total self. Perhaps this is one of the
main reasons that it provokes such anger and frustration in ones love
ones as it is impossible for a non-user to understand an addict's
motivation. The uninitiated, along with those in authority, such as
police, politicians and the medical profession increasingly resort to
the ludicrously simplistic notion of drug addicts being sad, bad, or
mad.

For almost all addicts the process of injecting the drug into ones body
is almost like carrying out a religious devotion. Indeed if one fails
to inject into a vein and are then forced to use a muscle, the feeling
of dejection, although temporary is crushing.

The gates of the hospital beckon, a copy of the Daily Telegraph folded
under my arm, I aim to appear as unlike the media stereotype addicts as
possible. T he security guard nods good morning at me as I stride
through the main entrance doors and into the building. I head down the
corridors that even the newest hospitals seem to be unable to do
without. Signs on either side of the corridor pointing off to
Pathology, ray, pharmacy, wards ten and eleven, staff toilet only, the
door to which I enter.

Although I've been through these thousands of times, the sense of
urgency and anticipation is as great as ever, nerves make me reach,
bringing up bile from the pit of my stomach.

Whilst trying to contain this from developing to me being sick I rip
the syringe from its wrapper, like a child who cannot wait to get at
their sweeties. I follow this by flipping the tops of two needles, one
orange, short, and the other green, long. Then before I sit on the
toilet I take a towel from my bag to cover the lower part of my body,
if I did not and I then had difficulty finding a vein I would leave the
toilet covered in blood looking like jack the ripper

Next I carefully take out four ampoules from the chemists bag, three
small, one large, returning the bag to my holdall. The long green
needle goes on the end of the works, tops of the amps snapped off and
beginning with the small ampoules and completed with the large the
liquid is drawn up 200 mils.

The green is exchanged for the short orange; controlling my stomach I
push my reading bins firmly on to my face and begin. Where to commence
is never a problem, one lives in hope and inserts the needle into the
spot where one last had a successful hit.

Gradually withdrawing the plunger, hope against reality that blood
flows back into the syringe, nothing. Repeat the process, pushing the
needle in and around under my arms flesh. Finally when no blood flows I
gradually withdraw the works. The blood drips onto the towl from the
wound. Its useless going back in here the veins collapsed, try
elsewhere, first old spots, nothing, useless, panic beginning to grip,
control, this is hopeless, try my hand, very painful, ah! Blood,
stop-shaking stomach calm, gently push in the plunger.

Ah no fuck, I cannot control it, I am out of the vein, the blood will
clot if I do not keep going and I will lose the lot, bullocks, the
thing people do for their pleasures. I sit there, silence, no rush,
disappointed, empty syringe, swollen hand, under its skin lays the
liquid, it will be at least thirty minutes before the drug takes
hold.

To hell with it, try again, same universal procedure, green on works,
snap tops of amps draw up narcotic, green off orange on, try back of
wrist this time, dangerous as near artery and painful as not much flesh
in this area.

Ah, Ive got it, the rich red of my blood flows like a mountain stream,
back into the works and mixes with the clear narcotic, steady,
carefully, gently, push in the plunger, its in, the rush of the drug
waffles over me. Peace. Sit quietly and enjoy it, the feeling of well
being, contentment, comfort within ones body, peace with oneself and
momentarily the world around you.

Now to clean up, check the floor for spashes of blood, wipe them clean.
Put the towel, used works, needles and ampouls into the side pocket of
my holdlall, wash my arms and hands, one of which is swollen and
painful, give the toilet the once over for any sign of my presence, its
clean. I then leave the hospital.

To the station and onto the
Tube to spend the rest of the day up west, as the Train trundles along
I gradually become mellow, as the first fix seeps into my blood stream
and tops up the firsts the strength of the two hit me I begin to gauche
out my eye lids drooping until I drop into a dreamy sleep.

The opening of the sliding doors at Tottenham Court road station
startle me awake. I am quickly out of my seat and up the escalator at
the ticket barrier it hits me like a thump on the head with a brick,
after unsuccessfully searching my pockets for my ticket I remember that
I had put it into my bag but where the fucking hell is my holdall, its
gone oh Christ more to the point where is my weeks supply, as to the
ticket, its of no importance any more.

I am back down the moving staircase like a shot; I reach the platform
from which only minutes before I had alighted from the tube as happy as
harry. It's deserted, no tube train, no people, no bag, crestfallen I
slump down on a Bench seat. I could have left it on the tube, if so it
is gone, the same being true if I left it in the hospital toilet as IM
not the only addict to jack up there, if another had found it he/she
would think it was Christmas day, gifts an all.

The thought of a week of having to score illegal drugs makes me feel
sick, the risk of arrest, having to put up with the hassle of the low
lives involved, how one quickly forgets, then there is the cost, the
shear waste of money I just cannot go down that road, not yet
anyway.

Look on the bright side, thankfully this happened after I injected
myself, that gives me a day to sort something out. If this were not the
case I would now be in a steadily increasing state of panic,
accompanied with ever increasing withdrawal symptoms.

Still feeling mellow my thoughts wander, if you watch all those
discussion programmes about drugs on the radio and television one would
simple phone a drugs helpline, which in turn would advise that one see
their GP or attend a Drug Dependency Unit. What a joke, over the years
I like many addicts have approached general practionors, their response
to my presence has without exception been one of two things,
helplessness or fury at having a drug addict in their surgery.

Their was the attractive doctor who flirtatiously crossed her legs as I
sat down, and then after I had explained why I was their fled her own
consulting room as if I was about to molest her. After a minute or two
the receptionist came in explaining that the Doctor has an emergency,
and in any case she did not feel that the practice would me right for
someone with "my problems.

As for Dr Angry, he is the type who believes that your heaven sent to
work out his, (this type is always male) frustrations on, he has the
added bonus that you're a junkie, therefor no one will take your word
over his no he has the right to give you the peace of his mind which he
would like to give to all of his wretched patients.

"Pull yourself together you feckless, winging layabout", he hasn't
bothered to ascertain if you work, for in his mind 'junkies don't.
"Your not ill, in any case this Practice does not treat people who self
inflict illness on themselves".

All this is nonsense as he daily treats people who have high blood
pressure or heart decease through obesity, lung cancer or asthma
through smoking but this fact makes your presence all the more welcome
as he has things he needs to get off his chest, in any case its no good
pouting this out, as by this time the good doctor is into a Hitler
rant. As his rage subsides, nine out of ten times he to will resort to
the receptionist to eject one, thus confirming in his own mind that all
addicts are trouble.

Finally there is the helpless GP, these can be of either sex, very
polite, in some cases even charming, Sadly they explain every thing is
beyond their control. "Of course they sympathise", confirming that
sympathy is between shit and syphilis in my dictionary."Naturally I
would like to help you but as IM sure you are aware it's the new rules
from central government that restrict me, im not even allowed to
prescribe methadone to you". You both know this is nonsense, but
there's little to be gained by interjecting as the doctor would either
resort to the tried and trusted receptionist or more likely ignore you
and go on to expand on his/her problems, which of course at this time
make it impossible to treat me".

You leave the Surgery feeling that you have just found a new friend,
when in reality you have been dumped on.

How about the drug dependency units would they be worth a try? First
established in the late nineteen sixties in a fit of panic by a
government spooked by increasing media coverage of drug abuse by
working class youngsters who had wised up to the fact that their were
doctors who if you crossed their palm with silver were prepared to
prescribe you narcotics, something middle class drug users had always
been aware of.

These Clinics replaced over night the British system of treating
addict, which allowed GPs to treat addicts by prescribing drugs such as
heroin and cocaine at low cost. Thus having the additional benefit of
not making it worth while economically, for major criminals to get
involved in the drug trade, as there was very little profit to be had.
The advantages to the addict were enormous, their supply of drugs was
clean, and the amount of time per day they had to spend on drugs was
minamalized to how long it took them to administer the drug into their
body. The rest of their day could be spent on living a normal
life.

Whereas the system of DDUs has been, for many people who have used them
worst than useless? As far as wider society is concerned it has been a
disaster, with the supply of narcotics passing from the local GP to the
local thug. On the bright side a number of careers have been built on
the backs of these unfortunate beings.

