Being an ex-junky drug dealing loser is hard work. You go for a coffee, you’re sitting with methadone victims before you know it. You sit there, minding your own business, the sun is out, people are entertaining the thought of summer clothing… You are on your way to your ex’s to drop of grapefruit you decided you no longer like. She may make marmalade with it. She may not. That, dear sir, is out of my control.
What is also out of my control is seeing five people whom all stop their cars, their bikes or their walking in order to say hello.
They are all, every single one of them, off their faces.
I am not.
I drop of the grapefruit and go home to read a book and tidy my flat.
I need others to set deadlines. The housing inspector came through, so I *had* to do something about my filth by 2pm. Was somewhat annoyed when he didn’t show up until 3pm. I could have had an extra hour to myself and my wandering eye.
N.A meeting tonight. Can’t be f ck d really. Same old stories, from same old people.
At least my stories liven things up a little. Last night was a good one. Told the story about the plane. Don’t think I should be so open.
There is always something that gets in the way of getting out and meeting people. My back is sore so I cannot play tennis or go running with people. I have no money so cannot go to the pictures or see a band.
Really, it is just me at the moment. A hundred and something days with no decent crystal meth or strong opiates and although there are odd glimmers of entertaining socialising, I am preferring to isolate and be depressed.
It’s like Facebook in real life. You only see everyone else having fun, out and about. My wandering eye tells me they are happy and outgoing.
And none of them has any problems. And definitely none of them would want to be bothered putting up with mine.