Hammer Head----Diary Of A Drug Addict---Bens Story
Without Prejudice
He was always " hammered", a Hammer Head, an addict, a druggie, a junkie who was multi addicted.
When he was " using" it was a large can of cider, many cigarettes and a shot of "shit" "gear" injected into his groin as all his other veins had collapsed.
He hated it, loved it, hated it. His addiction wearing out his body, wearying his soul. He wanted out but found himself back in within an hour. Never enough, never an end to his longing. For what ? He wondered. Nothing seemed to fill the big hole inside himself. Only smack. It filled him up, made him feel whole. For a while anyway.
Bens whole day was filled up with finding the drug, finding the money, finding a place to shoot up. Finding a vein in his blackened groin.
Ben was 32 and a drug addict for more than half his life.
Life events had come and gone. His siblings birthdays, weddings, his doting parents anniversaries. He remembered little of any of the significant days. He had floated through them on a magic carpet of booze, pills, heroin. Booze was at least easy to come by.
But after a while his siblings dreaded the drama that came with Ben. And stopped inviting him.
They still loved him, wanted the best life for him, their baby brother. But stopped enabling him to pretend that everything was o.k. It wasn't ok, never ok. Parties had been ruined by Ben.
His father, a gentle man, drove him to dealers in the end. Just to get his son relief.
The parents had tried everything. Soft love, tough love, rock bottom, twice to expensive rehabs. They believed him and then not. The endless stories, the lies took their toll on both his parents. Because of Ben they had isolated themselves from friends. How could decent people expect to understand what they as decent parents, could not understand themselves?
It was a never ending pain inside their minds. No matter what life had thrown at them they had survived. Every day was like the other. An endless round of anger, despair, desperate love, frustration, a hatred at times that had to be ignored. They were good people. Three other children were not addicted. Ben classified himself as the " fly in the ointment ", " the black sheep ". An enigma of genetic selection. But partly he was still a needy child.
They say addiction is part physical, part a certain childishness, part a selfishness. They say an addiction to alcohol is often a " wanting to die, wishing to die, " a not so secret death wish that is apparent to everyone else, but not the alcoholic. Denial the first lie. As Dr PHIL would say,
" You can't fix a problem unless you acknowledge that a problem exists "
But Ben acknowledged he was as an addict, called himself a junkie to his parents.
Someone had given Ben a camera / video camera and he unflinchingly recorded his daily life. Not realising it would record the last two years of his life. Sugar coating nothing. The footage shows Ben
mixing, injecting, passing out, snapping back into reality from a comatose position of " going on the
nod " , his eyes pinned.
He would often eat his meals and pass out after a few mouthfuls. His head falling into his dinner often, fork in hand. And then he would wake up, the fork continuing its journey to his mouth. The moments spent unconscious forgotten.
His Mother would watch him with despair. She had banished him from the house for two weeks. But he just spent his time in the small rural village where they resided on the outskirts of, whiling away the hours wandering, sleeping rough, toting his black bin liner bag around like a snail carrying his home on his back.
The bag containing his tools of addiction. The syringes, swabs, pipes, pills, a can of cider, the lid forming a handy holder for the mixed heroin.
The parents took him back in, embarrassed, not wanting the neighbours to know. Not wanting anyone to see the shambolic character their son had turned into. Bleeding out of every orifice, a dead man walking. A small village, everyone knew Ben, liked him, liked and were saddened for his family.
Part Two to come ........
He was always " hammered", a Hammer Head, an addict, a druggie, a junkie who was multi addicted.
When he was " using" it was a large can of cider, many cigarettes and a shot of "shit" "gear" injected into his groin as all his other veins had collapsed.
He hated it, loved it, hated it. His addiction wearing out his body, wearying his soul. He wanted out but found himself back in within an hour. Never enough, never an end to his longing. For what ? He wondered. Nothing seemed to fill the big hole inside himself. Only smack. It filled him up, made him feel whole. For a while anyway.
Bens whole day was filled up with finding the drug, finding the money, finding a place to shoot up. Finding a vein in his blackened groin.
Ben was 32 and a drug addict for more than half his life.
Life events had come and gone. His siblings birthdays, weddings, his doting parents anniversaries. He remembered little of any of the significant days. He had floated through them on a magic carpet of booze, pills, heroin. Booze was at least easy to come by.
But after a while his siblings dreaded the drama that came with Ben. And stopped inviting him.
They still loved him, wanted the best life for him, their baby brother. But stopped enabling him to pretend that everything was o.k. It wasn't ok, never ok. Parties had been ruined by Ben.
His father, a gentle man, drove him to dealers in the end. Just to get his son relief.
The parents had tried everything. Soft love, tough love, rock bottom, twice to expensive rehabs. They believed him and then not. The endless stories, the lies took their toll on both his parents. Because of Ben they had isolated themselves from friends. How could decent people expect to understand what they as decent parents, could not understand themselves?
It was a never ending pain inside their minds. No matter what life had thrown at them they had survived. Every day was like the other. An endless round of anger, despair, desperate love, frustration, a hatred at times that had to be ignored. They were good people. Three other children were not addicted. Ben classified himself as the " fly in the ointment ", " the black sheep ". An enigma of genetic selection. But partly he was still a needy child.
They say addiction is part physical, part a certain childishness, part a selfishness. They say an addiction to alcohol is often a " wanting to die, wishing to die, " a not so secret death wish that is apparent to everyone else, but not the alcoholic. Denial the first lie. As Dr PHIL would say,
" You can't fix a problem unless you acknowledge that a problem exists "
But Ben acknowledged he was as an addict, called himself a junkie to his parents.
Someone had given Ben a camera / video camera and he unflinchingly recorded his daily life. Not realising it would record the last two years of his life. Sugar coating nothing. The footage shows Ben
mixing, injecting, passing out, snapping back into reality from a comatose position of " going on the
nod " , his eyes pinned.
He would often eat his meals and pass out after a few mouthfuls. His head falling into his dinner often, fork in hand. And then he would wake up, the fork continuing its journey to his mouth. The moments spent unconscious forgotten.
His Mother would watch him with despair. She had banished him from the house for two weeks. But he just spent his time in the small rural village where they resided on the outskirts of, whiling away the hours wandering, sleeping rough, toting his black bin liner bag around like a snail carrying his home on his back.
The bag containing his tools of addiction. The syringes, swabs, pipes, pills, a can of cider, the lid forming a handy holder for the mixed heroin.
The parents took him back in, embarrassed, not wanting the neighbours to know. Not wanting anyone to see the shambolic character their son had turned into. Bleeding out of every orifice, a dead man walking. A small village, everyone knew Ben, liked him, liked and were saddened for his family.
Part Two to come ........
