This probably seems self-indulgent, but I feel the need to vent. If anyone out there is paying attention, don’t feel obliged to bear with me. Tune out if I’m boring you.

Tonight I was at a friend’s place. I won’t mention any names for reasons that will soon become clear. Until now, we have got along well - she’s intelligent and open-minded, and pretty damned attractive too. I’ll admit I was a little upset when I learned she was using drugs, but she’s not alone on this count. I’ve known many others like her, and I had no problem with them at first - if they respected my lifestyle choices, I didn’t interfere with theirs.

My friend was smoking pot. No big deal - I’ve seen this many times before. When I was younger and more stupid, I lived with a couple of smack addicts. It was educational, to be sure. Less than a month after he moved in, the first nearly fatally overdosed. He had a couple of friends with him, but they didn’t know the address and had to wake me up so I could give the ambulance directions. To make matters worse, his heart had stopped. Luckily I’d done a first aid course, and kept him alive through CPR until the paramedics arrived. I doubt I did the world a favour; I’m told that shortly afterwards he got a former flatmate hooked, and this poor sucker passed the habit on to his fiancee. One night they both shot up and passed out; he woke up but she did not. I’m told pure heroin is meant to be virtually harmless, if incredibly addictive, but who knows what else you’ll inject?

The second junkie flatmate was saner in that he never injected the stuff. He’d cook it over tinfoil and inhale the fumes instead, which I’m told is less dangerous but more wasteful. Somehow this guy had a girlfriend, who had two kids from a previous relationship. While he never overdosed, he regularly passed out in the lounge room when he was meant to be picking them up. When his partner got home she’d scream at him. Talk about setting a good example.

In a fit of masochism, I helped another friend out some time later. Her worst vice was pot, but in some ways it made her even more depressing. She’d smoke seven or eight cones in one night and then cry as she had no money for food. My conscience moved me to buy it for her; I also paid for all the bills. I put up with this for six months, in which time she scared off one girlfriend and wrecked my chances with another (though the stress I was under helped as well). Finally I’d had enough. I flushed her whole supply down the toilet and told her that if she touched pot again I’d throw her out and turn in her dealer. This seemed to get the point across; to her credit, she got off the pot and six months later had a job. She’s held it down for two years now.

Some time after she moved out, I went to see a band with her. On the way we ran into one of her exes, a short, fat, middle-aged drug dealer who has a thing for much younger girls. He asked her what she was doing; she told him she had a new job and new home. He dismissed all this as boring and asked her to start clubbing again. He obviously wanted her back. She’d told me how it was with him - drugs in exchange for sexual favours. Luckily for him, we left before he could incite me further. This world would be much better without him, but justice and law are different things.

It’s not just users who get hurt. I used to work night shifts at Mobil. Armed robberies were part of the job; nearly everyone got held up at some point. Most of my co-workers had knives pulled on them; I lucked out and got to stare down the barrel of an automatic. I had no problem handing the cash over - after all, it wasn’t mine - but the twitching freak in the paintball mask looked about as scared as I was. There’s a chance drugs weren’t involved, but somehow I doubt he needed to buy kittens for his grandmother. One wrong move, and I wouldn’t be here.

Anyway, let’s get back to the story. After a couple of cones and drinks, the girl I’m with gets into her car. Like an idiot, I climb in beside her. She’s a competent driver, even when trashed, and before long we’re in the city. Phone calls ensue, another girl joins us, and large sums of cash and drugs are exchanged. It’s not just pot they’re selling, either. Then we’re in an underground car park. The chemical parts of the profits are split, but the smoothness that has characterised the operation until now suddenly disintegrates. The two girls keep misplacing things and apparently haven’t learned to share. I get out and wander around for a while; for some reason the Benny Hill theme keeps playing itself in my head. When I return they’ve sorted things out, but I feel like I’m back in the world I’ve wanted to avoid for so long. I lose my temper on the way home and the girl I’m with is scared. She hasn’t seen me angry before and can’t understand what she’s done wrong.

When we’re back at her place I tell her a bit about my past experiences. To our mutual surprise, she knows some of the same people and understands where I’m coming from. Things seem to be calming down, but her flatmates sense that something has changed and they don’t feel comfortable with me around. I step out and start for home; the trains aren’t running at this hour, and the buses are a gamble, so I’ve got to walk a long way to get home. This gives me lots of time to think, but I’ve already made up my mind. Ten minutes from her door I send her a brief text message:

“How am I meant to be happy when I see a beautiful woman destroying herself? It’s either me or the drugs. You choose.”

That’s all she needs to hear from me. What happens now is up to her. It’s now 3.40 in the morning, and she’s already texted me back a few times, asking if we can stay friends or placing the blame on a meteor shower (I should add that this girl talks to her cat and takes astrology seriously). I’m not going to change my mind. She can take this any way she likes, but in all honesty, it’s a sign that I care.

-JF, Sydney, 2007