Drowning in the Shallow End

by Charlie Mellor

  We talked for ages about the sheer volume he’d purchased and after a few pathetic attempts to convince me he’d invested hundreds of pounds in order to save a little bit of money through bulk buying; he finally admitted that he too was having major problems coping.

  “This year has been crap. Had a new baby to cope with… which is great, but as you’ll know it’s also bloody hard work. Stacey and me have had some problems. Not getting on as well as we used to. Changing jobs twice in a year hasn’t helped matters. All in all, it’s been a rotten year,” adding, “plus, I’ve had a few health issues.”

  “Is everything all right?” I said

  “This is between us. I went to see the doctor about stomach cramps and she reckoned I was suffering with stress. Couldn’t believe it – me, stressed. Anyway she signed me off work for two months – which only made me more worried about what my new boss was going to think. It’s all been a fucking nightmare. Spliff has been the only thing that’s got me through it. Then again, I’m not sure…” he paused

  “Not sure of what?” I asked, sensing he was about to say something really important.

  “How can I put this? Mmmm, recently I’ve started to…”

  “Go on,” keen for him to continue

  “Well like now, recently I’ve been struggling to… think clearly. I’m finding it a lot harder to… concentrate. I can’t even remember the main points of a distribution report, half an hour after reading it.”

  Allan was a very proud man and wasn’t one for talking about these things, so this candid conversation was both unexpected and intriguing.

  “Is it the stress?” I asked

  “Maybe, but also – and I know this sounds stupid – I think it’s to do with what I’ve just shown you in the boot.”

  “Pennie Fenton?” I said

  “Ever since I started smoking the spliff every day, things have got tougher. It may be a coincidence, but I’ve noticed that when Pennie is about I get agitated with others a lot easier. I’ve no patience. I know I’m doing it, but can’t stop myself getting ratty with everyone – small petty details seem really important. I’m unable to let them go.”

  “Well, you are a perfectionist,” I said trying, to reassure him.

  “It’s more than that. I’ve fallen out with my last two bosses – ‘personality clashes’ – it’s why I’ve ended up having to change jobs so often. Stacey reckons I’m a difficult person to be with.”

  “It’s probably a combination of things Allan, you sound stressed, plus maybe smoking a bit too much.”

  “It’s Pennie Fenton – I’m sure of it,“ he said, while incongruously taking his wooden stash box out of his bag as he prepared to roll a joint.

  The longer Allan talked (while continuing to chisel small bits off a lump of Moroccan resin), the more I recognised similarities between us. I estimated he was perhaps just a few stages ahead of where I was. Every revelation shared raised alarm bells as I heard how his pathological preoccupation had bled into every aspect of his life.

  “The truth is, I can’t function without a spliff. It’s like an obsession which fills my every thought. I’m an addict. I know it’s not helping, but I can’t stop myself from wanting more. Even now talking to you about this, all I can think about is getting this little number lit.”

  “You strike it up, I’m just going to get a list of things to do with smoking which I think you’ll be interested in reading…” I said

  In the weeks which followed Allan’s sobering visit, I spent a lot of time thinking about the possibility that those ‘cultivated years of indifference’ may have lowered both of our potential to see what was happening to us. I could only deduce the reason we hadn’t noticed any of these things before was because our deterioration had been so gradual, like an evolving shoreline shaped by the effects of gently lapping waves.

  I was particularly concerned that our brain functioning may have been compromised as a result of our commitment to cannabis. Just like Allan, my ability to concentrate was shockingly poor and short-term memory abysmal. A quick Google search confirmed my worst suspicions. The two areas of the brain most commonly affected by prolonged exposure to THC appeared to be, the hippocampus, which deals with memory and the amygdala, which is responsible for the processing of emotions.

  Flicking through the various websites, I learned that in addition to playing an important role in the creation of new memories; the hippocampus identifies which pieces of everyday information are worth keeping and which ones can be thrown away. Discovering this fact made me even more worried that we may have unknowingly affected this area. As a fledgling smoker I’d always loved the way a good spliff enabled you to think about one thing in incredible detail; but over the last few years had found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything at all. I’d noticed how inconsequential details flooded my traitorous mind, preventing me from differentiating between important and trivial items. Unable to siphon off unnecessary distractions, every email, every letter and every request seemed equally pressing. All were urgent and all demanded my instant attention. It was totally paralyzing. No longer able to trust my intuition, creativity or instincts; I was inclined to organize, confine and regiment things in order to make them more predictable and easier to accommodate. It was as if all the things I used to like about the odd joint, such as spontaneity and free thinking had been flipped over and were conspiring against me. Even my last bastion of defence – my sense of humour was evaporating. These days I seemed to be the only one laughing at my jokes and this was only because I was trashed all the time.