Many of the councillors and nurses who work in the Drugs industry
transferred from the large psychiatric hospitals that were closing
around that time, they had no expertise in treating addicts nor did the
doctors who over-saw the system. Policy and practice came down from
central government. Any Doctor who stepped outside these 'guidelines'
first found themselves carpeted by their superiors, if they refused to
change their ways arguing that their patients came first, they would
find themselves smeared in the media as the junkies friend etc. short
while later unemployment beckoned them.

Increasingly these clinics became a stinking swamp of self interest, as
far as those they were set up to treat, well their only junkies, they
self inflict their illness, in any case you cannot believe a word they
say.

As far as my problem was concerned they would be no good. The earliest
appointment that I would be able to get would be in six weeks, then I
would have to sign a contract agreeing to reduce my intake of drugs
over a three month period, ending with total abstinence. They then
would give me a prescription for fifty mils of oral methadone to be
picked up from the chemist daily between 10am and 5pm.

Not enough to touch the sides of my habit and in any case a daily pick
up would make it impossible for me to keep my job. As I have said worse
than useless, most people will put up with a degree of patronising and
inconvenience if its worth they're while but for most addicts these
clinics are not worth the input.

Of course some may feel that I have another option, use the loss to
attempt a drug free live. Sadly I don't see it as an option, why not,
well, experience, I have no wish to spend the next two years with
continuos diarrhoea, nor months of sleeplessness, nor when I cannot
take the aforementioned any more, do I want to drink myself into
oblivion to get some peace. If truth will tell, nor do I wish to
sacrifice the comfort and pleasure I get from the drug of my choice and
replace it with the aforementioned torment. Just as I presume cigarette
smokers would rather they had not first started, having reached a
certain age and failed to kick their wretched habit after a number of
attempts, they accept their addiction, despite the dangers to their
health, and even value the pleasure it gives them. Little is free in
life.

I have got to get myself into gear. If I don't, come tomorrow I'll be
in shit creek, there is nothing for it but to telephone my private
doctor, after all over the years I have paid her thousands of pounds.
Some may think that it is strange that she was not my first port of
call. However thirty years of dealing with the medical profession has
taught me that truthfulness is not always the best practice. A doctor
or for that matter a drugs councillor who advises one, has enormous
power over the addict to whom they prescribe. Being human they may well
abuse their power, or at the very least they will have subjective
prejudices, which they may or may not over come.

Only a fool would lay oneself bare to someone who has such power over
him or her. Many if not most of the medical profession, comfort their
own prejudices with the mistaken belief that all drug addicts are
congenital liars. In reality addicts are like most people, they do not
willingly hand a weapon to someone who may at a later date use it
against them.

Any addict who is lucky enough to find a sympathetic doctor has to be
careful what they say to them, as something they said years before
could be dredged up to be used as an excuse by the doctor to dump the
addict. This is especially true when the political wind of treating
drug users change, as they periodically do.

Still, needs must, I make the call."Whats your problem,"she answers in
her pararie province drawl, talking to me as if I am a child, I have
never discouraged this as I judge her to be someone who is not cruel to
children. I explain my situation to her in a haphazard manner due to
being nervous, after all this women has it within her gift to make my
life extremely uncomfortable, or not over the coming week.

To be fair she listens patiently as I ramble on, its amazing the
different attitude the medical profession displays to you when you
cross their palms with silver. Finally she asks about my veins, I
replied that they had not improved with a sense of immense relief, she
was talking, the door had not been slammed shut, I would get some kind
of replacement script.

She recites correctly what had accrued in the hospital earlier that
day. That is on failing to get a hit into a vein I had tried again,
successfully. She didn't have second sight addicts are no different
from the rest of the human race, creature of 'habit'.

"How do you carry your bag", she enquired," I hook it up over my
shoulders onto my back", I reply. I laugh at the absurdity of it, I had
been walking around, stoned and panicking with the bloody bag on my
back. And all knowing "goodbye" comes down the line then it goes
dead.

THE END

A BACKWARD GLANCE INTO THE FUTURE

"Take care now, I do not believe anyone is hanging about out there, but
you cannot be
Too careful. Don't talk to anyone". Every week for the last ten years
or so, the pharmacist has said the same words to me as he hands me my
prescription, does he give a shit or is it his version of have a nice
day. I notice he doesn't say it to any of the other customer, perhaps
to him I seem vulnerable?

As he rings up my fee of 65 pounds he watches me as I carefully put my
package into my bag. It's a fact that all addicts have a sympathetic,
warm feeling towards their supplier, whether they be street corner
dealer or legal pharmacist, that is as long as we are getting what we
need, if that is not the case such feelings quickly evaporate.

As I leave the chemist shop I notice a couple anxiously eyeing me,
desperate for me to show them some form of recognition so that they can
then approach me to score. I ignore them somewhat guiltily as I have
stood in their shoes and no only to well the desperation of their
emotions, yet today IM not to be the lifeline that they are looking
for. I swiftly walk in the direction of the local hospital where I know
I can inject myself in comparative safety

Its hard for even me to believe, but after over thirty years of
continuos drug use I still look forward each week to picking up my
script, the process of injecting myself is as enjoyable today as it was
when I first tried it all those years ago. When I can find a vein that
is, which as the years go by becomes ever more difficult.

The sheer pleasure of the sight of the blood, flowing back into the
syringe on the needle entering a vein, gradually mixing with the clear
liquid that is the narcotic is as indescribable as it is illogical. It
is also such a personnel thing, total self. Perhaps this is one of the
main reasons that it provokes such anger and frustration in ones love
ones as it is impossible for a non-user to understand an addict's
motivation. The uninitiated, along with those in authority, such as
police, politicians and the medical profession increasingly resort to
the ludicrously simplistic notion of drug addicts being sad, bad, or
mad.

For almost all addicts the process of injecting the drug into ones body
is almost like carrying out a religious devotion. Indeed if one fails
to inject into a vein and are then forced to use a muscle, the feeling
of dejection, although temporary is crushing.

The gates of the hospital beckon, a copy of the Daily Telegraph folded
under my arm, I aim to appear as unlike the media stereotype addicts as
possible. T he security guard nods good morning at me as I stride
through the main entrance doors and into the building. I head down the
corridors that even the newest hospitals seem to be unable to do
without. Signs on either side of the corridor pointing off to
Pathology, ray, pharmacy, wards ten and eleven, staff toilet only, the
door to which I enter.

Although I've been through these thousands of times, the sense of
urgency and anticipation is as great as ever, nerves make me reach,
bringing up bile from the pit of my stomach.

Whilst trying to contain this from developing to me being sick I rip
the syringe from its wrapper, like a child who cannot wait to get at
their sweeties. I follow this by flipping the tops of two needles, one
orange, short, and the other green, long. Then before I sit on the
toilet I take a towel from my bag to cover the lower part of my body,
if I did not and I then had difficulty finding a vein I would leave the
toilet covered in blood looking like jack the ripper

Next I carefully take out four ampoules from the chemists bag, three
small, one large, returning the bag to my holdall. The long green
needle goes on the end of the works, tops of the amps snapped off and
beginning with the small ampoules and completed with the large the
liquid is drawn up 200 mils.

The green is exchanged for the short orange; controlling my stomach I
push my reading bins firmly on to my face and begin. Where to commence
is never a problem, one lives in hope and inserts the needle into the
spot where one last had a successful hit.

Gradually withdrawing the plunger, hope against reality that blood
flows back into the syringe, nothing. Repeat the process, pushing the
needle in and around under my arms flesh. Finally when no blood flows I
gradually withdraw the works. The blood drips onto the towl from the
wound. Its useless going back in here the veins collapsed, try
elsewhere, first old spots, nothing, useless, panic beginning to grip,
control, this is hopeless, try my hand, very painful, ah! Blood,
stop-shaking stomach calm, gently push in the plunger.

Ah no fuck, I cannot control it, I am out of the vein, the blood will
clot if I do not keep going and I will lose the lot, bullocks, the
thing people do for their pleasures. I sit there, silence, no rush,
disappointed, empty syringe, swollen hand, under its skin lays the
liquid, it will be at least thirty minutes before the drug takes
hold.

To hell with it, try again, same universal procedure, green on works,
snap tops of amps draw up narcotic, green off orange on, try back of
wrist this time, dangerous as near artery and painful as not much flesh
in this area.

