Dean Herbert, Scottish Daily Express
Chemical Unhappiness
2009
It aw starts as usual. A grab the bucket kit oot ma wardrobe n stick the socket in it, wan fur turnin hexagonal nuts wae a wrench. It’s git a thin layer ae mesh inside, a pipe screen, burnt black tae remove the gold coating n stop us gittin zinc flu. A pack the socket wae grass, White Widow, potent smelly shit. The lighter’s flame gits sucked doon the socket as A pull the bottle up, oot the water, n twist it tae cream it up properly. The green crackles on the way up n it’s a pure milk-bottle creamer. The arse ae the bottle emerges oot the water filled wae that ominous green smoke. The Irn-Bru label is peelin aff in the dirty oil-filled water. A toss the hot socket intae the ashtray n hold the bottle still tae no spill any smoke oot the top. A cup ma hand roon its hot neck n sook the thing in a wanner. There’s a wee bubble fae the water n that’s it, nae goin back. The thick smoke goes intae ma lungs n A breathe it oot. A feel the usual punch tae the lung n the strong bucket kick. Usually this fades in a second n a wee cough up n yir away, melted oot yir fuckin nut, but that’s no how A feel, troops. No at aw.
A feel this sinkin feelin. Ma knees seem tae melt intae the floor A rest on. A feel like A’m fallin n fallin again, that sensation like goin doon in a lift but intae the floor, like it’s made ae sponge instead ae solid. It’s ma knees geein way n A’m fallin doon n doon. Ma breath’s stolen fae me n ma hands n feet go aw numb. A feel like A’ve been thrown in a bath ae cold water n desperately gasp fur air that isnae comin. It’s just repeated over n over n over n A feel like A’m gonnae pass oot. After twenty minutes ae this sheer terror A calm doon enough tae crawl intae the bathroom n pour cold water on ma heed. Ma heart is fuckin poundin n A’m scared shitless. A’m thinkin A’ve just huv a brush wae death, a heart attack or suhin. Ma hands ir still numb n ma legs ir fuckin jelly. A try tae smoke a fag but even that seems tae bring the horrible feelin back n A stub it oot n lie motionless, starin at the ceiling, shell-shocked.
A dae wit any worried cunt dis. A fire up the eld laptop n stick on the Google. A’m typin ma symptoms: shortness ae breath, numb hands and feet, chest pains. Panic n anxiety. Fur the first few minutes A’m in denial. The usual pish comes up aboot heart attacks n angina n cancer, practically confirmed. The wee creepin n crawlin sensation A’ve been feelin has finally caught up wae us. A’m thinkin aboot cardiac arrests, tachycardia, palpitations n loads ae other words which A’m no sure ae the meanin ae. A heard them on Casualty years back n they’ve resurfaced tae fan the flames ae this mad anxiety. Panic attacks: nausea, sweating, trembling, palpitations. Four ticks. Jesus, fuckin panic attacks? A don’t feel panicky. In fact, A don’t feel worried aboot anyhin, bold as brass YTP wan. A keep tellin maself this as A try n smoke a fag again. A’m determined no tae be beaten but this feelin comes fae deep doon inside us n A think it’s goin tae happen again. Even thinkin aboot it makes the feelin come back. Noo A’m in a constant see-saw ae the fear ae panic, the panic n the panickin fear n back tae fear ae panic then panic n panickin fear n panic n fear n panic, then back tae the fear ae panic n repeat, repeat, repeat. A dunno wit A take drugs fur. A’m no sure why A started but A’m sure ae where it’s got me.
A’m fiercely cravin green but A’m frightened tae smoke it. A’ve rolled a joint n A’m starin at it. A’ve smoked dope fur five year noo, practically every day. A’m addicted tae it, the stronger it got the worse it got. Smokin solid hash wisnae as intense, cos the THC wis weaker. The green is super-strength noo, potent as fuck. That change wis when the bad stuff started creepin in. Yi felt it almost immediately. Cunts gittin weird, n after smokin some strains ae it, yi felt oot-ae-sorts n a bit odd. Mostly, yi just hit the munchies, scranned n went tae bed n dismissed it, but suhin wis happnin below. It wis fuckin us aw up. Cunts gittin edgy n more addicted n actin strange n no themselves. Yi hear the rumours ae cannabis psychosis n yi dismiss aw that as shite but it hus actually happened tae cunts in this very town, pure Ward 24 material. As strength goes up, dose should automatically go doon, but wae grass, it wis the opposite. The stronger it got, the more we smoked – oot every weeknight tokin like fuck, smokin mega joints n sookin buckets. Cunts wur always appearin wae rarer stuff, more exotic n super-skunk shite, a million miles fae the eld bits ae shiny hash we used tae smoke n the stuff Kenzie n Danny ir still puntin tae aw the young cunts – the soap-bar, council dope. Aw the elder cunts moved ontae green a few year ago n the eld days ae spreadin-in n smokin hash tae yi passed oot ir gone.
