Boarding Schools to Back Alleys — A Glimpse

 I’ve worn a tailored blazer in the oak-panelled corridors of a British boarding school, the kind where history drips from the walls and expectations weigh heavier than the textbooks. I’ve flown first-class to Asia and Europe, my name on guest lists for clubs where champagne fountains were just part of the décor. I’ve sat at a table in Mayfair watching twenty thousand pounds disappear in a single night — not mine, not that it mattered.


I’ve also slept under railway bridges with a plastic bag for a pillow. I’ve woken in alleyways, half-aware of a needle still in my arm. I’ve smoked crack in stairwells, chased the rush of meth and coke until my body couldn’t keep up, and taken heroin when the crash felt unbearable. People think addiction is about pleasure — mine came from a place of immense insecurity, a gnawing feeling that I was never enough unless I was high.


And then there were the nights where it all collided — the drugs, the money, the sex — until I couldn’t tell which part I was chasing and which part was just chasing me.


This blog isn’t in order — life wasn’t in order. You’ll get pieces of it: the glamour, the chaos, the absurdity, the fear, and the moments of clarity that somehow kept me alive. I’m not here to dress it up, and I’m not here to make it darker than it was. I’m just here to tell it.


Next time, I’ll tell you about the night I found myself barefoot on a Mayfair street at 4 a.m., holding a champagne flute in one hand and a crack pipe in the other.


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