  Reading up on the role of the amygdala, I learned that this was responsible for alerting our bodies to potential threats, which could explain my growing tendency to overestimate the impact of both real and imaginary threats. Recently, I was able to inflate the smallest problem into a full blown crisis; able to ‘sweat the small stuff’ better than anyone I knew. I fretted about everything and like Allan, was inclined to treat any new ideas, people and places with suspicion.

  Perhaps a ‘faulty internal alarm system’ was also the reason why I’d started to experience waves of terrifying panic attacks, whenever I attempted to mask how fragile I’d become. My heart would start to race uncontrollably, getting faster and faster until it reached the point where I’d be overwhelmed by a sense of impending danger. The first few times, I wasn’t sure if they were palpitations or if I was encountering some form of seizure. All I could feel was my thundering heart trying to push its way through my rib-cage. The more regular the attacks, the more time Annie had to spend calming me down, reassuring me that I wasn’t going to die.

  Strangely up until this point I’d never once considered that any of these incidents could be linked to my predilection for Pennie Fenton.

  Trying hard to stop smoking, but never believing I could, I was aware that something had to give. I wasn’t just burning the candle at both ends; I’d set fire to it along the body as well. Truth be known, that poor little candle had endured such a roasting, for such a long time; all that remained was an old, charred little wick which was barely able to stay alight. I may not have been top on a list of admissions to The Priory, (reserved for affluent deep water swimmers only) but I was definitely in need of the same fortitude as its patients, the same strength of character to lift myself out of this sorry situation. I thought back to my night with Mr Funny at the Nene College Comedy Festival and realised his pragmatic description of life on the road, applied equally well to drugs – “First it is fun, then it isn’t fun, then it is fuckin shite.” Pennie’s plan to reduce me to the sum of my neurosis had worked and I was finally at stage three.

  For the first time since I’d started smoking spliffs I was seriously worried about my health and the compounded effects of all those ‘cheeky little numbers’. I took the bold decision to seek external assistance. Not wanting to talk to anyone about cannabis per se, I visited my local GP at the end of 2005 to explore what support was available to help me stop smoking. I found mysel
f talking about the problems I was having connecting with others, about my inflexibility and how emotionally flat I’d become. Following a consultation where I’d described the symptoms but not the cause of my malaise, the doctor concluded I was depressed. He explained that depression often arises when a patient is trying too hard to press down on an internalised problem which was fighting to be expressed. I could relate to this. His solution was to prescribe the antidepressant Prozac - a medicine which did everything he said it would. Straight away I could tell it removed the extremes of emotions which I’d been feeling. It helped with stretches of prolonged unhappiness and mental isolation - but also took away any real joy of living, those fleeting sensations of elation. Taking this powerful medication left me feeling like I was watching an old widescreen movie which had been converted for television using large black panels at the top and bottom of the screen. All the action remained in the centre, but felt more distant and was a lot harder to concentrate on. Additionally the two thick panels (provided by the Prozac), didn’t half get on your nerves after a while.

  I acknowledged taking the tablets was helpful and they certainly increased my energy levels, but found the overall effect a little unsettling – as if I was no longer feeling any real emotions, simply going through an approximation of real life. Therefore within a very short period of time I was looking for ways to cheat the negative aspects of the medication. I continued with my prescription, as it helped me feel less ‘blue’, but additionally wanted to engineer more of the euphoria, the laughter and the happiness. So, although I was beginning to recognise some positive effects, I went straight back onto the spliffs. ‘Double dosing’ on Prozac and THC, removed much of the melancholy which often followed a big smoke so the net effect of self-medicating on both meant that I ended up smoking even more than I had done before.

  Mixing my meds instantly negated any positive effects of the antidepressant and with it any opportunity for long term recovery. The two combined actually made for an even more dangerous cocktail. I became what Annie called, “Irrepressibly upbeat and wildly insensitive,” as the coupling resulted in me being decidedly clumsy in my interactions with others. When I took the two together, it was as if the wire between my brain and mouth had been shortened. This meant I verbalised all my thoughts as they appeared in my mind. Previously, I’d been quite effective at judging where to pitch inflammatory remarks –positioning things in a cheeky and contentious way, but still able to pull back from hurting people’s feelings. However the buzz from this new combination of medications totally prevented me from reading the impact of my comments and I invariably misjudged situations and upset many people. The only meaningful advantage to this new state of self-inflicted frenzy was that it also perked up many of my sluggish sperm, who rather like the rest of my physiology, became far more animated. One of the little fella’s even managed to fulfil the very purpose for which he’d been created, fused with an egg and in doing so brought about the welcome news that despite our advancing years, Annie’s fourth gestation period was underway.

