2. Really don’t care

A slippery slope.

At twenty I knew it all, or atleast thought I did.

Class A’s were more regular among my group. I had done my stint on E’s the year before and Valium became my new version of getting high, when I wasn’t getting actually high of course.

I would take them every day. A treat on a Monday night with a cup of tea tasted like nectar. A couple after a workout; I don’t like golf but walking round a course ‘blue’d up’ was a Tuesday treat. This became the norm, my routine. I loved the feeling and it made me like me. Therefore, everyone must like me or so I thought.

The weekend was a whole different ball game. Even at this early stage it would be normal to consume 300mg over a weekend.

When everyone around you is abusing, judgement is most definitely clouded. A moral compass can get nudged into a direction you didn’t think it would head.

One night my friends and I had a ‘session,’ it continued until we all passed out. That morning a friend stole the van I had been driving. He saw it as a joke but I just didn’t get it. I was furious.

Valium has the ability to make you not care, sprinkle in some alcohol and you really, really don’t care.

On this occasion I did care. I had started to notice mood swings while on Valium and on this occasion, I found myself getting from nought to blind rage in a few seconds.

I jumped in my friends car. One coked up, one ‘valed’ up and both of us drunk. We went to my friends mother’s house (the friend who had nicked the van). I was angry, I bounced through the gate and opened the back door, where I was greeted by his shocked mother! I was rude and aggressive to his mother. That type of behaviour still makes me wince, under the influence or not there’s no avoiding the fact it was still me.

I finally caught up with my friend and after getting the keys back more Valium was consumed.

It was all forgotten (Just as well as he was a lot bigger than me).

An hour later, me and a different friend begin messing about with each other. Throwing beer matts graduated to spitting beer at each other. Escalating to stubbing cigarettes out on each other, until one of us snapped. It was me who went first and I punching him. I was dragged outside the pub by annoyed friends and angry locals.

I blamed everyone else and decided to leave.

With a theme that would become recurring over the next few years, I decided to drive in my comatose’d state. I had no sense of consequence or hypocrisy. The same van I had made a fuss about my drunk friend driving, I jumped in without any hesitation.

I remember meeting a girl I was dating at the time and then the night is withdrawn from my memory reel.

The morning arrives and I am being dragged out of bed by my neck. If I was angry at the wake up call, my father was livid.

He told me to go look at the state of his van. It wasn’t looking too clever, the front was smashed and both side doors had been caved in. There was a deep gauge up the side and the odd dent or two.

I fired back some bullshit story, all the while scurrying down the stairs away from my father.

As well as the shock, I was discovering injuries to myself, with every step I took I felt a new sensation of pain. I had a scratch on my forehead and bruises to my chest.

A few hours later, I received a text message from an unknown number. The text went along the lines of asking if I was okay and if I got to the hospital. To this day I don’t know who sent that text or why.

It was around dinner time and my mother had made me a plate of food to take home. I was a minute into my journey and a turquoise car began flashing me. I continued to drive up the steep hill that leads out of my valley. The cars continues to flash and is still driving up my ‘Chatham pocket.’

I didn’t know what was going on but I found myself getting angrier and angrier till finally I slammed on the brakes.

The man in the turquoise car poked his head out of his window and calmly said, “There’s a plate of food on your roof you tw*t!”

I looked at my car and he wasn’t joking. There, a roast dinner with gravy dripping over the side was perched precariously on my sunroof. The man looked disgusted as he overtook me, shaking his head as he screeched off.

I didn’t care.

*Chatham Pocket – Arse

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