Ah, Ive got it, the rich red of my blood flows like a mountain stream,
back into the works and mixes with the clear narcotic, steady,
carefully, gently, push in the plunger, its in, the rush of the drug
waffles over me. Peace. Sit quietly and enjoy it, the feeling of well
being, contentment, comfort within ones body, peace with oneself and
momentarily the world around you.

Now to clean up, check the floor for spashes of blood, wipe them clean.
Put the towel, used works, needles and ampouls into the side pocket of
my holdlall, wash my arms and hands, one of which is swollen and
painful, give the toilet the once over for any sign of my presence, its
clean. I then leave the hospital.

To the station and onto the
Tube to spend the rest of the day up west, as the Train trundles along
I gradually become mellow, as the first fix seeps into my blood stream
and tops up the firsts the strength of the two hit me I begin to gauche
out my eye lids drooping until I drop into a dreamy sleep.

The opening of the sliding doors at Tottenham Court road station
startle me awake. I am quickly out of my seat and up the escalator at
the ticket barrier it hits me like a thump on the head with a brick,
after unsuccessfully searching my pockets for my ticket I remember that
I had put it into my bag but where the fucking hell is my holdall, its
gone oh Christ more to the point where is my weeks supply, as to the
ticket, its of no importance any more.

I am back down the moving staircase like a shot; I reach the platform
from which only minutes before I had alighted from the tube as happy as
harry. It's deserted, no tube train, no people, no bag, crestfallen I
slump down on a Bench seat. I could have left it on the tube, if so it
is gone, the same being true if I left it in the hospital toilet as IM
not the only addict to jack up there, if another had found it he/she
would think it was Christmas day, gifts an all.

The thought of a week of having to score illegal drugs makes me feel
sick, the risk of arrest, having to put up with the hassle of the low
lives involved, how one quickly forgets, then there is the cost, the
shear waste of money I just cannot go down that road, not yet
anyway.

Look on the bright side, thankfully this happened after I injected
myself, that gives me a day to sort something out. If this were not the
case I would now be in a steadily increasing state of panic,
accompanied with ever increasing withdrawal symptoms.

Still feeling mellow my thoughts wander, if you watch all those
discussion programmes about drugs on the radio and television one would
simple phone a drugs helpline, which in turn would advise that one see
their GP or attend a Drug Dependency Unit. What a joke, over the years
I like many addicts have approached general practionors, their response
to my presence has without exception been one of two things,
helplessness or fury at having a drug addict in their surgery.

Their was the attractive doctor who flirtatiously crossed her legs as I
sat down, and then after I had explained why I was their fled her own
consulting room as if I was about to molest her. After a minute or two
the receptionist came in explaining that the Doctor has an emergency,
and in any case she did not feel that the practice would me right for
someone with "my problems.

As for Dr Angry, he is the type who believes that your heaven sent to
work out his, (this type is always male) frustrations on, he has the
added bonus that you're a junkie, therefor no one will take your word
over his no he has the right to give you the peace of his mind which he
would like to give to all of his wretched patients.

"Pull yourself together you feckless, winging layabout", he hasn't
bothered to ascertain if you work, for in his mind 'junkies don't.
"Your not ill, in any case this Practice does not treat people who self
inflict illness on themselves".

All this is nonsense as he daily treats people who have high blood
pressure or heart decease through obesity, lung cancer or asthma
through smoking but this fact makes your presence all the more welcome
as he has things he needs to get off his chest, in any case its no good
pouting this out, as by this time the good doctor is into a Hitler
rant. As his rage subsides, nine out of ten times he to will resort to
the receptionist to eject one, thus confirming in his own mind that all
addicts are trouble.

Finally there is the helpless GP, these can be of either sex, very
polite, in some cases even charming, Sadly they explain every thing is
beyond their control. "Of course they sympathise", confirming that
sympathy is between shit and syphilis in my dictionary."Naturally I
would like to help you but as IM sure you are aware it's the new rules
from central government that restrict me, im not even allowed to
prescribe methadone to you". You both know this is nonsense, but
there's little to be gained by interjecting as the doctor would either
resort to the tried and trusted receptionist or more likely ignore you
and go on to expand on his/her problems, which of course at this time
make it impossible to treat me".

You leave the Surgery feeling that you have just found a new friend,
when in reality you have been dumped on.

How about the drug dependency units would they be worth a try? First
established in the late nineteen sixties in a fit of panic by a
government spooked by increasing media coverage of drug abuse by
working class youngsters who had wised up to the fact that their were
doctors who if you crossed their palm with silver were prepared to
prescribe you narcotics, something middle class drug users had always
been aware of.

These Clinics replaced over night the British system of treating
addict, which allowed GPs to treat addicts by prescribing drugs such as
heroin and cocaine at low cost. Thus having the additional benefit of
not making it worth while economically, for major criminals to get
involved in the drug trade, as there was very little profit to be had.
The advantages to the addict were enormous, their supply of drugs was
clean, and the amount of time per day they had to spend on drugs was
minamalized to how long it took them to administer the drug into their
body. The rest of their day could be spent on living a normal
life.

Whereas the system of DDUs has been, for many people who have used them
worst than useless? As far as wider society is concerned it has been a
disaster, with the supply of narcotics passing from the local GP to the
local thug. On the bright side a number of careers have been built on
the backs of these unfortunate beings.

Many of the councillors and nurses who work in the Drugs industry
transferred from the large psychiatric hospitals that were closing
around that time, they had no expertise in treating addicts nor did the
doctors who over-saw the system. Policy and practice came down from
central government. Any Doctor who stepped outside these 'guidelines'
first found themselves carpeted by their superiors, if they refused to
change their ways arguing that their patients came first, they would
find themselves smeared in the media as the junkies friend etc. short
while later unemployment beckoned them.

Increasingly these clinics became a stinking swamp of self interest, as
far as those they were set up to treat, well their only junkies, they
self inflict their illness, in any case you cannot believe a word they
say.

As far as my problem was concerned they would be no good. The earliest
appointment that I would be able to get would be in six weeks, then I
would have to sign a contract agreeing to reduce my intake of drugs
over a three month period, ending with total abstinence. They then
would give me a prescription for fifty mils of oral methadone to be
picked up from the chemist daily between 10am and 5pm.

Not enough to touch the sides of my habit and in any case a daily pick
up would make it impossible for me to keep my job. As I have said worse
than useless, most people will put up with a degree of patronising and
inconvenience if its worth they're while but for most addicts these
clinics are not worth the input.

Of course some may feel that I have another option, use the loss to
attempt a drug free live. Sadly I don't see it as an option, why not,
well, experience, I have no wish to spend the next two years with
continuos diarrhoea, nor months of sleeplessness, nor when I cannot
take the aforementioned any more, do I want to drink myself into
oblivion to get some peace. If truth will tell, nor do I wish to
sacrifice the comfort and pleasure I get from the drug of my choice and
replace it with the aforementioned torment. Just as I presume cigarette
smokers would rather they had not first started, having reached a
certain age and failed to kick their wretched habit after a number of
attempts, they accept their addiction, despite the dangers to their
health, and even value the pleasure it gives them. Little is free in
life.

I have got to get myself into gear. If I don't, come tomorrow I'll be
in shit creek, there is nothing for it but to telephone my private
doctor, after all over the years I have paid her thousands of pounds.
Some may think that it is strange that she was not my first port of
call. However thirty years of dealing with the medical profession has
taught me that truthfulness is not always the best practice. A doctor
or for that matter a drugs councillor who advises one, has enormous
power over the addict to whom they prescribe. Being human they may well
abuse their power, or at the very least they will have subjective
prejudices, which they may or may not over come.

Only a fool would lay oneself bare to someone who has such power over
him or her. Many if not most of the medical profession, comfort their
own prejudices with the mistaken belief that all drug addicts are
congenital liars. In reality addicts are like most people, they do not
willingly hand a weapon to someone who may at a later date use it
against them.

Any addict who is lucky enough to find a sympathetic doctor has to be
careful what they say to them, as something they said years before
could be dredged up to be used as an excuse by the doctor to dump the
addict. This is especially true when the political wind of treating
drug users change, as they periodically do.

Still, needs must, I make the call."Whats your problem,"she answers in
her pararie province drawl, talking to me as if I am a child, I have
never discouraged this as I judge her to be someone who is not cruel to
children. I explain my situation to her in a haphazard manner due to
being nervous, after all this women has it within her gift to make my
life extremely uncomfortable, or not over the coming week.

