Peter - Chapter one

Peter - Chapter one
A quater bottle of vodka, a half bottle of Smirnoff and finally a full bottle of flavoured Smirnoff. Monday was awash with stolen alcohol. Smearing his number plates with a muddy stew of soil and water he'd mixed up to disguise the sprinters identity, Peter drove in to the Edson fore court and filled up. His cap brim dipped to the cctv cameras. Swiftly back into the cab and off, first down the bypass then quickly down forked junction back roads until he felt sure no police were on his tail then found a lay-by to rinse his plates clear. Wasting no time Peter re entered the van cab, turned the key in the ignition then swiftly sped off into the night, fuelled up for escape.
Four months off a long and varied opiate and poly drug addiction his primary withdrawal symptoms had cleared leaving the endless depression. The vast gaping hole where motivation to clean the house, even to get a bath become insurmountable chores. As the clothes smell of a sweat peculiar to the opiate free recovering addict, the memories of previous rattles flood in to the vacuum of depression.
As peter saw Jim sauntering into town on his daily delivery the temptation to ask for a bag on tick overcame him. One hit just to clear this dread hangover, permit him a few hours of normality to tidy up his life just enough to hold off the descent into outwardly visible junkie hood.
The gear these days had become so weak peter had resorted to the needle and the hazards of breaking the blood air barrier that carries so many more risks than smoking with foil and tube. Cooking up this crap required extra citric, such was the poverty of the Browns quality. Once administered a relief from the stagnancy and deep blue depression overwhelmed peter in the warm blanket of morphia.
House cleaned, body bathed he lay back to enjoy the fading ovation of ecstatic normality and wrote and phoned. His freinds and colleagues glad to hear him sounding so much better than he had of late. The usual gossip would spread among his straighter network. 'Spoke to Pete earlier, sounds much better. Must be off the gear, sorting himself out.' ' yes, he looked clean and shaved when I saw him, great he's leaving that shit alone.'
Giro day followed and a few pipes of crack opened the day, a decent hit of smack and a couple of hits of speed to get him and working again. Even a few steps to stave off the building debts and paperwork. The stimulant kept his creative juices flowing till dawn when he banged up his last bit of whizz to get the day underway.
Peter had been invited to a small party. Some hundred odd travellers were meeting up in a quarry down Cornwall for a fire and bar b q. Determined to go he took a few benzos to get some sleep. Combined with super strength lager they gave him a little rest.
Now out of money he shoplifted wine, stuffing three bottles into his waist band, walking confidently out of waitrose, pretending a phone call had curtailed his shopping with more pressing matters. Taking a deep draught, rolled a cigarette for the drive then headed for a local site to give a lift to a couple of freinds also party bound. Drinking slowly throughout the drive the small groups spirits lifted as they crossed the border. By arrival peter had finished his first bottle so cracked a second as they entered the temporary site. Since stopping the opiates peter had filled the stability of his habit with poly drug use. It seemed most days were cushioned now, by something, from alcohol to methadone, acid to Valium.
Greeting old freinds in the hot sun the drinking continued. Lipton, an old freind took them round a beautiful lake where they swam in summer bliss. A couple of hedge monkeys drifted off to find a quiet corner to sleep off premature alcohol peaks. To sparkle things a little peter dropped a tab of mild acid to prevent an early drift in to sleep. The joy of refreshing old friendships continued as darkness fell and after eating a meagre meal, feeling guilt at his lack of contribution peter gave away the remainder of his acid and someone gave him a rizla wrapped booster of MDMA. From here he remembered nothing.
Waking naked and cold in a semi derelict trailer peter could recall little of the previous night. His body was bruised, his face scratched, bruised and bloody which got him thinking he must have been fighting. The unchecked emotions of the recovering opiate addict can find him angered irrationally, not fully in control or able to judge freind or foe. His knuckles were unmarked and some relief resulted from knowing he hadn't been fighting. Dragging on his wet clothes he stepped out to join the stragglers who had stayed up the night drinking, undoubtedly fuelled by other stimulants.
