The Wrong Side of Wonderland

I think I was a little late to the party compared to my cohorts on the winding road to casual chemical drug use. Other than being given a bump or 2 of coke when I was 14, sneaking into my first charged rock and roll club experience, or taking an E at a rave when I was 17 that had an adverse effect, the only thing I tinkered with during my experimental youth phase was soap bar resin or weed - when one of my mate's older brothers could get it for us that is.

From the age of 18 I was in one of those immature controlling relationships where venturing out without my 'significant other' would always end up in a row and threats of “I think we should break up” or “I hate your family” or whatever naysaying phrases that would pop into their head that they thought would keep me grounded and tied to their “I love you don't leave me” tether. Even the soap bar resin bongs and strike-it-lucky high grade were out of the question.

Time had finally taken its toll as I yearned to be released from the shadow-y Jiminy Cricket-like conscious who wanted to watch my every move. After 3 years I broke it off sharply, excited to see finally what being a young adult living by their own decisions and standards was like. My partner’s mother proclaiming “I don't know whether to hug you, or smack you” as I left out the front door.

With a grand in my pocket and a phone call to a friend, I was off to London knowing full well that this friend would confiscate my well-being and not just lead me down the steps to wonderland, but push me down, making sure I tumbled down every step.

The first stop on this maiden voyage was 2CB. With the trippiness of acid and the rush of MDMA, this had me on the ropes on my first outing. After an hour I was enraged with myself and pulling out my hair in the confines of one of Shoreditch's finest wheelie bins. After puking my fuzzy feeling guts up, I was dragged to a gay bar where the narcotic finally clicked. I instantly went from the depths of doom to Nirvana at the flick of a switch.

This delayed positive outcome led me to another dumbfound experiment the following night. This time it was ketamine. The slow goofy feeling had me reaching for my feet which at this point seemed at least 3 metres away from my sweaty palms. Act number 2 had proven a success. That is until I woke up the following afternoon post k-hole with a marker pen goatee and monobrow etched by my drug guiding tutors.

From the whirl-wind drink, drugs and sans food weekends away in London, I gained a reputation in my home town. Word got out that I had taken a couple of puffs on a crack pipe. This led to bitchy Myspace comments including pictures of crack pipes, Amy Winehouse and Pete Doherty (not at their prime) posted to my social media wall from supposedly concerned friends for the world to see. It wasn't long before my mum had gotten wind about my exploits from my self righteous cousin.

I received a broken voiced call from her on my way back home from work. She demanded to see me immediately and insisted on picking me up right away. Sat in her car in a back alley with my 3 year old niece asleep in the back seat, she cried whilst fumbling drug names I had supposedly and had in fact taken.

Nothing feels worse than lying to your mother's face whilst she mispronounces ketamine.

And so the trips away to London stopped. But my party drug lifestyle didn't. At this point I'd found friends equally wanting some mind-expanding escapades in my home town whatever the day or hour. And with a nightshift work pattern of 4 days on, 4 days off - this suited me fine. I would find myself on a speed binge starting at 6am on a Monday and finishing 2 days later, or splashing out £100 on a Wednesday night coke binge. Even when I'd over sleep and wake up at 3am, I could take a walk and find my friend's dim lights on - giving the green light to knock on and join in in the debauchery.

The summer of legal highs hit our little seaside town like something we didn't know we were waiting for. Synthetic versions of substances that we would wait on street corners for ages for, were now readily available in store and via 24 hour delivery by the profoundly named Top Gear. Methadrone, Special-K and Go-Caine was a quarter of the price and hassle-free and even came with a flashy business card. Groups of like-minded individuals would sit around in a circle in a grotty flat, chain snorting whilst Top Gear's best delivery driver was on his way for yet another drop off.

This is where the penny dropped.

After a heavy night of Special-K use and with little sleep, I found myself that afternoon alone in a room I rented trying to shake of a particularly demonic come down. Lying on my bed after a pick me up spliff, I suddenly felt like I was falling fast into and through my bed.

I jolted up not knowing what the fuck was going on. It literally felt like my soul was falling out of my body. I felt myself purged into panic mode whilst pacing back and forth in my room not knowing what to do. I decided to visit a good friend up the road to ease my nerves. This was a completely new situation to me. One of desperately wanting company for fear of dying, but at the same time desperately wanting to be alone in shame. I stayed at my friends house for 5 minutes before returning home, flight or fighting my body to relax and go to sleep.

Two days later whilst huddled with a group of friends in one of their bedrooms smoking weed, this feeling got me again. I tried explaining to my friends what was happening but their instant reassurance and their cackling laughs sucked me in deeper and deeper to the wrong side of wonderland. With this, the only action I felt viable was to go to my sister's house that was around the corner. Upon arrival my sister's partner at the time informed me she was in fact at her job as a trainee nurse.

From here, things were going rapidly down hill in my subconscious as my inner leaps of body and mind terror turned into an adrenalin attack. This had me rolling on the floor in a fit with my jaw gurning and my arms twisted and locked. All whilst my sister's (heavily over weight) partner was watching t.v in his pants and t-shirt wondering how could a spliff do this to me. As time wore on, the calvary finally arrived in the form of my sister and unbeknown to me at the time, my mother. As soon as I saw my mum I dove onto her in a flood of tears wanting to be held like a baby. All the while feeling mass amounts of guilt having my family see me like this.

And since then the feeling has never left me. Something I felt but couldn't put into words.

The question of why you feel this way but not knowing an answer has always alluded and will always haunt me.

Sometimes panic attacks come from nowhere and sometimes I'll have attacks that I've been fighting off for the best part of two days.

They come with bad and mild hangovers as well as the rare occasion that I think “what the hell, I'm on a night out with good friends, what can the odd line do?”.

Sometimes they happen if I'm just run down and a little exhausted.
Sometimes they don't happen at all and I think I've got it completely under control.

I'd like to think I'm on a good run right now, but who knows.

Being showered by a loved one whilst sat in the foetal position panicking for life could be just around the corner.