Five year felt nae time at all, but it wis obviously long enough tae dae damage. A’m pure frettin aboot this wee unknown episode. A’m readin on n there’s aboot a million pages dedicated tae it. Panic attacks irnae an emotional state ae being, necessarily. They’re a physical and psychological response tae external simulae, emotional issues or trauma or drug-induced, that activate the ancient fight or fight adrenal response ae yir sympathetic nervous system. Once you’ve got them, it’s a curse. Yir scared yir gonnae take wan, so yi take wan n yir stuck in a vicious circle ae fear, embarrassment n avoidance. Cos if yi feel trapped or uncomfortable, that sinkin feelin starts n yir away. Nobody knows yir sufferin, knees weak n dizzy, inside yir screamin fur help. Yi want an ambulance or somebody tae constantly reassure yi, but that only makes yi worse. Yir breaths git faster, too shallow or too deep. Yir thinkin aboot yir heartbeat n yir breathin. Things yi should dae naturally ir on yir mind. Yir countin breaths n beats. Too many or too little? Too big, too wee? BANG. Panic attack. Drivin the motor? Chest feels funny. Panic attack. Forget n think yir normal fur a second, coffee n a fag. Panic attack. Rough in the mornin after a night on the drink wae yir pals. Panic attack. Feelin too hot. Panic attack. Yir strugglin tae breathe n even yir knees feel like they’re gonnae gee way beneath yi. Chest pains. Paranoia. Heart attack? Trains, lifts, driving, loud noises, heat, sickness, stimulants, uppers, downers n hallucinogens. Aw they things make me panic noo. A’m takin them constantly this last two month. A’m malfunctionin, broken n A need fixed. Somebody fuckin help us.
A’m in the doctors, tryin no tae look at aw the posters aboot rape crisis, HIV/AIDS n prostate cancer cos they’re makin me feel para. Ma eyes meet the filthy carpet tiles n the posters seem like a welcome change. A hate this fuckin place. Yi feel stricken wae a hunner fresh ailments n germs when yi walk in. It feels boggin n smells musty wae a subtle note ae cheap disinfectant. The waitin room is filled wae plastic chairs, mad eld things, orange n blue n faded. Weans’ toys scattered aboot a big plastic box. Wid A fuck let ma wean touch them. Think the cleaners clean them? Doubt it. Come in here wae a cold n leave wae MRSA. NHS cutbacks, int it? A don’t want tae accept panic attacks as an explanation. The healthy mind struggles tae admit it’s unhealthy. It’s no like breakin yir leg. Cos there’s nae shame in that. There’s nae stookie tae sign wae a cock n baws fur yir mind – so we limp on, cos ae stigma n fear n embarrassment n tryin tae act as if nuhin’s wrong. Then we drink tae self-medicate n kill ourselves n everybody wonders why.
The doctor offers a sympathetic smile. He gees me a wee printed sheet n shows me the door. Try this before yi speak tae a professional, long waitin lists n aw that. The doctor seems disinterested in everyhin A say. He just nods away n glances discreetly at his watch. It’s nearly lunchtime A suppose. He’s a fuckin bored prick thinkin aboot sandwiches. A thought A wis gonnae die last night n A’ve died a couple ae times every day, since ma first wan. A don’t know how tae convey ma fear n loathin tae him. A’m depressed, paranoid, panicky, chokin, frustrated n scared. He tells me no tae worry n gees us a fuckin handout tae look at wae breathin exercises. A’m ragin aboot it n it’s makin me worse. A kin feel anger buildin inside me but A feel like greetin. It’s a nightmare that A’m livin. Ma coping mechanisms tae life n stress ir drink n drugs. Ironically, they’ve got us in this fuckin mess. So where dae A turn? The natural reaction wis ma local friendly GP, n it wis the right move, but wit noo? Where dae A go? Who dae A turn tae? A know A should speak tae ma maw
or anybody who’ll listen n let somebody intae this nightmare but A dunno how tae verbalise it. The doctor says ma heart is fine. Don’t worry, Alan, you’re young and healthy! It’s just mild anxiety n panic attacks. It feels overwhelmin. A’m a young Scottish male n A’m supposed tae be hard as nails. A’m a fuckin ticket n a YTP wan n A’ve git enemies n a hard shell but A’m broken underneath n A need help.
