Bipolar Mum Journey

Growing up watching your parents inject heroin and smoke crack is an experience like no other. You’d think as a child you’d be their main priority, but no, drugs always come first. You become a sidekick in their quest for the next fix. They’d anxiously hover until they secured their supply, then they’d hastily dump you in front of the tv just so they could vanish into a euphoric haze.

Picture this: your parents strutting into the kitchen, alert and awake, only to stagger out moments later in a zombie-like trance. Trying to get anything coherent out of them, other than “do what you want, little darling,” was like asking a cat to explain quantum physics.

Ah, the memories. I vividly recall my mum getting so high she nodded off and sat on the Calor Gas heater, leaving her with a burnt arse. Another classic moment was when she somehow managed to snort her nose stud. My stepdad, ever the practical problem-solver, tried to retrieve it with a pair of pliers. You can’t make this stuff up.

Then there were the local tough guys who decided to redecorate our flat by smashing the windows, screaming “move out, you dirty smack heads!” My sister and I, asleep under the window, were showered in glass. Talk about a rude awakening.

Despite the chaos, I don’t blame my parents. They had their own nightmares to deal with, like the rape and murder of my stepdad’s sister in the early ’80s. Their addiction was a twisted escape from their own pain.

Our family camping trips were epic fails. On one trip, they brought a Calor Gas heater into the tent to cook their drugs. They left a candle burning while nodding off, and surprise, the whole tent caught fire. Everyone managed to escape except me. My stepdad finally noticed and heroically jumped in to save me just as the tent collapsed. So, the twat almost killed me but also saved my life. Holiday over on the first night.

Day-to-day life wasn’t much better. My sister and I spent most of our days locked in the garden while our parents hosted a parade of local drug users. One guy had an epileptic fit, spilling my stepdad’s precious drugs all over the floor. I remember another visitor screaming, “grab a spoon, he’s going to swallow his tongue!” It was like living in a demented sitcom.

Mum’s driving was a thrill ride. She’d often nod off, and I’d have to nudge her awake. Grocery shopping turned into a spectacle as she’d gouch out at the checkout, slumped over her bag scrambling for her purse.

Once, a friend stayed over, and Mum took a particularly bad hit. Her leg swelled up, and I had to call an ambulance. She refused to go, of course, and instead, in her haze, made a cup of tea consisting of fag ash and hot water. I was too angry to even try to stop her.

These are just a few gems from my life with addict parents. Dark humour? Absolutely. Because sometimes, laughter is the only way to survive the madness.