To be fair she listens patiently as I ramble on, its amazing the
different attitude the medical profession displays to you when you
cross their palms with silver. Finally she asks about my veins, I
replied that they had not improved with a sense of immense relief, she
was talking, the door had not been slammed shut, I would get some kind
of replacement script.

She recites correctly what had accrued in the hospital earlier that
day. That is on failing to get a hit into a vein I had tried again,
successfully. She didn't have second sight addicts are no different
from the rest of the human race, creature of 'habit'.

"How do you carry your bag", she enquired," I hook it up over my
shoulders onto my back", I reply. I laugh at the absurdity of it, I had
been walking around, stoned and panicking with the bloody bag on my
back. And all knowing "goodbye" comes down the line then it goes
dead.

THE END

A BACKWARD GLANCE INTO THE FUTURE

"Take care now, I do not believe anyone is hanging about out there, but
you cannot be
Too careful. Don't talk to anyone". Every week for the last ten years
or so, the pharmacist has said the same words to me as he hands me my
prescription, does he give a shit or is it his version of have a nice
day. I notice he doesn't say it to any of the other customer, perhaps
to him I seem vulnerable?

As he rings up my fee of 65 pounds he watches me as I carefully put my
package into my bag. It's a fact that all addicts have a sympathetic,
warm feeling towards their supplier, whether they be street corner
dealer or legal pharmacist, that is as long as we are getting what we
need, if that is not the case such feelings quickly evaporate.

As I leave the chemist shop I notice a couple anxiously eyeing me,
desperate for me to show them some form of recognition so that they can
then approach me to score. I ignore them somewhat guiltily as I have
stood in their shoes and no only to well the desperation of their
emotions, yet today IM not to be the lifeline that they are looking
for. I swiftly walk in the direction of the local hospital where I know
I can inject myself in comparative safety

Its hard for even me to believe, but after over thirty years of
continuos drug use I still look forward each week to picking up my
script, the process of injecting myself is as enjoyable today as it was
when I first tried it all those years ago. When I can find a vein that
is, which as the years go by becomes ever more difficult.

The sheer pleasure of the sight of the blood, flowing back into the
syringe on the needle entering a vein, gradually mixing with the clear
liquid that is the narcotic is as indescribable as it is illogical. It
is also such a personnel thing, total self. Perhaps this is one of the
main reasons that it provokes such anger and frustration in ones love
ones as it is impossible for a non-user to understand an addict's
motivation. The uninitiated, along with those in authority, such as
police, politicians and the medical profession increasingly resort to
the ludicrously simplistic notion of drug addicts being sad, bad, or
mad.

For almost all addicts the process of injecting the drug into ones body
is almost like carrying out a religious devotion. Indeed if one fails
to inject into a vein and are then forced to use a muscle, the feeling
of dejection, although temporary is crushing.

The gates of the hospital beckon, a copy of the Daily Telegraph folded
under my arm, I aim to appear as unlike the media stereotype addicts as
possible. T he security guard nods good morning at me as I stride
through the main entrance doors and into the building. I head down the
corridors that even the newest hospitals seem to be unable to do
without. Signs on either side of the corridor pointing off to
Pathology, ray, pharmacy, wards ten and eleven, staff toilet only, the
door to which I enter.

Although I've been through these thousands of times, the sense of
urgency and anticipation is as great as ever, nerves make me reach,
bringing up bile from the pit of my stomach.

Whilst trying to contain this from developing to me being sick I rip
the syringe from its wrapper, like a child who cannot wait to get at
their sweeties. I follow this by flipping the tops of two needles, one
orange, short, and the other green, long. Then before I sit on the
toilet I take a towel from my bag to cover the lower part of my body,
if I did not and I then had difficulty finding a vein I would leave the
toilet covered in blood looking like jack the ripper

Next I carefully take out four ampoules from the chemists bag, three
small, one large, returning the bag to my holdall. The long green
needle goes on the end of the works, tops of the amps snapped off and
beginning with the small ampoules and completed with the large the
liquid is drawn up 200 mils.

The green is exchanged for the short orange; controlling my stomach I
push my reading bins firmly on to my face and begin. Where to commence
is never a problem, one lives in hope and inserts the needle into the
spot where one last had a successful hit.

Gradually withdrawing the plunger, hope against reality that blood
flows back into the syringe, nothing. Repeat the process, pushing the
needle in and around under my arms flesh. Finally when no blood flows I
gradually withdraw the works. The blood drips onto the towl from the
wound. Its useless going back in here the veins collapsed, try
elsewhere, first old spots, nothing, useless, panic beginning to grip,
control, this is hopeless, try my hand, very painful, ah! Blood,
stop-shaking stomach calm, gently push in the plunger.

Ah no fuck, I cannot control it, I am out of the vein, the blood will
clot if I do not keep going and I will lose the lot, bullocks, the
thing people do for their pleasures. I sit there, silence, no rush,
disappointed, empty syringe, swollen hand, under its skin lays the
liquid, it will be at least thirty minutes before the drug takes
hold.

To hell with it, try again, same universal procedure, green on works,
snap tops of amps draw up narcotic, green off orange on, try back of
wrist this time, dangerous as near artery and painful as not much flesh
in this area.

Ah, Ive got it, the rich red of my blood flows like a mountain stream,
back into the works and mixes with the clear narcotic, steady,
carefully, gently, push in the plunger, its in, the rush of the drug
waffles over me. Peace. Sit quietly and enjoy it, the feeling of well
being, contentment, comfort within ones body, peace with oneself and
momentarily the world around you.

Now to clean up, check the floor for spashes of blood, wipe them clean.
Put the towel, used works, needles and ampouls into the side pocket of
my holdlall, wash my arms and hands, one of which is swollen and
painful, give the toilet the once over for any sign of my presence, its
clean. I then leave the hospital.

To the station and onto the
Tube to spend the rest of the day up west, as the Train trundles along
I gradually become mellow, as the first fix seeps into my blood stream
and tops up the firsts the strength of the two hit me I begin to gauche
out my eye lids drooping until I drop into a dreamy sleep.

The opening of the sliding doors at Tottenham Court road station
startle me awake. I am quickly out of my seat and up the escalator at
the ticket barrier it hits me like a thump on the head with a brick,
after unsuccessfully searching my pockets for my ticket I remember that
I had put it into my bag but where the fucking hell is my holdall, its
gone oh Christ more to the point where is my weeks supply, as to the
ticket, its of no importance any more.

I am back down the moving staircase like a shot; I reach the platform
from which only minutes before I had alighted from the tube as happy as
harry. It's deserted, no tube train, no people, no bag, crestfallen I
slump down on a Bench seat. I could have left it on the tube, if so it
is gone, the same being true if I left it in the hospital toilet as IM
not the only addict to jack up there, if another had found it he/she
would think it was Christmas day, gifts an all.

The thought of a week of having to score illegal drugs makes me feel
sick, the risk of arrest, having to put up with the hassle of the low
lives involved, how one quickly forgets, then there is the cost, the
shear waste of money I just cannot go down that road, not yet
anyway.

Look on the bright side, thankfully this happened after I injected
myself, that gives me a day to sort something out. If this were not the
case I would now be in a steadily increasing state of panic,
accompanied with ever increasing withdrawal symptoms.

Still feeling mellow my thoughts wander, if you watch all those
discussion programmes about drugs on the radio and television one would
simple phone a drugs helpline, which in turn would advise that one see
their GP or attend a Drug Dependency Unit. What a joke, over the years
I like many addicts have approached general practionors, their response
to my presence has without exception been one of two things,
helplessness or fury at having a drug addict in their surgery.

Their was the attractive doctor who flirtatiously crossed her legs as I
sat down, and then after I had explained why I was their fled her own
consulting room as if I was about to molest her. After a minute or two
the receptionist came in explaining that the Doctor has an emergency,
and in any case she did not feel that the practice would me right for
someone with "my problems.

As for Dr Angry, he is the type who believes that your heaven sent to
work out his, (this type is always male) frustrations on, he has the
added bonus that you're a junkie, therefor no one will take your word
over his no he has the right to give you the peace of his mind which he
would like to give to all of his wretched patients.

"Pull yourself together you feckless, winging layabout", he hasn't
bothered to ascertain if you work, for in his mind 'junkies don't.
"Your not ill, in any case this Practice does not treat people who self
inflict illness on themselves".

