Give me drugs. Lots of drugs. This is stupid. I am not leaving the house. No bloody way.
Spent a few days with a lovely young lady drinking alcohol quietly and doing nothing crazy at all.
But this is not the reason for me taking my shoes off, having a shower and sitting in my flat naked.
I cannot leave the house when naked after all.
Well, yeah. Okay. My spiritual advisor would probably be able to prove otherwise, but she’s no longer in my employ…
What has got me is a tv programme on PRIME TV right now.
Over three compelling and thought-provoking episodes,
The Trouble with Murder
tells the story of how New Zealand has punished people who kill.
We were all underage, but we still spewed tacks when the night club was closed and the bouncers would not let us in. Paul Anderson had been stabbed by fuckwit Greame Burton. This was the clubs closing down final night a year later. I had walked 10km to get there. The bouncers had never checked me for I.D before. We got fucked up in town and got into fights with all the Samoans and others instead. We won. Two skinny really fucked up white teenagers.
SHIHAD used to play there. All the old mates were there at one point or another.
A couple of years later I was in a bit of trouble for driving cars faster than police and ignoring red lights flashing behind me. There was no claim by police that drugs were involved. None at all. Police to this day know me as severe trouble. Of the drug variety.
I was in Wellington Prison for six months. Totally withdrawing from methadone, opiates, benzo’s.,.. Alchohol. Pretty much a shit time.
Was in cell 13 or 14. Paul Woods (please click on this name, he’s worth it) was in the cell next door. My cellmate claimed to be his best mate. By the time Paul got found guilty of murder I felt as though I knew him. I didn’t really know him. He was 18 or something. I was 20 or something. We were both heavily involved with opiates, him maybe not so much dealing. Maybe using a lot. It was Christmas. He may have killed a drug dealer. The drug dealer who did die was a fuckwit. No one really cried about it.
The whole remand wing at Wellington Prison, Mount Crawford, New Zealand was deadly silent that night. Another convict Jack Webber (whom I would love to tell you more about – honestly would, but my memory is really bad – you know…..) called out his peep hole after a few minutes…
“What’s up Paul?“
I don’t know what Paul Woods remembers of this. Or if his memory differs from mine. But bloody Paul… Only 18 years into his life… He calmly says
We were all glad Jack Webber was such of a character to ask and voice our opinion. Every TV was quiet that night. I know. I was awake 24/7 for almost the duration of this term. Tossing and turning. Fidgeting and tossing. Tossing and reading.
PAUL WOODS was a fucken inspiration. Not only as he saved me from a very large grumpy Samoan with a white hatred issue during a long weekend spent there six months ago. This time was hard… Had never bothered to withdraw from drugs before and, thus, was doing it tough. A lot of methadone, thousands of dollars worth of drugs a day was not incredibly unusual for me. I don’t know about Paul, yet here he is… A spotty, zitty, acne prone young white guy holding his fucken head up and creating a better man out of the fuck up he had become as a teenager. And he was giving away his pills that we meant to calm him and help him sleep.
Not that I got any. I decided to see what a serious withdrawal was like for myself.
Even then, he was not a fuck up. Not from my understanding.
I felt for him. I still do.
But he doesn’t need my feelings of empathy.
Paul Woods should maybe one day know my feelings of gratitude.
For I did not spend the next decade in jail getting a degree and getting a real life.
I spent the next decade doing all sorts of stuff.
But I did not ever turn into a low life junky sick boy such as some of those low life tell tale bottom feeders.
For I learnt I could give up any bloody horrible habit. I would never stoop low. I always had morals, but never told tales, never got anyone into trouble. I saved many people from long sentences with my ability to confuse and evade police.
I was never afraid of being caught myself. I was scared my suppliers would get caught.
SO, why am I naked sitting in front of a computer?
I really don’t know.
A whole bunch of triggers just passed me by.
Writing them down in this shitty blog is what has made them weak and pitiful,.
That is why I started this writing process in the first place, after all.
I have a bad headache. I want to go to bed. I want to talk to all my old mates, dealers, roots, lawyers… See where they are all at now.
I remind myself I am bloody lucky on a daily basis. My gratitude list really should make it past “not being in a wheelchair with a piss and poo bag” one day.
Logic and knowing a little about my own mind, the ADHD, the addiction, the neuro science and people on the same wavelength is fine.
But does not help. When you see Paul Woods telling the world on TV how it should be, you just want to talk to the guy.
Three or four senior police people have said I should write a book.
I am having trouble fixing my car.
It is time to go to bed, wake up, put some bloody clothes on and pull finger.
Have been doing good things for the world, quietly.
Must do some good for me.
This article was published on my daughters birthday. It contains information on a lot of people I knew years ago.
Co-Incidence. People on Same Wavelength. My higher power.