quickly.
When we drink, alcohol, or more specifically ethanol, is absorbed into the stomach lining and enters the bloodstream. In the brain, alcohol confuses messages between neurotransmitters and acts as an intoxicant and a depressant or relaxant. For those of us susceptible to addiction, alcohol quickly becomes the default way of alleviating anxiety and dealing with stressful situations. Through repeated use of the drug, our neural pathways are scored so deeply they will never be repaired. I will always be vulnerable to relapse and other kinds of addiction.
All day we were encouraged by the counsellors to voice our ‘feelings’ about everything we said or that happened in the group. Addicts’ emotional responses have been warped and suppressed by substances and it was important for us to regain an understanding of our state of mind and what those feelings made us do. Pressed to find a ‘feeling’ to express about some drug-inducedcriminal activity, one of my ‘peers’ (as we called each other) reached deep within himself and came up with ‘ride it like a soldier’. While this was not strictly a ‘feeling’ it made us laugh, releasing the tension in the room caused by repetition of ‘ashamed’ and ‘sad’, and became a catchphrase in the group.
Funny, revealing things happened every day. One lunchtime we were talking about vitamin supplements (most of us alchies had been prescribed various types of B vitamin), how useful they were, whether it is better to get vitamins through eating fruit and vegetables. ‘I mean, when you’ve had a salad, can you immediately feel it doing you good?’ I realised that, because we were all addicts, the conversation had quickly developed into how much of a buzz you could get off a carrot.
Another day, two uniformed police officers turned up at the centre and immediately most of the guys – I was the only woman for some time – were sweating and reaching for their coats. It turned out they were on a routine visit, not looking for an individual, but it gave me more of an idea about my new friends.
One morning a peer turned up wearing a Jack Daniel’s T-shirt and was told not to wear it again. He hadn’t realised that it might be inappropriate. I told him – a recovering junkie – that I’d wear my heroin T-shirt the next day.
But there were reasons why we needed to be vigilant. Somehow a pint glass got into the kitchen cupboard, with Red Stripe (one of my old drinks of choice) branding, and we were soon discussing our favourite types of beer: real ales in huge glasses or super-strength cans of lager. It was enough to get the cravingsgoing. In the treatment centre, saying, ‘Cheers,’ instead of ‘Thanks,’ was risky territory.
A couple of times we got to leave the centre: a visit to the City Farm and to an NA convention. It felt like a combination of a school trip and a prison break: a collection of giggling raggle fraggles set free on the London public-transport system without our keepers. I would never have joined a group like that elsewhere and, alongside the pain of quitting drink, I had moments of genuine joy. At the City Farm the sight of a former crackhead sitting calmly on a rock coaxing three lambs to join him made us all smile, and another of my addict chums showed me how the fourth knuckle on his right fist was flattened from, years before, punching a cow. I noticed that the lambs were scruffier and the fields barer than at home in Orkney and pushed away some unwanted fond thoughts of home.
Some days my thoughts wouldn’t stop and I just wanted to escape myself. I began the habit that I’ve continued of drinking masses of Coca-Cola, which, alongside cigarettes, hit some approximation of the spot. I wanted to eat my own teeth, crunched down with Coke, until I was sick. I wanted to be put into a medically induced coma. I wanted the future now. I wanted to care for other people and not live on my own any more. I wanted nothing more than to stay sober
When we drink, alcohol, or more specifically ethanol, is absorbed into the stomach lining and enters the bloodstream. In the brain, alcohol confuses messages between neurotransmitters and acts as an intoxicant and a depressant or relaxant. For those of us susceptible to addiction, alcohol quickly becomes the default way of alleviating anxiety and dealing with stressful situations. Through repeated use of the drug, our neural pathways are scored so deeply they will never be repaired. I will always be vulnerable to relapse and other kinds of addiction.
All day we were encouraged by the counsellors to voice our ‘feelings’ about everything we said or that happened in the group. Addicts’ emotional responses have been warped and suppressed by substances and it was important for us to regain an understanding of our state of mind and what those feelings made us do. Pressed to find a ‘feeling’ to express about some drug-inducedcriminal activity, one of my ‘peers’ (as we called each other) reached deep within himself and came up with ‘ride it like a soldier’. While this was not strictly a ‘feeling’ it made us laugh, releasing the tension in the room caused by repetition of ‘ashamed’ and ‘sad’, and became a catchphrase in the group.
Funny, revealing things happened every day. One lunchtime we were talking about vitamin supplements (most of us alchies had been prescribed various types of B vitamin), how useful they were, whether it is better to get vitamins through eating fruit and vegetables. ‘I mean, when you’ve had a salad, can you immediately feel it doing you good?’ I realised that, because we were all addicts, the conversation had quickly developed into how much of a buzz you could get off a carrot.
Another day, two uniformed police officers turned up at the centre and immediately most of the guys – I was the only woman for some time – were sweating and reaching for their coats. It turned out they were on a routine visit, not looking for an individual, but it gave me more of an idea about my new friends.
One morning a peer turned up wearing a Jack Daniel’s T-shirt and was told not to wear it again. He hadn’t realised that it might be inappropriate. I told him – a recovering junkie – that I’d wear my heroin T-shirt the next day.
But there were reasons why we needed to be vigilant. Somehow a pint glass got into the kitchen cupboard, with Red Stripe (one of my old drinks of choice) branding, and we were soon discussing our favourite types of beer: real ales in huge glasses or super-strength cans of lager. It was enough to get the cravingsgoing. In the treatment centre, saying, ‘Cheers,’ instead of ‘Thanks,’ was risky territory.
A couple of times we got to leave the centre: a visit to the City Farm and to an NA convention. It felt like a combination of a school trip and a prison break: a collection of giggling raggle fraggles set free on the London public-transport system without our keepers. I would never have joined a group like that elsewhere and, alongside the pain of quitting drink, I had moments of genuine joy. At the City Farm the sight of a former crackhead sitting calmly on a rock coaxing three lambs to join him made us all smile, and another of my addict chums showed me how the fourth knuckle on his right fist was flattened from, years before, punching a cow. I noticed that the lambs were scruffier and the fields barer than at home in Orkney and pushed away some unwanted fond thoughts of home.
Some days my thoughts wouldn’t stop and I just wanted to escape myself. I began the habit that I’ve continued of drinking masses of Coca-Cola, which, alongside cigarettes, hit some approximation of the spot. I wanted to eat my own teeth, crunched down with Coke, until I was sick. I wanted to be put into a medically induced coma. I wanted the future now. I wanted to care for other people and not live on my own any more. I wanted nothing more than to stay sober
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