Barefoot, he could find no shoes or phone, peter joined the group to ask what had happened to him. At some point he had thrown a bottle though at who or why he could not recall.
He had been found unconscious and naked on the main road where luck alone had seen no lorry run over his unconscious form. The kindness of three strangers had carried him into his bed of sorts. Only more drink could stimmy the guilt and still mysteriously shoeless he took three diazepam and drunk until he could sleep. Curled up in his van in guilt and confusion he opted for this self induced sedation. Today was better written off. The guilt and shame of blackouts is horrible. He'd been an arsehole and knew it.
After recovering his shoes he gathered further embarrassing details of his lost hours and it was with this shame peter returned to Stroud. The mental stability of opiate addiction had been ripped away leaving an utter chaos of poly drug use. His initial reason to stop had been a severe drug psychosis that had built, fuelled by ethylphenidate and diazepam, alcohol and lysergics. He had been on a downward death spiral and could only think of one way out. Burn all bridges, give away all possessions and drive away to withdraw. The madness dispersed at first as the grind of withdrawals took hold. Once past these early symptoms his mind was a chaotic and fragile mush. This stew he kept stirring with drugs and drink, believing if he could just overcome opiates, he could be drug free and sane. The recipe proved disastrous.
Once back in Stroud he continued to drink, to take benzos, to take lysergics. Only poor finances prevented self destruction. Unable to work through this mental and physical withdrawal combined with replacement substance use, he drifted in to deep depression. Each giro would be gone in a day and only through shoplifting was feeding himself possible.
His face bore the battered marking of the derelict. Once a week he began to take heroin so he could get clean, wash up, tidy the house.
Faced with a further year of this and the possible descent in to addiction he began to face up to the truth. Peter was seriously unwell. His mental health in tatters. His initial positive drive to get off opiates had descended into suicidal chaos. The debts were building. Homelessness was round the corner. Suicide became a daily thought. Methodology and plans began to form.
He had taken sponsorship to make this stab at escaping his prescribed opiates. Borrowed a little money and more faith. To let these sponsors down felt shameful. But death was hovering, waiting to take Peter.
In this pitiful condition he returned to the drug services. He needed stability. Work. Money. He had nothing left. He established a referral to a prescribing doctor. His aim to return to prescription opiates. He had failed. In abandoning his business he had ensured a return to this work was close to impossible. Peter had tried to save himself by sacrificing everything. He found himself utterly lost.
Of course the trouble with heroin is that once you are clean it returns to being every bit as beautiful as it was when it first seduced you. Peter woke from a dream of such strength, a strength that is never achieved without opium or heroin, of a fictitious college reunion. All the characters he loved were there but older, a little. The knobheads replaced by interesting characters. At the party which was long and varied taking place inside a large country house. So many conversations. No bitchy competitiveness that would mar this were it reality. Each guest had an episode with peter. A conversation or some pratting about. They came under attack from some armed insurgents but found a store of old guns and ammunition. There was no fear as they knew they would win.
Such dreams, such beautiful dreams punctuate heroines honeymoon period. A habits end is punctuated by dreams of equal strength but deep and utter horror.
You never quite sleep on gear. Just dream. Almost a waking dream. Often lucid, controllable. Relapse can be so good. Peter knew he could not tempt himself much longer or he would return to the daily grind of finding money. Of pain. Of the horror of regular periods of rattle.
Giro day arrived again and tired from no sleep Peter was straight out to score. Crack and smack, smoked in the morning. An old acquaintance sold him some DMT of poor quality, taking his last few pounds and in finality peter injected what was left of his heroin. All money spent he would be shoplifting food all week again.
The receptionist from turning point rang with his doctors referral date. Peter at least now knew there would be an end to this madness. If he could make it till Monday without killing himself, his subutex prescription could be reinstated, the chaos stopped and a chance to work again. Wednesday till Monday. Only a few days. Chances favoured peter. Peter, however, had never been blessed with luck.