When is the last time yi heard yir own heart beat? And did yi think aboot it stoppin? Natural processes becomin the subject ae an infernal scrutiny. It’s a fear ae fear, ae death, falling, heights, decay n illness. A’m a worn n weary eld man within weeks ae this. Ma sufferin is deepenin wae every day that passes cos A’m addicted tae the very venom that’s cripplin me. A kin barely move some days. Depressed n alone in bed, strugglin tae even wash, scared ae the shower. Fear ae the sensation ae panic has dragged me doon. A’m still rollin and puttin joints tae ma lips, determined no tae let these feelings stop me, no addicted but committed. Even a draw noo sends me intae the fear, that tailspin towards panic and those feelings that A dread every wakin minute. It’s no panic, but fear. Mortal terror and horror rather than fear. A’m alone in the dark and thinkin. It started wae those grass buckets a couple ae months back. Their sharp and toxic hit tae the brain and lungs. Too much fur too long. The smoke windin oot and that sinkin feelin draggin me doon tae the floor in a heap. A tried again n knocked the bucket over and wis covered in the stinkin water, heart racin, heed light and in sheer terror. Have yi seen Pineapple Express or any other suitable drug-comedy? They words ir oxymoronic tae me noo. This is the fuckin reality.
At least ten times in the last week A’ve been critical, terminal. Ten heart attacks in a week, mouth cancer or maybe just a gum ulcer, hepatitis C fae sharin hundreds ae Charlie-snorters at parties, n HIV fae junky needles A might huv stepped on when A wis younger. Ten shakin fits and airless breaths. Ten grabs on invisible handrails. A’m chokin, coughin, attemptin any normal sensation tae relieve these feelings. Sleep is ma only sanctuary fae the sinkin sensation. A’m fallin intae freezin water every time. Mental distress, chemical reaction, physical sensation. A sinkin feelin that steals ma breath fae me. A’m chokin on air. Ma chest feels hollow n empty n the armchair A’m sittin on becomes a rollercoaster cockpit. The attacks pass after aboot ten minutes but A’m left less me after every one. There is nae happiness in ma life anymore. It is just fear n depression loomin large above me, like ma own personal band ae low pressure.Why does it always rain on me? It’s fuckin pishin doon on me, thunderin n strikin me wae lightnin every time A take an attack. A’m exhausted but lyin doon sends me intae a fit ae shallow breaths. The internet says A’m expellin too much carbon dioxide wae rapid, panicky breaths. This causes the numb hands n feet n dizziness, n it’s why folk in films breathe intae paper bags – tae take the CO2 back in n rebalance. Nae reference tae the sinkin feelin, but adrenaline is a powerful chemical n kin cause almost any sensation tae the panicked brain. Feelings ae fear and terror. Check. Panic disorder. That’s wit A’ve got. Continual panic attacks n losing control anxiety. But is it a condition – or a symptom? A suppose that depends on one fundamental question – are yi happy? N if no, then why no? Once A kin answer that, honestly, then A’m ready tae begin.
Options: medication, therapy or, the popular choice, try tae tough it oot alone. A know should A turn up doon at the doctors again and beg fur a prescription ae diazepam – they wid gee me it in an instant. That’s wit yi get, tranquillisers tae settle yi. Then antidepressants tae git yir adrenal system workin right again or anti-anxiety drugs fur the long term. A know some people genuinely need them but A believe A kin heal n recover wae the right meditation n drug-abstinence, lifestyle improvements, healthy diet n exercise. Medication is a quick fix. A want tae exhaust aw other avenues before A take anyhin else. A know wit A need tae dae. A’ve tried before tae git aff aw drugs, but this time it’s critical. It’s the long week ae gittin aff it. The sweating, anger, the chokin, the sleepless nights n aggression. Maybe the breathin exercises wid help if A committed tae dain them. Breathin seems such a daft thing tae combat these powerful sensations within us, but breathin is the key tae control the physical symptoms, n panic is a demon ae the physical. The mental anxiety requires healin but if yi kin master the physical then yir halfway tae redemption.
A’m goin fur it this time. The usual method. A’m emptyin ma trays, chuckin every bit ae tobacco-filled green oot ae eld sweetie tins n video boxes. A’m huntin fur wee fly packets ae skins n bits fur joints that huv been stashed fur a rainy day. These could destroy a man, chokin oot his nut, who comes across a bit-fur-two tucked in a sock drawer in a frantic raid late at night. It takes mega resolve tae chuck it in the bin where it belongs. A need tae clear oot aw the fuckin paraphernalia associated wae it tae gee it a proper go. Everythin hus got tae go. After A’ve done that n burnt it aw in the garden so there’s nae goin back, the ritual begins.