All this is nonsense as he daily treats people who have high blood
pressure or heart decease through obesity, lung cancer or asthma
through smoking but this fact makes your presence all the more welcome
as he has things he needs to get off his chest, in any case its no good
pouting this out, as by this time the good doctor is into a Hitler
rant. As his rage subsides, nine out of ten times he to will resort to
the receptionist to eject one, thus confirming in his own mind that all
addicts are trouble.

Finally there is the helpless GP, these can be of either sex, very
polite, in some cases even charming, Sadly they explain every thing is
beyond their control. "Of course they sympathise", confirming that
sympathy is between shit and syphilis in my dictionary."Naturally I
would like to help you but as IM sure you are aware it's the new rules
from central government that restrict me, im not even allowed to
prescribe methadone to you". You both know this is nonsense, but
there's little to be gained by interjecting as the doctor would either
resort to the tried and trusted receptionist or more likely ignore you
and go on to expand on his/her problems, which of course at this time
make it impossible to treat me".

You leave the Surgery feeling that you have just found a new friend,
when in reality you have been dumped on.

How about the drug dependency units would they be worth a try? First
established in the late nineteen sixties in a fit of panic by a
government spooked by increasing media coverage of drug abuse by
working class youngsters who had wised up to the fact that their were
doctors who if you crossed their palm with silver were prepared to
prescribe you narcotics, something middle class drug users had always
been aware of.

These Clinics replaced over night the British system of treating
addict, which allowed GPs to treat addicts by prescribing drugs such as
heroin and cocaine at low cost. Thus having the additional benefit of
not making it worth while economically, for major criminals to get
involved in the drug trade, as there was very little profit to be had.
The advantages to the addict were enormous, their supply of drugs was
clean, and the amount of time per day they had to spend on drugs was
minamalized to how long it took them to administer the drug into their
body. The rest of their day could be spent on living a normal
life.

Whereas the system of DDUs has been, for many people who have used them
worst than useless? As far as wider society is concerned it has been a
disaster, with the supply of narcotics passing from the local GP to the
local thug. On the bright side a number of careers have been built on
the backs of these unfortunate beings.

Many of the councillors and nurses who work in the Drugs industry
transferred from the large psychiatric hospitals that were closing
around that time, they had no expertise in treating addicts nor did the
doctors who over-saw the system. Policy and practice came down from
central government. Any Doctor who stepped outside these 'guidelines'
first found themselves carpeted by their superiors, if they refused to
change their ways arguing that their patients came first, they would
find themselves smeared in the media as the junkies friend etc. short
while later unemployment beckoned them.

Increasingly these clinics became a stinking swamp of self interest, as
far as those they were set up to treat, well their only junkies, they
self inflict their illness, in any case you cannot believe a word they
say.

As far as my problem was concerned they would be no good. The earliest
appointment that I would be able to get would be in six weeks, then I
would have to sign a contract agreeing to reduce my intake of drugs
over a three month period, ending with total abstinence. They then
would give me a prescription for fifty mils of oral methadone to be
picked up from the chemist daily between 10am and 5pm.

Not enough to touch the sides of my habit and in any case a daily pick
up would make it impossible for me to keep my job. As I have said worse
than useless, most people will put up with a degree of patronising and
inconvenience if its worth they're while but for most addicts these
clinics are not worth the input.

Of course some may feel that I have another option, use the loss to
attempt a drug free live. Sadly I don't see it as an option, why not,
well, experience, I have no wish to spend the next two years with
continuos diarrhoea, nor months of sleeplessness, nor when I cannot
take the aforementioned any more, do I want to drink myself into
oblivion to get some peace. If truth will tell, nor do I wish to
sacrifice the comfort and pleasure I get from the drug of my choice and
replace it with the aforementioned torment. Just as I presume cigarette
smokers would rather they had not first started, having reached a
certain age and failed to kick their wretched habit after a number of
attempts, they accept their addiction, despite the dangers to their
health, and even value the pleasure it gives them. Little is free in
life.

I have got to get myself into gear. If I don't, come tomorrow I'll be
in shit creek, there is nothing for it but to telephone my private
doctor, after all over the years I have paid her thousands of pounds.
Some may think that it is strange that she was not my first port of
call. However thirty years of dealing with the medical profession has
taught me that truthfulness is not always the best practice. A doctor
or for that matter a drugs councillor who advises one, has enormous
power over the addict to whom they prescribe. Being human they may well
abuse their power, or at the very least they will have subjective
prejudices, which they may or may not over come.

Only a fool would lay oneself bare to someone who has such power over
him or her. Many if not most of the medical profession, comfort their
own prejudices with the mistaken belief that all drug addicts are
congenital liars. In reality addicts are like most people, they do not
willingly hand a weapon to someone who may at a later date use it
against them.

Any addict who is lucky enough to find a sympathetic doctor has to be
careful what they say to them, as something they said years before
could be dredged up to be used as an excuse by the doctor to dump the
addict. This is especially true when the political wind of treating
drug users change, as they periodically do.

Still, needs must, I make the call."Whats your problem,"she answers in
her pararie province drawl, talking to me as if I am a child, I have
never discouraged this as I judge her to be someone who is not cruel to
children. I explain my situation to her in a haphazard manner due to
being nervous, after all this women has it within her gift to make my
life extremely uncomfortable, or not over the coming week.

To be fair she listens patiently as I ramble on, its amazing the
different attitude the medical profession displays to you when you
cross their palms with silver. Finally she asks about my veins, I
replied that they had not improved with a sense of immense relief, she
was talking, the door had not been slammed shut, I would get some kind
of replacement script.

She recites correctly what had accrued in the hospital earlier that
day. That is on failing to get a hit into a vein I had tried again,
successfully. She didn't have second sight addicts are no different
from the rest of the human race, creature of 'habit'.

"How do you carry your bag", she enquired," I hook it up over my
shoulders onto my back", I reply. I laugh at the absurdity of it, I had
been walking around, stoned and panicking with the bloody bag on my
back. And all knowing "goodbye" comes down the line then it goes
dead.

THE END

A BACKWARD GLANCE INTO THE FUTURE

"Take care now, I do not believe anyone is hanging about out there, but
you cannot be
Too careful. Don't talk to anyone". Every week for the last ten years
or so, the pharmacist has said the same words to me as he hands me my
prescription, does he give a shit or is it his version of have a nice
day. I notice he doesn't say it to any of the other customer, perhaps
to him I seem vulnerable?

As he rings up my fee of 65 pounds he watches me as I carefully put my
package into my bag. It's a fact that all addicts have a sympathetic,
warm feeling towards their supplier, whether they be street corner
dealer or legal pharmacist, that is as long as we are getting what we
need, if that is not the case such feelings quickly evaporate.

As I leave the chemist shop I notice a couple anxiously eyeing me,
desperate for me to show them some form of recognition so that they can
then approach me to score. I ignore them somewhat guiltily as I have
stood in their shoes and no only to well the desperation of their
emotions, yet today IM not to be the lifeline that they are looking
for. I swiftly walk in the direction of the local hospital where I know
I can inject myself in comparative safety

Its hard for even me to believe, but after over thirty years of
continuos drug use I still look forward each week to picking up my
script, the process of injecting myself is as enjoyable today as it was
when I first tried it all those years ago. When I can find a vein that
is, which as the years go by becomes ever more difficult.

The sheer pleasure of the sight of the blood, flowing back into the
syringe on the needle entering a vein, gradually mixing with the clear
liquid that is the narcotic is as indescribable as it is illogical. It
is also such a personnel thing, total self. Perhaps this is one of the
main reasons that it provokes such anger and frustration in ones love
ones as it is impossible for a non-user to understand an addict's
motivation. The uninitiated, along with those in authority, such as
police, politicians and the medical profession increasingly resort to
the ludicrously simplistic notion of drug addicts being sad, bad, or
mad.

For almost all addicts the process of injecting the drug into ones body
is almost like carrying out a religious devotion. Indeed if one fails
to inject into a vein and are then forced to use a muscle, the feeling
of dejection, although temporary is crushing.

The gates of the hospital beckon, a copy of the Daily Telegraph folded
under my arm, I aim to appear as unlike the media stereotype addicts as
possible. T he security guard nods good morning at me as I stride
through the main entrance doors and into the building. I head down the
corridors that even the newest hospitals seem to be unable to do
without. Signs on either side of the corridor pointing off to
Pathology, ray, pharmacy, wards ten and eleven, staff toilet only, the
door to which I enter.

