The life and times of a mephedrone addict

It was a gleaming, warm and some what beautiful day in a small northern town just east of Sheffield. The sound of birds chirping and children playing, gave a sort of contrast to the bleak industry of the steel city. As tower blocks, flats and cooling towers lay in the distance, I enter Ian’s front garden. It had been a while but things changed. I got an overwhelming and uneasy feeling from just standing there. It was like being in a vacuum. Everything seemed somber, dead and miserable. Sucked of all its joy. The beauty of nature had somehow avoided this one tiny area of land. His garden was trashed. Anything that made it look good had ether been sold or destroyed, probably in a drug fueled frenzy. Nothing. Just dead silence. I knock on his door. Dead silence. Suddenly, I am greeted by the door slowly opening and the blade of a knife edging through the gap. I jolt back and gasp. The door opens fully and I am greeted by a young man. Shirt off, knife in hand and tattered tracksuit bottoms hanging of him. His skeletal figure stared at me. Eyes bloodshot.

“Oh sorry I though I owed you money” muttered Ian.

“Come in” he sighed.

The house was even deader than the garden. Ian still lived with his mum and brother but their was not a family member in sight. I remember the first time I came here, it seemed like an ordinary cheery family home. Not now. The house had an almost post-apocalyptic feel to it. Smashed glass and plates covered the floor, it was difficult to distinguish trash from ordinary household objects. No it wasn’t like this last time. The first time we had met was a few months earlier. I already known him from long ago as we used to hang around when we were kids. Although, this was the first time I had met him like this

The first meeting, he was pretty jacked up on mephedrone. Otherwise known as the infamous “mcat.” It had recently seen its first surge in popularity as a street drug after the ban. It was especially popular in the north of England. Being an economically deprived area, it thrived in this region. Often seen as a poor man’s alternative to cocaine, 17 year old Ian was already deep down the rabbit-hole.

“It’s great, it feels like a combination between MDMA and coke” he exclaimed, sat against a wall in his bedroom. He took a puff of his rolled up cigarette and continued.

“The great thing is you can function on it. I went into an exam on it the other day. I think I took to much though because the words started jiggling about.”

He had been on a pretty long-winded binge all week, so I am assuming his visual distortions were due to stimulant psychosis and sleep deprivation. Regardless of his condition, he continued and seemed in pretty high spirits. He told me how moreish it is and reminisced about the first time he took it.

“My mate gave me a gram for free because he didn’t want it. I snorted it and then I was like… What’s it supposed to do. Suddenly I just got a rush and waves of euphoria through my body. I couldn’t stop talking.”

At this point he seemed like more of a heavy recreational user than an addict. However, after about an hour of just sitting around, talking and smoking his mannerisms began to change. He became anxious, irritable and began pacing around. I guess this was the comedown. He had became pretty unresponsive and quiet now. Ian began kicking things around his room.

“Teas ready” His mums voice echoed up the stairs in a sweet and caring voice.

“Give me a fucking minute” He barked whilst tearing apart a chair.

Ian began trying to sniff anything that looked remotely like mcat. I am pretty sure he must of consumed more fluff and bits of salt than anything. Suddenly, he lights up and leaps under his bed. Snatching a metal tobacco tin he flicks it open. Inside, a small pile of white powder. Bank card in hand, he cuts up a line. Up the nose it goes. It’s all okay now.

Ian stood in the kitchen. Bags under his eyes still without a shirt and still wielding a huge butchers knife. I ask him to put down the knife as it’s making me feel a little uneasy, to which he replies in an almost demented sounding tone.

 

“You can’t be too careful. There’s a lot of dangerous people round here.”

He peers out of his blinds.

“I’m not being paranoid. Just cautious.”

It was clear that he was far into the depths of stimulant psychosis and overstimulated dopamine receptors. I wanted to know what had transpired. He eventually calmed down and we began to talk.