A’ve git ten fags n a lighter. A’m gonnae try suhin different this time. In previous attempts, A replaced dope wae fags n just smoked fuck oot them. After twenty or thirty they tasted disgustin n made yi crave fur the sweetness ae a joint. This time, A’m gonnae cut them doon anaw. Ten a day max. Nae caffeine, cos that intensifies the cravin n anxiety: nae coffee, cola, tea or alcohol. Nuhin. Just me n ten fags a day. A’m gonnae eat normally, hungry or no. A’m gonnae rise oot ma bed early, depressed or no, throw maself in a shower n stay up aw day without sleepin. Then, come night, A wid be able tae git a sleep. After the long week, it wid be over. It’s a ceremonial ritual aw this. The real battle tae beat any drug, or anyhin yir addicted tae, is willpower. Old as the stones determination n iron focus on yir aim. Yi deserved tae be happy n free fae aw this shite n this struggle wid git yi that. Aw these things would gee yi a fightin chance. Fur it tae matter n be long term as opposed tae a couple ae months, choke, forget n fold. Don’t worry, mate, no aw drugs are even addictive. Yir fightin the very nature of addiction within yirsel.
The Dark Leaves of Mint
The last days ae winter drag in n the snow stays until the end ae February. It becomes suhin oppressive after Christmas passes n the tree n the decorations ir aw packed away. The whole place hus the look ae a Christmas card which hus dirtied and faded over time n hus become stained at the edges. Grudgin yellow gritters trundle the streets night after night, their orange lights blinkin against cold sunsets and that quick darkness which prevails by aboot four in the afternoon. They’ve built these grey and brown ice mountains. Brown drifts still stand in mounds at the side ae roads everywhere. Depressin grey streets durin the day turn tae shiny purple n orange wans at night. A’ve been stuck in the hoose mostly cos the bad weather. A’m tryin tae stay back fae cunts who ir takin drugs, that temptation n need tae go backwards n smoke green or gub a few blues tae manage the bad feelings n the boredom.
A knew A wis addicted tae aw that shite but it’s only when yi try tae stop that the monster reveals itself. Then yi realise it’s no gonnae let yi go without a fight. Aw drugs ir addictive, cos they’re a behaviour pattern, a social activity, a copin mechanism n a full time occupation in their procurement n takin. They fill aw yir wakin headspace n even among the jovial depictions ae smokin weed, it’s a fuckin hard wan tae git aff cos it changes the way yi think n feel. It becomes – the normal. It helps yi sleep, dictates yir hunger n libido n everyhin aboot yi. A smoke joints like fags, night n day, sun up tae sundown. A used tae talk aw that pish aboot medicinal benefits n freedom ae choice fur users, but that wis before. There’s nae harmless pastime drugs, nae safe substance abuse. Green n benzodiazepines ir our generation’s heroin. A know that noo. A’ve found oot the hard way.
Comin aff drugs isnae an instantaneous process. Yir short, sharp experience ae withdrawal fades in aboot a week but then the real challenge emerges when yi try tae stay aff long-term. A hud stopped takin them before but A felt different this time. This time hus tae be different. Yi dragged yir full family through the mire every time, cos their hopes, that you’
ve finally seen sense, ir carried wae yi alongside the monkey on yir back. They can see it in yir face that yi irnae takin anyhin. Yir skin changes n yir speech n yir attitude tae them n life itself. Every time A wis aff them ma maw wid be happy as fuck n relieved thinkin maybe, just maybe, this is the time. Then there wid be that moment, where the thin margin wid fail. Yi gee in tae temptation n smoke again or take another blue pill or sniff another line. It doesnae matter which, cos true abstinence makes no distinction. Yir thin margin between you n the last time yi used drugs implodes n collapses inwards. Yir back countin seconds n minutes, rather than weeks or months. If that happens it’s fucked. Yi delude yirsel n take them again intermittently n manage it fur a while. Then, yir straight back on the road tae permanent and total addiction where yi take drugs every day n live yir life under their tyranny. The thin margin is aw yi huv. It’s wit yi cling tae when the walls come in around yi n that saves yi when memories ae simpler times usin drugs wae pals come back – or yi get offered suhin by a mate on a bad day n just fur a moment want a guilt-free taste ae oblivion. It doesnae come by the glass. That sacrifice ae the thin margin brings back a tidal wave n sweeps yi right back intae the shite.
There’s me, Toffey, Gunny n Briggy in Addison’s motor. The smell ae the green in the car is pungent n overpowerin. A used tae crave the sickly sweet essence in ma mouth, nose n lungs. It’s poisonous tae me noo n A tell cunts tae smoke oot the windae. A know wit lies at the end ae that smoke. It’s the death ae ma thin margin, that contested ground ae hours, days n weeks that Azzy boy hus fought n died fur. A month aff it is unimaginable tae a cunt who’s been takin drugs every day fur years. A month is a lifetime. It’s a brave struggle comin aff suhin when everybody around yi is still dain it. Decent elder cunts give yi due recognition, cos they hud tried n failed in past lives. That darkness ae addiction hus a hold ae them n they know the colour ae yir sufferin.
The Young Team Page 15