Although I've been through these thousands of times, the sense of
urgency and anticipation is as great as ever, nerves make me reach,
bringing up bile from the pit of my stomach.

Whilst trying to contain this from developing to me being sick I rip
the syringe from its wrapper, like a child who cannot wait to get at
their sweeties. I follow this by flipping the tops of two needles, one
orange, short, and the other green, long. Then before I sit on the
toilet I take a towel from my bag to cover the lower part of my body,
if I did not and I then had difficulty finding a vein I would leave the
toilet covered in blood looking like jack the ripper

Next I carefully take out four ampoules from the chemists bag, three
small, one large, returning the bag to my holdall. The long green
needle goes on the end of the works, tops of the amps snapped off and
beginning with the small ampoules and completed with the large the
liquid is drawn up 200 mils.

The green is exchanged for the short orange; controlling my stomach I
push my reading bins firmly on to my face and begin. Where to commence
is never a problem, one lives in hope and inserts the needle into the
spot where one last had a successful hit.

Gradually withdrawing the plunger, hope against reality that blood
flows back into the syringe, nothing. Repeat the process, pushing the
needle in and around under my arms flesh. Finally when no blood flows I
gradually withdraw the works. The blood drips onto the towl from the
wound. Its useless going back in here the veins collapsed, try
elsewhere, first old spots, nothing, useless, panic beginning to grip,
control, this is hopeless, try my hand, very painful, ah! Blood,
stop-shaking stomach calm, gently push in the plunger.

Ah no fuck, I cannot control it, I am out of the vein, the blood will
clot if I do not keep going and I will lose the lot, bullocks, the
thing people do for their pleasures. I sit there, silence, no rush,
disappointed, empty syringe, swollen hand, under its skin lays the
liquid, it will be at least thirty minutes before the drug takes
hold.

To hell with it, try again, same universal procedure, green on works,
snap tops of amps draw up narcotic, green off orange on, try back of
wrist this time, dangerous as near artery and painful as not much flesh
in this area.

Ah, Ive got it, the rich red of my blood flows like a mountain stream,
back into the works and mixes with the clear narcotic, steady,
carefully, gently, push in the plunger, its in, the rush of the drug
waffles over me. Peace. Sit quietly and enjoy it, the feeling of well
being, contentment, comfort within ones body, peace with oneself and
momentarily the world around you.

Now to clean up, check the floor for spashes of blood, wipe them clean.
Put the towel, used works, needles and ampouls into the side pocket of
my holdlall, wash my arms and hands, one of which is swollen and
painful, give the toilet the once over for any sign of my presence, its
clean. I then leave the hospital.

To the station and onto the
Tube to spend the rest of the day up west, as the Train trundles along
I gradually become mellow, as the first fix seeps into my blood stream
and tops up the firsts the strength of the two hit me I begin to gauche
out my eye lids drooping until I drop into a dreamy sleep.

The opening of the sliding doors at Tottenham Court road station
startle me awake. I am quickly out of my seat and up the escalator at
the ticket barrier it hits me like a thump on the head with a brick,
after unsuccessfully searching my pockets for my ticket I remember that
I had put it into my bag but where the fucking hell is my holdall, its
gone oh Christ more to the point where is my weeks supply, as to the
ticket, its of no importance any more.

I am back down the moving staircase like a shot; I reach the platform
from which only minutes before I had alighted from the tube as happy as
harry. It's deserted, no tube train, no people, no bag, crestfallen I
slump down on a Bench seat. I could have left it on the tube, if so it
is gone, the same being true if I left it in the hospital toilet as IM
not the only addict to jack up there, if another had found it he/she
would think it was Christmas day, gifts an all.

The thought of a week of having to score illegal drugs makes me feel
sick, the risk of arrest, having to put up with the hassle of the low
lives involved, how one quickly forgets, then there is the cost, the
shear waste of money I just cannot go down that road, not yet
anyway.

Look on the bright side, thankfully this happened after I injected
myself, that gives me a day to sort something out. If this were not the
case I would now be in a steadily increasing state of panic,
accompanied with ever increasing withdrawal symptoms.

Still feeling mellow my thoughts wander, if you watch all those
discussion programmes about drugs on the radio and television one would
simple phone a drugs helpline, which in turn would advise that one see
their GP or attend a Drug Dependency Unit. What a joke, over the years
I like many addicts have approached general practionors, their response
to my presence has without exception been one of two things,
helplessness or fury at having a drug addict in their surgery.

Their was the attractive doctor who flirtatiously crossed her legs as I
sat down, and then after I had explained why I was their fled her own
consulting room as if I was about to molest her. After a minute or two
the receptionist came in explaining that the Doctor has an emergency,
and in any case she did not feel that the practice would me right for
someone with "my problems.

As for Dr Angry, he is the type who believes that your heaven sent to
work out his, (this type is always male) frustrations on, he has the
added bonus that you're a junkie, therefor no one will take your word
over his no he has the right to give you the peace of his mind which he
would like to give to all of his wretched patients.

"Pull yourself together you feckless, winging layabout", he hasn't
bothered to ascertain if you work, for in his mind 'junkies don't.
"Your not ill, in any case this Practice does not treat people who self
inflict illness on themselves".

All this is nonsense as he daily treats people who have high blood
pressure or heart decease through obesity, lung cancer or asthma
through smoking but this fact makes your presence all the more welcome
as he has things he needs to get off his chest, in any case its no good
pouting this out, as by this time the good doctor is into a Hitler
rant. As his rage subsides, nine out of ten times he to will resort to
the receptionist to eject one, thus confirming in his own mind that all
addicts are trouble.

Finally there is the helpless GP, these can be of either sex, very
polite, in some cases even charming, Sadly they explain every thing is
beyond their control. "Of course they sympathise", confirming that
sympathy is between shit and syphilis in my dictionary."Naturally I
would like to help you but as IM sure you are aware it's the new rules
from central government that restrict me, im not even allowed to
prescribe methadone to you". You both know this is nonsense, but
there's little to be gained by interjecting as the doctor would either
resort to the tried and trusted receptionist or more likely ignore you
and go on to expand on his/her problems, which of course at this time
make it impossible to treat me".

You leave the Surgery feeling that you have just found a new friend,
when in reality you have been dumped on.

How about the drug dependency units would they be worth a try? First
established in the late nineteen sixties in a fit of panic by a
government spooked by increasing media coverage of drug abuse by
working class youngsters who had wised up to the fact that their were
doctors who if you crossed their palm with silver were prepared to
prescribe you narcotics, something middle class drug users had always
been aware of.

These Clinics replaced over night the British system of treating
addict, which allowed GPs to treat addicts by prescribing drugs such as
heroin and cocaine at low cost. Thus having the additional benefit of
not making it worth while economically, for major criminals to get
involved in the drug trade, as there was very little profit to be had.
The advantages to the addict were enormous, their supply of drugs was
clean, and the amount of time per day they had to spend on drugs was
minamalized to how long it took them to administer the drug into their
body. The rest of their day could be spent on living a normal
life.

Whereas the system of DDUs has been, for many people who have used them
worst than useless? As far as wider society is concerned it has been a
disaster, with the supply of narcotics passing from the local GP to the
local thug. On the bright side a number of careers have been built on
the backs of these unfortunate beings.

Many of the councillors and nurses who work in the Drugs industry
transferred from the large psychiatric hospitals that were closing
around that time, they had no expertise in treating addicts nor did the
doctors who over-saw the system. Policy and practice came down from
central government. Any Doctor who stepped outside these 'guidelines'
first found themselves carpeted by their superiors, if they refused to
change their ways arguing that their patients came first, they would
find themselves smeared in the media as the junkies friend etc. short
while later unemployment beckoned them.

Increasingly these clinics became a stinking swamp of self interest, as
far as those they were set up to treat, well their only junkies, they
self inflict their illness, in any case you cannot believe a word they
say.

As far as my problem was concerned they would be no good. The earliest
appointment that I would be able to get would be in six weeks, then I
would have to sign a contract agreeing to reduce my intake of drugs
over a three month period, ending with total abstinence. They then
would give me a prescription for fifty mils of oral methadone to be
picked up from the chemist daily between 10am and 5pm.

