drug dealers that turned there lives around

I can’t help but wonder when the habit became an addiction for him. Other times, he would be lovely and affable and completely sober. He would steal and lie and get unspeakably angry. In the bad times, he would drink a bottle of vodka a day. My own father died when I was 19 because of complications that arose from his chronic alcoholism. That’s a quarter of my incomeīut then, I do wonder. In a heavy month, my drug spend can be around £400. I take drugs most weekends, but I wouldn’t call myself an addict, any more than someone who spends their weekend drinking gin and tonics and doing shots would call themselves an alcoholic. I grew up on the outskirts of a city in the north of England, but I’ve lived in London since 2011.

I’m now 28 and a writer on a national magazine. Take that model, and repeat – sometimes as much as every weekend for a few months, sometimes as little as once a month – and you’ve got a pretty accurate picture of how I’ve spent my 20s. On Monday, we each crawl into work clutching triple-shot americanos and pretending to our colleagues that we’ve had quiet weekends. At 2pm on Sunday, almost out of white powder and with the working week looming large on the horizon, we go home to nurse our heads. Because he won’t come for anything less, we order another 2g of coke and another 2g of MDMA (total cost £180). The prospect of the comedown, an achy, twitching sadness where you can’t stop thinking about a bad thing you said three-and-a‑half years ago, seems too awful to bear.

“Film!” “Two words!” “Jumanji?” It’s not exactly Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.Īt some point, I think around 9am, we call the dealer again. I can reveal any part of myself, say anything, no matter how personal or banal.Īt around 4am, high as kites and exhausted from dancing, we all sit down and play charades. I have a deep sense of compassion for every person in the room.

I feel as though I’ve never been so happy, so lucky, so brilliant.

Drug dealers that turned there lives around