My journey into substance use began at 12 with cannabis, quickly escalating to amphetamines and acid in my early teens. Clubbing introduced ecstasy, mirroring a pattern I’ve since observed in many individuals: from cannabis to stimulants, psychedelics, and eventually, harder drugs.
Just before my 16th birthday, I experienced homelessness for the first time. My mum, who had tried her best, reached her limit. My behaviour was out of control, and she could no longer cope. Already deep into drug use, I suddenly had nowhere to go.
At 17, I met the mother of my first child, who was heavily involved in the drug scene. This relationship pulled me deeper into that world. I started dealing cannabis while working labouring jobs. Around this time, some friends began using heroin, and out of curiosity, I tried it. The first time, I was sick, but the feeling that followed instantly hooked me.
Despite my escalating drug use, I managed to maintain employment. I secured a job at a call centre selling mobile phones—wearing a shirt and tie, hitting targets, and earning bonuses. I was saving for a house and aiming for promotion. From an outsider’s perspective, everything appeared fine.
However, my drug use intensified. What started as weekend use quickly became a daily habit. I’d sneak out of work to smoke heroin in my car, where I kept a stash in the glove box. I was spending up to £200 a day, borrowing money, taking out loans, and accumulating debt just to avoid withdrawal.
Despite the chaos, I kept up appearances: school runs, work, scoring drugs, and parenting. But I was visibly deteriorating, looking pale, thin, and exhausted. Colleagues began to notice, and I blamed stress or feigned illness.
Eventually, after 18 months, at the age of 20, I was called into HR and asked to resign. That’s when my life truly unravelled. We were evicted from our council home, my partner’s parents took the children, and my relationship collapsed. I found myself homeless again in my early twenties, completely consumed by addiction. It was also at this point that my heroin use escalated to injecting. It felt like the next logical step to maintain the high, but it pushed me to another level, physically and mentally. It was dangerous, isolating, and incredibly destructive.
I sought help numerous times, but at that point, support was scarce to non-existent. I recall being told there was an 18-month waiting list. Despite my desperation, doors kept closing.
To fund my habit, I started selling heroin, which brought its own dangers. I was attacked, held at knifepoint, and even taken hostage. Being an addict is one thing, but being someone with what others crave is another entirely.
Even at my lowest point, I never lost contact with my family. However, my life had become unrecognisable. I overdosed multiple times, waking up cold, blue-lipped, and miraculously still breathing. I had reached a point where I didn’t care if I lived or died.
When my grandad—one of the most inspiring men I’ve ever known—passed away, I made a promise to him in the chapel of rest that I would change. At 5ft 10in and just over nine stone, I reached out for help again. Eventually, at 24, I secured a place through local drug services. That was the turning point.
Those services provided me with purpose, structure, and belief. I began as a volunteer, then transitioned into paid work. I started methadone treatment and never touched heroin again.
Today, at 47, I am in long-term recovery. Since 2003, I’ve worked in drug and alcohol services in various roles, from support worker to team leader, and managing peer support and volunteer programmes. I founded the Recovery Games, a national anti-stigma event that unites thousands to celebrate recovery. I’ve shared my story across the UK and even at the United Nations in Vienna.
Today, I have a stable home, a loving family, children, grandchildren, and a career I’m incredibly proud of. Recovery gave me back a life I never thought I’d have—and so much more.
No related posts found.