To be prescribed opiates he would be given a screen, a urine sample to test he was on opiates. Giving opiates to a non addict can easily kill so doctors need to be wary. Weighing things up Peter could not decide if a return to daily chemist visits and the NHS addiction with the return to work it would enable was failure, given his drift in to poly drug chaos and his life threatening performance at the site party in Cornwall he concluded better bled than dead.
He had seen a documentary where a long term heroin addict, under the supervision of a shaman, had undergone an ibogaine or ayuashka cure. The idea an intense trip could stop addiction seemed somewhat unlikely. After all, he'd done many LSD trips whilst on gear and none had provided the soul searching necessary for change. Heroin generally trumps acid making it a colourful but dulled experience. Not much trumps heroin. Still, with nothing to lose peter began to brew up. Recent scientific studies have found, however, this is perhaps our greatest defence against this little understood mental illness.
Taking the recipe of original Peruvian shamans, the two base ingredients of banisteria caapi and psychotria viridis he began to brew. Five boilings and simmering of the caapi, the ayuashka, three twenty minute boilings of the viridis, mix all the liquids and boiled them slowly down to a concentrate. Peter drank the lot.
Outside the sun shone brightly and never a one to trip indoors, peter set off out, heading for the countryside round Stroud. Perhaps it was the half bottle of brandy peter had shoplifted that morning and got half way through whilst cooking, or the swig of methadone he'd had early on to take the edge off his emergent opiate addiction, but the ayuashka failed to do its magic. For sure his vision was blurred with psychedelic lights and a lift in his anxiety prevented any engagement with TV or books but he didn't have a proper trip. It was the doctors on Monday. Back to western medicine and its supportive structure of ensuring the masking off of symptoms to allow a person to work, despite their condition. Of course, he faced the usual problem of the maintainance addict. Chemists open 9am to 6pm and don't welcome addicts close to either time. This meant any work peter took would have to be a late start, a night shift or a lenient employer who didn't mind their workers wandering off for an hour. A strict limitation. The days where alcoholism or addiction to heroin were deemed the illnesses they are were gone. Now seen as self inflicted, voluntary illnesses, it no longer qualified as sickness, no longer a reason to claim benefits. The resultant drift in to crime this entailed has spread across Britain like a plague since Ian Duncan smith took the helm. 4000 suicides so far committed by mentally ill people, taken off benefits and unable to cope. A genocide worthy of the nazis. Mental illness just didn't fit with the new Tory goals of growth, work, work , work and the resultant diminishing of life from our beautiful planet. In Britain there are half the number and variety of birds and wild animals there were when the Beatles split up. This headlong drive towards the destruction of life now also had labours support. It mirrored peters self destruction.
Monday morning 10am found peter at Gloucestershire drug services. Though having only left the fold for a few months he had to endure the initiation of re registration. Questions on his history, his mental health, his homelessness, his sexuality, his use of needles, whether he smoked, what crimes he had committed. A three way test for hepatitis b, c and hiv followed and further appointments for a care plan and prescribing doctors appointments. He left depressed and swiftly stole a bottle of brandy and downed it with a diazepam to join the methadone he had swallowed that morning. Could he attend appointments? Not if he was working. The whole drug service is set up for unemployed people. Weekly appointments always during working hours. Collection of substitute opiates from chemists that didn't open late. Peter slipped into a gloom. He wondered where Lipton was. He thought back to the days of their Jesse Presley hunt. The underground explorations, the camaraderie, the action men, the sense of purpose and duty, the meaning his life had had during those years and the lack of meaning it had slumped into. Perhaps he'd give Lipton a call. Perhaps Lipton was also struggling, wrestling his demons of addiction and mental illness. The fire within, the beast that lurked in the heart could never be killed, only subdued. It was a long time since Peter had felt shaman like. Archangelic. Perhaps they could fly again.


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