Not enough to touch the sides of my habit and in any case a daily pick
up would make it impossible for me to keep my job. As I have said worse
than useless, most people will put up with a degree of patronising and
inconvenience if its worth they're while but for most addicts these
clinics are not worth the input.

Of course some may feel that I have another option, use the loss to
attempt a drug free live. Sadly I don't see it as an option, why not,
well, experience, I have no wish to spend the next two years with
continuos diarrhoea, nor months of sleeplessness, nor when I cannot
take the aforementioned any more, do I want to drink myself into
oblivion to get some peace. If truth will tell, nor do I wish to
sacrifice the comfort and pleasure I get from the drug of my choice and
replace it with the aforementioned torment. Just as I presume cigarette
smokers would rather they had not first started, having reached a
certain age and failed to kick their wretched habit after a number of
attempts, they accept their addiction, despite the dangers to their
health, and even value the pleasure it gives them. Little is free in
life.

I have got to get myself into gear. If I don't, come tomorrow I'll be
in shit creek, there is nothing for it but to telephone my private
doctor, after all over the years I have paid her thousands of pounds.
Some may think that it is strange that she was not my first port of
call. However thirty years of dealing with the medical profession has
taught me that truthfulness is not always the best practice. A doctor
or for that matter a drugs councillor who advises one, has enormous
power over the addict to whom they prescribe. Being human they may well
abuse their power, or at the very least they will have subjective
prejudices, which they may or may not over come.

Only a fool would lay oneself bare to someone who has such power over
him or her. Many if not most of the medical profession, comfort their
own prejudices with the mistaken belief that all drug addicts are
congenital liars. In reality addicts are like most people, they do not
willingly hand a weapon to someone who may at a later date use it
against them.

Any addict who is lucky enough to find a sympathetic doctor has to be
careful what they say to them, as something they said years before
could be dredged up to be used as an excuse by the doctor to dump the
addict. This is especially true when the political wind of treating
drug users change, as they periodically do.

Still, needs must, I make the call."Whats your problem,"she answers in
her pararie province drawl, talking to me as if I am a child, I have
never discouraged this as I judge her to be someone who is not cruel to
children. I explain my situation to her in a haphazard manner due to
being nervous, after all this women has it within her gift to make my
life extremely uncomfortable, or not over the coming week.

To be fair she listens patiently as I ramble on, its amazing the
different attitude the medical profession displays to you when you
cross their palms with silver. Finally she asks about my veins, I
replied that they had not improved with a sense of immense relief, she
was talking, the door had not been slammed shut, I would get some kind
of replacement script.

She recites correctly what had accrued in the hospital earlier that
day. That is on failing to get a hit into a vein I had tried again,
successfully. She didn't have second sight addicts are no different
from the rest of the human race, creature of 'habit'.

"How do you carry your bag", she enquired," I hook it up over my
shoulders onto my back", I reply. I laugh at the absurdity of it, I had
been walking around, stoned and panicking with the bloody bag on my
back. And all knowing "goodbye" comes down the line then it goes
dead.

THE END

A BACKWARD GLANCE INTO THE FUTURE

"Take care now, I do not believe anyone is hanging about out there, but
you cannot be
Too careful. Don't talk to anyone". Every week for the last ten years
or so, the pharmacist has said the same words to me as he hands me my
prescription, does he give a shit or is it his version of have a nice
day. I notice he doesn't say it to any of the other customer, perhaps
to him I seem vulnerable?

As he rings up my fee of 65 pounds he watches me as I carefully put my
package into my bag. It's a fact that all addicts have a sympathetic,
warm feeling towards their supplier, whether they be street corner
dealer or legal pharmacist, that is as long as we are getting what we
need, if that is not the case such feelings quickly evaporate.

As I leave the chemist shop I notice a couple anxiously eyeing me,
desperate for me to show them some form of recognition so that they can
then approach me to score. I ignore them somewhat guiltily as I have
stood in their shoes and no only to well the desperation of their
emotions, yet today IM not to be the lifeline that they are looking
for. I swiftly walk in the direction of the local hospital where I know
I can inject myself in comparative safety

Its hard for even me to believe, but after over thirty years of
continuos drug use I still look forward each week to picking up my
script, the process of injecting myself is as enjoyable today as it was
when I first tried it all those years ago. When I can find a vein that
is, which as the years go by becomes ever more difficult.

The sheer pleasure of the sight of the blood, flowing back into the
syringe on the needle entering a vein, gradually mixing with the clear
liquid that is the narcotic is as indescribable as it is illogical. It
is also such a personnel thing, total self. Perhaps this is one of the
main reasons that it provokes such anger and frustration in ones love
ones as it is impossible for a non-user to understand an addict's
motivation. The uninitiated, along with those in authority, such as
police, politicians and the medical profession increasingly resort to
the ludicrously simplistic notion of drug addicts being sad, bad, or
mad.

For almost all addicts the process of injecting the drug into ones body
is almost like carrying out a religious devotion. Indeed if one fails
to inject into a vein and are then forced to use a muscle, the feeling
of dejection, although temporary is crushing.

The gates of the hospital beckon, a copy of the Daily Telegraph folded
under my arm, I aim to appear as unlike the media stereotype addicts as
possible. T he security guard nods good morning at me as I stride
through the main entrance doors and into the building. I head down the
corridors that even the newest hospitals seem to be unable to do
without. Signs on either side of the corridor pointing off to
Pathology, ray, pharmacy, wards ten and eleven, staff toilet only, the
door to which I enter.

Although I've been through these thousands of times, the sense of
urgency and anticipation is as great as ever, nerves make me reach,
bringing up bile from the pit of my stomach.

Whilst trying to contain this from developing to me being sick I rip
the syringe from its wrapper, like a child who cannot wait to get at
their sweeties. I follow this by flipping the tops of two needles, one
orange, short, and the other green, long. Then before I sit on the
toilet I take a towel from my bag to cover the lower part of my body,
if I did not and I then had difficulty finding a vein I would leave the
toilet covered in blood looking like jack the ripper

Next I carefully take out four ampoules from the chemists bag, three
small, one large, returning the bag to my holdall. The long green
needle goes on the end of the works, tops of the amps snapped off and
beginning with the small ampoules and completed with the large the
liquid is drawn up 200 mils.

The green is exchanged for the short orange; controlling my stomach I
push my reading bins firmly on to my face and begin. Where to commence
is never a problem, one lives in hope and inserts the needle into the
spot where one last had a successful hit.

Gradually withdrawing the plunger, hope against reality that blood
flows back into the syringe, nothing. Repeat the process, pushing the
needle in and around under my arms flesh. Finally when no blood flows I
gradually withdraw the works. The blood drips onto the towl from the
wound. Its useless going back in here the veins collapsed, try
elsewhere, first old spots, nothing, useless, panic beginning to grip,
control, this is hopeless, try my hand, very painful, ah! Blood,
stop-shaking stomach calm, gently push in the plunger.

Ah no fuck, I cannot control it, I am out of the vein, the blood will
clot if I do not keep going and I will lose the lot, bullocks, the
thing people do for their pleasures. I sit there, silence, no rush,
disappointed, empty syringe, swollen hand, under its skin lays the
liquid, it will be at least thirty minutes before the drug takes
hold.

To hell with it, try again, same universal procedure, green on works,
snap tops of amps draw up narcotic, green off orange on, try back of
wrist this time, dangerous as near artery and painful as not much flesh
in this area.

Ah, Ive got it, the rich red of my blood flows like a mountain stream,
back into the works and mixes with the clear narcotic, steady,
carefully, gently, push in the plunger, its in, the rush of the drug
waffles over me. Peace. Sit quietly and enjoy it, the feeling of well
being, contentment, comfort within ones body, peace with oneself and
momentarily the world around you.

Now to clean up, check the floor for spashes of blood, wipe them clean.
Put the towel, used works, needles and ampouls into the side pocket of
my holdlall, wash my arms and hands, one of which is swollen and
painful, give the toilet the once over for any sign of my presence, its
clean. I then leave the hospital.

To the station and onto the
Tube to spend the rest of the day up west, as the Train trundles along
I gradually become mellow, as the first fix seeps into my blood stream
and tops up the firsts the strength of the two hit me I begin to gauche
out my eye lids drooping until I drop into a dreamy sleep.

