(When contacted for this article, the Priory said that a Qu’ran is available at the clinic “on request”, adding that the “voluntary 12-step programme we run is open to people of all faiths and none … We fully respect a diversity of religious adherence.”) I had asked at check-in if I could have a Qu’ran to go with the Bible next to my bed (I heard it made for a better read, and I had a crush on a Muslim boy), but was told, in no uncertain terms, that the Bible was enough to be getting on with. We’d sit on Chesterfield sofas in the glum half-light emanating from the north-facing windows, and share a reading from the Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous Daily Reflections books, usually centred around big Christian themes expressed through metaphors of eagles swooping or geological features to be overcome. After a cooked breakfast, we started the day in the living room, lined with bookshelves filled with ornaments. In the evenings, we might have acupuncture or yoga. Weekdays consisted of six hours of group therapy. There was an awful lot of work to do, and I was eager to get on with it. I met some colourful characters, but it was mainly middle-aged alcoholics from the home counties. I would spend the next 28 days with 25 or so other patients, each on their own seven-, 14- or 28-day journeys. Like most rehabs, this one enforced abstinence. “I have,” I replied.īefore my mum left, I asked: “Do you think I’ll be allowed a glass of wine with dinner?” The answer was no. “Have you ever injected?” the doctor asked. Checking in, I became aware that my situation was becoming pathologised. But I was not in the mood for a jolly meal. My mum suggested we stop in Chichester for lunch. On the way to the clinic, I had the distinct feeling of being driven to my own funeral. If I have a disease, why do I have to admit it? Photograph: Jon Tonks/The Guardian A privilege, I know but one I have to pay back. My parents arranged a “soft loan” from an extended family member. I had an en suite room, and didn’t have to share a dorm. I was desperate, so I chose a small facility at the bottom end of the scale, at £13,000. Running through my options, she said it would cost between £10,000 and £28,000 for a month’s stay.

Encouraged by my despairing family, I picked up the phone.Ī woman answered. When someone finally suggested I might go to the Priory rehab clinic, I was all ears. This triggered a return to using crystal meth as an analgesic, and bouts of severe paranoia. I tried to detox at home, but found myself sobbing, feeling as if I was falling apart. I was dependent on Valium it helped me carry on functioning, at least for a while. Before long, I was in the car outside the local drug recovery service, curled up in a ball, my face pressed against the window. Now, aged 29, I had made a decision to move back in with my family – temporarily, I assured myself – in order to clean up. What started off as a bit of misguided fun very quickly got out of hand. It has ripped through the gay scene, where it is used in conjunction with sex, in an epidemic known as “ chemsex”. Now I was told the root of my problems was my own moral failingsīut crystal meth was to prove my nemesis. I had started drinking, then taking recreational drugs with friends to numb the pain I felt as my parents went through a divorce, and the confusion I experienced around being gay.

Signed off work, with my hand in a cast, and tending to a set of difficult emotions, I turned to a coping mechanism I had discovered when I was 15. There was a painful breakup, a redundancy. The events that led me to rehab are hazy. My life had fallen apart so dramatically over the course of the previous year that I was in desperate need of any solution. On check-in, I was told I have a disease that’s progressive, fatal and incurable, and that I have a one in three chance of dying from it.

Cure my addiction 4