Dan Daiquiri

2013 was a pivotal year in my life for many reasons, it began a change within me and was a precursor to finding my career and passion in life. I had been in a lot of trouble with authority and was slipping down a dark hole of drug abuse. On the edge in more ways than one, two tenses reflecting two different versions of myself. It was a year that taught me the power of resilience, the importance of self-reflection, and the beauty of embracing change. It set the stage for the chapters yet to be written in my life. As I reflect on it, I can see just how close I came to living a very different reality.

The Black Tears

I chased the black droplet down the foil, like a tear rolling down a metallic cheek. Dark enough to match how I feel inside, with the bitter cold from the foil merging into the perfect analogy for how cold and disconnected I feel from this reality. This is my third year of consistently smoking the stuff, do I feel any sort of high from it anymore? I remember the first time, slumped in a weird abandoned room full of random pieces of old furniture within a tenement block in the city centre of Dundee, that all felt long ago now and was buried deep within the recesses of my mind. I remember the feeling of excitement running through me from top to bottom, knowing I was doing something which before then was extremely taboo. The feeling of euphoria and relinquished responsibility that I experienced the first time always being the target every encounter since, but never quite hitting the mark and ever slowly losing part of myself day by day. This is my reality now, do I even know who I am or who I was before this long charade. Is the excessive drug use a means of escape from my own dark thoughts or is it a self torture device- made to reach into my subconscious belief that I don’t deserve anything good in life, unable to feel love and unable to give it.

I guess that in this moment, I must be where I deserve to be. The poetry of it all helps drown out the environment and the gravitas of quite how hollow my life feels, rubbish stacked high on all sides in the kitchen- a place both my flatmate and myself have no desire for using, perhaps it’s how it looks- a box room with a “stuck in the seventies” kind of feel to it, it’s most likely the anxiety of wading through hundreds of empty instant ramen packets to get to the kettle. The windows are still dirty obstructing the view outside, they only look onto the balcony, not that we used it. The grey landscape dotted with blocks of flats, dilapidated schemes and an indescribable horrifying nostalgia certainly wouldn’t have painted any joy into my life anyway, luckily there was netting to prevent any attempt at throwing myself off the edge but even that couldn’t stop the intrusive thoughts.

The rest of the flat had a melancholic feel to it, nothing shined or felt homely instead feeling cold, empty and abandoned like a pile of fly tipped furniture on the edge of a dump. Within the furniture likely happy memories, but in its current incarnation assisting in erasing all memories from one’s existence, slipping further and further down into a bottomless pit.

I’m a long way from playing Guitar Hero and ripping a bong mix, now I’m smoking heroin in a crack den atmosphere and playing Call of Duty. In five years I’ve navigated the heavy hitters in the drug universe, making disposable groups of friends and escaping my internal pains every step of the way ripping open new ones at every turn. Forming an internal darkness of self loathing, doubt and a sense that I don’t deserve anything good.

With my court date coming up on completion of my community service, I know deep down that regardless of whether I am ready, shit is going to hit the fan.

Adjourned

I was greeted by Larry, my criminal defence lawyer who’d fought my side through my various escapades. I can still remember how he looked, a short man with quite slicked back hair. not oily but very lightly slicked. He was well dressed as comes with his profession. But what I remember most about him was how he treated me, with true compassion and that he really did care. He seen something in me that not many did back then, that I had the potential to turn it all around, after all, this was my very last chance. We left his office, my anxiety peaking at the thought of negative outcomes.

When we  shortly arrived at the court, deep down I felt a sinking feeling like it was to be the last time I’d have this kind of freedom in a while. The pillars of the Sheriff Court towering above me like a leftover ruin in the final days of the Roman Empire. This made me feel tiny, yet a tad philosophical. Staring at the blue sky above, I envisaged every possible outcome from the case. Alternate lifetimes in which my deepest fears were lived and not imagined. I reached into the back pocket of my black skinny jeans and pulled out my cigarette packet, Marlboro Red- not my usual brand, but on occasions like this I liked to live life in an air of luxury in lieu of jeopardising my freedom.

Pulling out a cigarette from the packet, I tapped it on the box three times, sparked it and took in the air, it may be the last. I guess the only good part of this case compared to my priors were that I skipped the holding cells under the court. These often consisting of the very same characters every time regardless of the day of week. Smoke filled plumes always in the air due to smuggled cigarettes, always concealed in very risqué nooks. The same questions flying about, same answers and same private hire security guards power tripping over the not yet convicted hoping that by belittling those in the cells that they’d gain an almost imperceptible glimmer of superiority.

In the courtroom it felt cold, an open room which somehow reminded me of an over-exaggerated version of one of my primary school classrooms, Mrs Stewart’s room, A room which stood out in my memories and in particular the time when she wouldn’t allow me to go to the toilet, so fearful of authority I felt I had to stay. I was forced to piss myself, a kid of eight years old embarrassed and shamed beyond belief. I never did trust authority figures much after that, seen through rules and conformation as merely individuals moulding their own agendas and fuelling their quest for power. Despite this memory, it was all a strange sentiment to feel in this moment. Would history repeat itself? What if I need to piss while I’m on the stand? Surely not.

I took the stand and almost zoned out for the entire time, I never uttered a word on instruction from my lawyer who done all the talking. Luckily in the months prior I had shown a scrap of growth on completion of my community service and lining up a conditional offer from college to study hospitality. Despite this, I still felt pessimistic about the outcome as the judge happened to be the same one who’d dished out my last sentences. It wasn’t the first time I’d encountered them, and in the previous two court cases he’d made crystal clear that I would get no more chances without change.

I’d followed my bail conditions and completed community service, but also knew that my ASBO breaches didn’t hold up well. They had shown that I was still as much of a riot as I always was. Unable to keep a lid on my reckless behaviour with it always ready to bubble over the edge, all in the name of some form of validation.

Luckily for me, I got off the hook this time however if I was to ever up in court again the judge assured me I would go to prison. Relief washed over me and a weight lifted, life felt light and I felt free, could this be my opportunity to change and to live a better life. There was a moment where my life seemed clear in that instant, the inner dialogue quietened as I reflected on where I was and how close I was to the edge.

Off I walked, a free man. Back to the flat to revert back to an emotional equilibrium, I knew this feeling was too good to be true. Something big needs to happen to drag me out of this slump…