The Drugs Do Work

The Drugs Do Work

For as long as I have been stumbling around this mortal coil my aunt and uncle have shown me nothing but kindness. They’ve helped me in times of need, way beyond the call of duty and what I deserve.

My father’s sister is a beautiful woman, caring and the exempflication of benevolence. Her husband, although not related to me through blood, has always been there to offer more practical advice with both a wicked sense of humour and the level-headed logic which decades of being an accountant brings. His 1+1=2 view doesn’t always align with my more abstract 1+1= “let’s see” view but his help has always been gratefully accepted. It’s always annoyingly.

There’s one thing he’s being telling me I need for so long he now abbreviates it to KUTB.

This is one piece of advice which, although not being incorrect, is more complex than it may seem.

I admit that I sometimes (aka usually) need a good Kick Up The Backside. This is where the “but” (or should that be “butt”?) comes in.

Unless you’ve been handed life on a silver plate, we all know that if we want something we have to work to get it. You can’t wait for things to come to you as the chances are they won’t. We all need a Kick Up The Backside in order to put the effort in and achieve our goals. Just as a soccer striker’s main target is the literal goal we need the metaphorical type of goals to aim for.

This has been my failing: with clear-cut purpose I’d be willing to put in the hard work and, through major acts of contortion, give myself the necessary KUTB. As it is, I’ve spent my adult life blindly punting the ball into the sky, watching it aimlessly roll away into neutral areas.

Ever since my first childhood sips I’ve craved alcohol. Decades of alcoholism reached a peak during the years I was co-owner of two bars. The smoking-ban turned the two busiest haunts in town into shadows of their former selves and the financial worry only served to increase the flow of ethanol into my suffering body. The alcohol gave me the balls to open the bills and face the world when all I really wanted to do was stay in bed and be locked away from the life I’d fallen into.

Eventually, after several years of struggle, I was out of the business. The relief I felt was a huge weight off my shoulders. What I didn’t expect was an even greater force pushing me downward into what felt like a grave-like prison: anxiety.

For five years after the bars closed I spent every waking moment worrying about a small group of men who frequented my bars. Yes, they were dodgy, but how many shifty people had I met in my life without creating unnecessary worries?

They didn’t threaten me, assault me or ask me for protection money but my mind played an evil game with me and caused fear the like of which I had never experienced.

I sometimes saw these men in town and they’d say a friendly “hello” and nothing more. Even such a trivial encounter would leave me shaking and, if I was on my way home, I’d use backroads to make sure they didn’t follow me. Not that they ever intended to follow me.

If I wanted to go outside I’d peek out from behind the curtains to make sure they weren’t in the street. This was ridiculous and I knew it but no amount of logical thinking could curb it.

I was now living a healthy life: no cigarettes, no alcohol and daily sport. None of this, as promised by the experts, helped one little bit and I ended up having what can only be described as a nervous breakdown.

From taking aspirin to stop a headache to taking drugs to be transported to another dimension, I was aware of the power of chemicals. I went to the doctor and the little pills he prescribed me cured my anxiety within a couple of weeks and the person I used to be made a welcome return.

It also made it very clear to me that the old cliché is true: I was self-medicating with alcohol to repress my problems. Which is why, six months after being diagnosed with ADHD, I finally gave myself a huge running kick up the backside and began taking medication for my condition.

As I now reflect upon my youth, I can see that my uncle‘s good advice failed to leave a mark not because I ignored it but because it wouldn’t have worked. After filling out numerous questionnaires and attending several interviews in a clinic it‘s obvious that my lack of ability to sit still, concentrate and get anything done was due to my ADHD which began in childhood. No amount of KUTBs would have helped as my mind raced around like a hungry rat in a maze with no exit. My thoughts were like one of those little balls which act as if they will never stop bouncing.

According to my research (aka Google) alcohol and drug use are common amongst those with ADHD with one report suggesting that up to 50% of alcoholics suffer from it. Impulsivity and risk-taking without considering the consequences are also common traits of sufferers. I recently demonstrated this and the consequences led me to give myself a KUTB.

My wife knows all about my previous leviathanic thirst for all that‘s bad. She knows all about everything I ever messed up. She also knows that one beer leads to another with the end result being complete intoxication and all the fun which comes with that. To say that she hates to see me in this state is an understatement.

As I’ve written before, I rarely drink now. However, a couple of weeks ago, I was home alone and saw a beer in the fridge. Without thinking (impulsivity, risk-taking) I made myself a Ricard pastis with water (because I’m classy) and downed it chased by the beer. Within minutes I was in the supermarket in the drinks aisle.

I can’t remember my wife coming home from her late shift. What I can remember is her not speaking to me for a week. A literal week. She works with teenagers with psychological problems and came home to a fifty-year-old who makes her kids’ worries a pleasure in comparison. I didn’t do anything “bad”: no fights, puking, arguing etc but it was enough. I could smell divorce in the air.

On my next day off I got a prescription. Anything to show my wife that I meant business. A KUTB to avoid castration, throat-slitting or whatever she had in mind. Losing her was enough for me (and there’d be less blood to clear up).

It’s been two weeks and the legal amphetamines are doing their job. I have to give myself an initial, gentle KUTB but I’m finding that once I start something I’ll finish it. This story, for example. I feel more focused and, not surprisingly from taking small doses of legal speed, have more motivation and energy, mental as well as physical. And, for the sake of my marriage, my brainless impulses will hopefully be restrained.

If I were at school now, my diagnosis would surely have come sooner but 45 years ago I was simply put in to the “hyperactive, trouble-causer, clown, could do better” category. These days my condition would at least be recognised and, in the best case, treated.

I have a couple of goals and the fog which always hung around obscuring them is clearing. One of my goals involves writing: finishing at least one of the books I’ve started work on. It appears that, once again, the drugs do work.

It’s good for me and not only because it involves sitting down, preventing my uncle’s now unneeded KUTB from reaching its target.