The opening of the sliding doors at Tottenham Court road station
startle me awake. I am quickly out of my seat and up the escalator at
the ticket barrier it hits me like a thump on the head with a brick,
after unsuccessfully searching my pockets for my ticket I remember that
I had put it into my bag but where the fucking hell is my holdall, its
gone oh Christ more to the point where is my weeks supply, as to the
ticket, its of no importance any more.

I am back down the moving staircase like a shot; I reach the platform
from which only minutes before I had alighted from the tube as happy as
harry. It's deserted, no tube train, no people, no bag, crestfallen I
slump down on a Bench seat. I could have left it on the tube, if so it
is gone, the same being true if I left it in the hospital toilet as IM
not the only addict to jack up there, if another had found it he/she
would think it was Christmas day, gifts an all.

The thought of a week of having to score illegal drugs makes me feel
sick, the risk of arrest, having to put up with the hassle of the low
lives involved, how one quickly forgets, then there is the cost, the
shear waste of money I just cannot go down that road, not yet
anyway.

Look on the bright side, thankfully this happened after I injected
myself, that gives me a day to sort something out. If this were not the
case I would now be in a steadily increasing state of panic,
accompanied with ever increasing withdrawal symptoms.

Still feeling mellow my thoughts wander, if you watch all those
discussion programmes about drugs on the radio and television one would
simple phone a drugs helpline, which in turn would advise that one see
their GP or attend a Drug Dependency Unit. What a joke, over the years
I like many addicts have approached general practionors, their response
to my presence has without exception been one of two things,
helplessness or fury at having a drug addict in their surgery.

Their was the attractive doctor who flirtatiously crossed her legs as I
sat down, and then after I had explained why I was their fled her own
consulting room as if I was about to molest her. After a minute or two
the receptionist came in explaining that the Doctor has an emergency,
and in any case she did not feel that the practice would me right for
someone with "my problems.

As for Dr Angry, he is the type who believes that your heaven sent to
work out his, (this type is always male) frustrations on, he has the
added bonus that you're a junkie, therefor no one will take your word
over his no he has the right to give you the peace of his mind which he
would like to give to all of his wretched patients.

"Pull yourself together you feckless, winging layabout", he hasn't
bothered to ascertain if you work, for in his mind 'junkies don't.
"Your not ill, in any case this Practice does not treat people who self
inflict illness on themselves".

All this is nonsense as he daily treats people who have high blood
pressure or heart decease through obesity, lung cancer or asthma
through smoking but this fact makes your presence all the more welcome
as he has things he needs to get off his chest, in any case its no good
pouting this out, as by this time the good doctor is into a Hitler
rant. As his rage subsides, nine out of ten times he to will resort to
the receptionist to eject one, thus confirming in his own mind that all
addicts are trouble.

Finally there is the helpless GP, these can be of either sex, very
polite, in some cases even charming, Sadly they explain every thing is
beyond their control. "Of course they sympathise", confirming that
sympathy is between shit and syphilis in my dictionary."Naturally I
would like to help you but as IM sure you are aware it's the new rules
from central government that restrict me, im not even allowed to
prescribe methadone to you". You both know this is nonsense, but
there's little to be gained by interjecting as the doctor would either
resort to the tried and trusted receptionist or more likely ignore you
and go on to expand on his/her problems, which of course at this time
make it impossible to treat me".

You leave the Surgery feeling that you have just found a new friend,
when in reality you have been dumped on.

How about the drug dependency units would they be worth a try? First
established in the late nineteen sixties in a fit of panic by a
government spooked by increasing media coverage of drug abuse by
working class youngsters who had wised up to the fact that their were
doctors who if you crossed their palm with silver were prepared to
prescribe you narcotics, something middle class drug users had always
been aware of.

These Clinics replaced over night the British system of treating
addict, which allowed GPs to treat addicts by prescribing drugs such as
heroin and cocaine at low cost. Thus having the additional benefit of
not making it worth while economically, for major criminals to get
involved in the drug trade, as there was very little profit to be had.
The advantages to the addict were enormous, their supply of drugs was
clean, and the amount of time per day they had to spend on drugs was
minamalized to how long it took them to administer the drug into their
body. The rest of their day could be spent on living a normal
life.

Whereas the system of DDUs has been, for many people who have used them
worst than useless? As far as wider society is concerned it has been a
disaster, with the supply of narcotics passing from the local GP to the
local thug. On the bright side a number of careers have been built on
the backs of these unfortunate beings.

Many of the councillors and nurses who work in the Drugs industry
transferred from the large psychiatric hospitals that were closing
around that time, they had no expertise in treating addicts nor did the
doctors who over-saw the system. Policy and practice came down from
central government. Any Doctor who stepped outside these 'guidelines'
first found themselves carpeted by their superiors, if they refused to
change their ways arguing that their patients came first, they would
find themselves smeared in the media as the junkies friend etc. short
while later unemployment beckoned them.

Increasingly these clinics became a stinking swamp of self interest, as
far as those they were set up to treat, well their only junkies, they
self inflict their illness, in any case you cannot believe a word they
say.

As far as my problem was concerned they would be no good. The earliest
appointment that I would be able to get would be in six weeks, then I
would have to sign a contract agreeing to reduce my intake of drugs
over a three month period, ending with total abstinence. They then
would give me a prescription for fifty mils of oral methadone to be
picked up from the chemist daily between 10am and 5pm.

Not enough to touch the sides of my habit and in any case a daily pick
up would make it impossible for me to keep my job. As I have said worse
than useless, most people will put up with a degree of patronising and
inconvenience if its worth they're while but for most addicts these
clinics are not worth the input.

Of course some may feel that I have another option, use the loss to
attempt a drug free live. Sadly I don't see it as an option, why not,
well, experience, I have no wish to spend the next two years with
continuos diarrhoea, nor months of sleeplessness, nor when I cannot
take the aforementioned any more, do I want to drink myself into
oblivion to get some peace. If truth will tell, nor do I wish to
sacrifice the comfort and pleasure I get from the drug of my choice and
replace it with the aforementioned torment. Just as I presume cigarette
smokers would rather they had not first started, having reached a
certain age and failed to kick their wretched habit after a number of
attempts, they accept their addiction, despite the dangers to their
health, and even value the pleasure it gives them. Little is free in
life.

I have got to get myself into gear. If I don't, come tomorrow I'll be
in shit creek, there is nothing for it but to telephone my private
doctor, after all over the years I have paid her thousands of pounds.
Some may think that it is strange that she was not my first port of
call. However thirty years of dealing with the medical profession has
taught me that truthfulness is not always the best practice. A doctor
or for that matter a drugs councillor who advises one, has enormous
power over the addict to whom they prescribe. Being human they may well
abuse their power, or at the very least they will have subjective
prejudices, which they may or may not over come.

Only a fool would lay oneself bare to someone who has such power over
him or her. Many if not most of the medical profession, comfort their
own prejudices with the mistaken belief that all drug addicts are
congenital liars. In reality addicts are like most people, they do not
willingly hand a weapon to someone who may at a later date use it
against them.

Any addict who is lucky enough to find a sympathetic doctor has to be
careful what they say to them, as something they said years before
could be dredged up to be used as an excuse by the doctor to dump the
addict. This is especially true when the political wind of treating
drug users change, as they periodically do.

Still, needs must, I make the call."Whats your problem,"she answers in
her pararie province drawl, talking to me as if I am a child, I have
never discouraged this as I judge her to be someone who is not cruel to
children. I explain my situation to her in a haphazard manner due to
being nervous, after all this women has it within her gift to make my
life extremely uncomfortable, or not over the coming week.

To be fair she listens patiently as I ramble on, its amazing the
different attitude the medical profession displays to you when you
cross their palms with silver. Finally she asks about my veins, I
replied that they had not improved with a sense of immense relief, she
was talking, the door had not been slammed shut, I would get some kind
of replacement script.

She recites correctly what had accrued in the hospital earlier that
day. That is on failing to get a hit into a vein I had tried again,
successfully. She didn't have second sight addicts are no different
from the rest of the human race, creature of 'habit'.

"How do you carry your bag", she enquired," I hook it up over my
shoulders onto my back", I reply. I laugh at the absurdity of it, I had
been walking around, stoned and panicking with the bloody bag on my
back. And all knowing "goodbye" comes down the line then it goes
dead.

THE END