Shortly after our first meeting mephedrone had became the prime activity amongst Ian and his social group. The next few months became a blurry mess of chemical induced bliss and general madness. Its consumes you he said. His “friend” jack is currently on a ten gram a day habit. Jack is the same friend that drove Liam to his blade wielding state of insanity. After a falling out over money (£20), Jack and his friend colloquially known as “crackhead Steve” approached Ian in the street. A viscous combat knife in Jacks hand, steve grabbed Ian by the arms. Ian flailed about and managed to wiggle his way out of his shirt and run home. Already bent on drug induced psychosis this event did not help his paranoia.

Between pacing, panic attacks and psychotic episodes Ian continued to tell me more and more of his drug fueled experiences. He told me about the time “Mcat” dealers smashed down the door of his friends house. Wielding baseball bats, they sadistically beat Ian’s friend to a bloody pulp.

“The was nothing I could do.” Exclaimed Ian”

“I jut sat there, watched and rolled up a joint.”

He also recounted countless psychotic episode from friends including one jumping out of a window. The reason being  “Everybody could read his mind” and ” The world was conspiring against him to stop him from discovering the truth.” He told me about the countless possessions he’s stolen and sold to fund his habit. All the friends he’s lost and the sleepless nights filled with terrifying hallucinations.

Ian’s stories were abruptly interrupted by an eerie knock on the door. Ian darted across the room and peered through the blinds yet again. It was Jack. At this point I was pretty sure I was going to be caught up in the crossfire of a brutal knife fight. Jack continued to stand patiently knocking every now and then until Ian finally creeped the door slightly open.

“Fuck of. What do you want.” Blurted Ian.

“Sorry about earlier man. I was wondering if you fancied chipping twenty quid in so we could get an ounce of cat. I’m selling my Xbox.”

Outstandingly, Ian opened his door.

“Don’t steal anything.” He sneered.

About 10 minutes after making a call two mephedrone dealers entered Ians garden. Him and Jack hadn’t the money yet as they were still waiting for fellow addict Steve to get back from selling the Xbox. Ian got some deck chairs out and made a sort of semi circle. We all sat down. I sat awkwardly at the end just smoking and trying to think of something to say. Among all of the shaved head, hoodies and tracksuits I looked pretty out of place. The atmosphere was just felt of pure death and human misery. You could feel the desperation and self loathing in the air. This group of what were once childhood friends, sat there in complete silence for an hour. just waiting for their fix.

About a week after this, Ian and his friends lives truly did turn upside down. After a hard night of partying on MDMA, mephedrone and Amphetamines he tried to take his own life as a way out of the misery. His mum tried to stop him but Ian lashed out and attacked her leaving her unconscious on the floor.

I think he realized that this lifestyle was going to end in either prison or death so he though “fuck it.” A gram of mephedrone up his nostril and another five MDMA pills Ian, Jack and Steve stole one of their parents cars.
They went on the joyride of a lifetime twisted on more substances than you could name. The car was crashed and passed out in the wreckage. His “friends” left him to his death.

Months passed and I couldn’t get hold of Ian. Eventually, I managed to meet with him again, months after the incident. After the crash, he had overdosed and was going into seizures by the time the police and paramedics got their. The paramedics saved his life but he was sectioned and sent in for examination for psychosis. After months of being in a rehab and mental health intuition his condition finally improved and he is back to relatively sober and sane living.

“I just stick to the weed nowadays. All the other stuff just fucks me up.” He said, cup of coffee in hand.

I asked him about Jack and Steve and he doesn’t associate with them anymore but last he heard, Jack was in and out of court and heading on a one way ticket to prison. Turns out he moved on to “better” things such as stealing cars and armed robberies. After seeing the ruin his life was in, I was extremely happy for Ian. I was also amazed at the absolute full recovery he made mentally and psychically. I decided to take my leave. Ian left me with nothing more but a sentence.

“Life has a tendency of crashing down on you. If you don’t rebuild it you’ll be stuck in the wastes forever.”

As I wandered though the kitchen to the front door; I noticed his house seemed filled with life and joy again. Everything seemed brighter, more vibrant and happier. The birds chirped. Children played. And the sounds of summer could be heard once again.

-THE LONELY CROWDED WEST-