Five Years Clean and the Present Body

I have been clean from heroin for over five years. I do not say it often. When I do I usually say it quickly and move on. I am slowing down here because this is where the rest of the book has to land.

Rave drugs found me young, right around the time schooling collapsed. The years that followed took more than they gave. In environments where fentanyl is stolen from neighbours’ rooms and survival is daily negotiation, five years clean is not a small fact. It is simply true. I mention it and I keep moving. The work of staying clean is not dramatic. It is repetitive and quiet and mostly invisible. That is why it rarely gets the space it deserves on the page.

The body still carries chronic damage that will not leave. Bipolar. The injuries that put me in the care home. The sense that law enforcement and other agencies still take an interest in who I am and how I move. I have said that my body has been used as a guinea pig for BioNTech and that the state of the United Kingdom has subjected me to treatment that meets the international definitions of torture and cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment. Arbitrary control of how much money I am allowed. Continued restrictions that function as imprisonment even when the door is not locked in the ordinary way. These are my claims. They are on the record here exactly as I have spoken them. Internationally recognised offences exist for a reason: torture, non-consensual medical experimentation, arbitrary detention. Whether any of them will ever be tested against the facts of my case is not in my hands. The body keeps the score regardless.

Religious items — Catholic rosaries, Muslim prayer beads — have been cut from my neck more than once. Accusations that shift according to who is doing the accusing. I keep the faith I keep. No one gets to cut it off. I am not Christian for money. I am not any single label for convenience. Faith is not a costume. When the beads are cut the message is clear: your interior life is also subject to external control. I reject that message every time the scissors come out.

I am forty-eight. Born 13 October 1977. Living in a care home in Harrow, Middlesex, recovering from injuries and chronic health issues that will never fully go. I get hardly any benefits. I need open-source options. I have high ambitions but I stopped dreaming about love after the first time. I will never let dreams and love hurt me again. I hate time-wasters. My time is valuable. I do not like being sent to web or apps that are not finished or just made. I am a survivor of heroin, alcohol and child abuse. My life is only restricted because the police who refused to investigate or name the offenders — because of who they are — started the pattern of tactical bullying that included telling the perpetrators about my accusations in order to intimidate me from being a witness. I have no desire to carry on living. If I could shut my eyes and not wake up I would happily. That is also true. The work is what remains. The platforms are mapped: YouTube, Spotify, Rumble, Facebook, TikTok, Reddit, OnlyFans, Amazon, Telegram. Adult entertainment is on the table because it generates money and because I am finished waiting for permission. AI products and services that become actual business assets are the real target. HVT remains the frame.