Saturday 20 June 2015. It’s daybreak, or thereabouts. A bright, clear morning. And I am sitting on a bench by the Thames, somewhere between the grey and brutal South Bank Centre and the skate park, now silent. There’s not a single person to be seen. The spilled yellow of the sun pushes against the backs of my eyes. I squint at a red bus as it trundles along Waterloo Bridge. A flock of birds skithers past.
I pull air into my chest, hold it a while, and let it go. My clothes are dank, wet-cold with sweat. And there’s a layer of filth that sits on my skin. It smells of them, the men at the party. The memory of them punches hard. Vomit fills my mouth, then spatters on the pavement. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and wish I’d brought water.
I start to feel the familiar pain of clawing hands, receding gums, and itchy calves. My ears are burning. My bones are aching. Every fibre of my body is turning against me. This is it. The come down is starting. The payback for my behaviour – sleepless and frenetic: 48, maybe 72 hours taking drugs. Pain seeps from every molecule and poisons my mood. It twists me, punishes me, reminding me of who I once was, and what I have become.
I wrap my arms around myself to hold in the sorrow. But it cannot be contained. I rock back and forth but cannot be soothed. I scream for help but cannot be heard. I have given drugs everything I ever had – and hate them with every sinew of my soul – yet I cannot imagine life without them.
There is no way out.
There are people now, early joggers, late carousers, baristas opening up vans: strangers with lives, jobs, clean clothes, and broad smiles.
I push my hand into my trouser pocket and pull out my mobile. I find my dealer’s number. Freedom is a text message away. ‘You busy?’, I write. I mean to press send but press delete. I keep scrolling, involuntarily, until I find my sister’s number. ‘Hey hey,’ I type, ‘I need to see you’.
My name is David, and I am an addict
At first, taking drugs was easy and thrilling. I rushed around like a child, fascinated by their effects, and felt indestructible and desirable. Drugs made me feel connected to the world and to people in ways I had never experienced, easing the sadness I had always known. They were easy to find and take, and hangovers were rare. It felt like joining a secret, elite club filled with pleasure.
Stopping drugs was entirely different. There was no relief or certainty in my decision. During early recovery, I slept in my friend’s spare room, screaming in my sleep and rising only for basic tasks. My insides felt like they had been scraped out, and exhaustion pinned me to the bed. Looking in the mirror, I saw a translucent, fatigued husk.
Progress was slow, but by day 99, I began to feel human again.
Distraction became a lifeline, something to pull me away from cravings. Poetry was my escape. Writing, even when difficult, gave me control and happiness. My poetry, often terrible and cringeworthy, provided a voice when I felt lost, helping me express emotions I was learning to accept.
Gaining confidence, I turned to services. The voluntary organisation London Friend was crucial, offering guidance and mental health support during uncertain times. Through them, I met other gay men who had faced similar struggles and had emerged stronger. I faced what I had lost and found ways to embrace the future.
My HIV team stood by me without judgement, listening with compassion and without inflicting shame or stigma. They supported me through a period of terrifyingly poor health, offering care that addressed complex medical needs as well as my psychological wellbeing.
Finding work was vital. I started by volunteering with people with dementia, which restored my self-worth. Various odd jobs in training and research helped rebuild my professional identity and boost my self-esteem. Stable employment, when it came, renewed my self-confidence, restored my worth, gave me authority and purpose.
Later, there was therapy. Sitting with a therapist, peeling back layers of ignored pain, became essential. In my psychoanalytic group, I’m supported and challenged, twice-weekly. They help me untangle deep-rooted emotions and triggers. And they sustain and feed me.
At the heart of it all are my friends, some of whom I have known for more than 30 years. I reconnected with those who never gave up on me, whose belief in my ability to change was unwavering. They showed up repeatedly, giving me a place to live, inviting me to dinner, checking in, reminding me of who I was before I smashed everything into tiny pieces.
And then there was my family: the jewel in my recovery crown. They saw me at my worst but never stopped loving me. Their patience and refusal to turn away, even when undeserved, meant everything. My sister’s encouragement and belief in me is the golden thread that runs through my entire life.
A decade of sobriety
On Saturday 28 June, early in the morning, I will meet with family and friends in a café in a central London park for a celebratory breakfast. I used to sleep in there, between bushes and tennis courts, when I felt I had nowhere to go.
There’ll be eggs, coffee, and conversations born of deep connection – familiar, warm, with gentle teasing, simple and loving. There’ll be long hugs and moist eyes, and the kind of intimacy that sharing adversity yields. I will be with people dear to me – the people who never let me lose hope. And together we will be marking ten years of my sobriety.
The message I want to share? With love and support, a combination of services and opportunities, and a dogged and open-minded determination, a new life can be found, one of learning and self-discovery, and better mental health, proving that sometimes things don’t turn out as badly as we might once have feared.