  Little Holly Jayne Mellor was born in 2006. She was a beautiful baby who brought a sense of completeness to our family unit. Annie and I had always hoped for four children and felt very lucky to be now blessed with four healthy children; but realisation of this dream did mean that much of my wife’s time was now spent caring for our latest addition. As a result, fourteen year old Hattie, twelve year old Toby and six year old Travis received just a little less of their mother’s attention than usual and I was left pretty much to Pennie’s own devices. I didn’t consider myself a bad father to our children, unkind or cruel, but was aware I wasn’t spending as much time with them as they deserved. I told myself, maybe at the weekend things would improve, maybe in the holidays we would spend more time together, maybe one day when I finally frog-marched Pennie Fenton back through the front door and out of our lives for good. Maybe...

  19. Never Falls Far

  It always fascinates me how children brought up in the same environment and from the same biological parents, can be so dissimilar in their natures. Our children were no different. Even little Holly, who was still in nappies, appeared to be developing in a way which was distinctive when compared to her sister and two brothers. Toby was always the self-sufficient dreamer, Travis his easy going, but orderly little brother; while big sister Hattie was capable of dominating all three of them with her forceful personality. As a family we always celebrated such differences and enjoyed watching how each of the children had grown in confidence with whatever attributes they had either inherited from us or fashioned for themselves. Hattie for example, now a teenager in the ‘gifted and talented’ group at school, was, we were sure, destined to be a high achiever due to her assertive nature and unstoppable drive.

  It was probably because of our tolerance for their diversity, combined with the fact that both Annie and I were separately distracted, that neither of us fully picked-up on the extent of Hattie’s deteriorating behaviour. Since she’d always been unusually outspoken, even as a toddler, we tended to interpret her increasingly argumentative nature as a form of wilfulness or teenage rebellion. Unfortunately the older she got, the more fractious and aggressive she became. Hattie upset family members; fell out with all her old friends; was in trouble for not submitting her homework at school and ended up in detention most weeks for rule breaking and disruptive behaviour. Twice, I received calls from local shopkeepers who’d seen Hattie with gangs of lads outside their shop, so drunk on alcopops that she was unable to stand. At home we were never able to predict what sort of mood she would be in. Some days Hattie seemed sullen and withdrawn, others she’d prowl around the house hunting for an argument. Meal times were often a flashpoint when our capricious daughter would appear to deliberately taunt and provoke others until she achieved the conflict she was after.

  My wife was heartbroken by these developments – she’d always enjoyed a terrific relationship with our eldest daughter, almost sisterly, but had recently noticed this closeness was slipping through her fingers.

  Still pumped up by a combination of Pennie and Prozac; I usually charged straight into the fray, providing Hattie with the heated battle she was gunning for. Without exception every one of these decisions to engage in conflict was a mistake. I always wondered what had caused her to become so antagonistic towards the people who cared about her most. It couldn’t be her behaviour was some kind of karmic payback for not providing her with enough attention could it? Retribution for the lack of guidance I had offered? Surely none of this was because I was failing in my stated parental goal to ‘serve and protect’ her? Was it?

  On December 11 2006, while earnestly twiddling my thumbs at work, I received a call from Annie. She was clearly distraught and had rung to warn me that Hattie had discovered my supply of Pennie Fenton. I was mortified. Hearing the news was like being hit with a kidney punch, delivered by a big leather boxing glove with very little padding. I’m sure Hattie may have suspected I smoked for a while, but this phone call made it impossible to deny. I couldn’t get it out of my mind - my daughter knew I smoked pot. Fuck, was I pissed off with my own stupidity.

  Flick had been programmed on speed-dial for many months and at times I’d been able to purchase truckloads of home-grown weed. This meant I needed be quite inventive in finding suitable places to conceal these sizable supplies. As a precautionary measure I rotated the hiding places every few days and tried to make sure my supply was always out of easy reach. On the day my gimlet-eyed girl uncovered the stash, I had been so trashed the night before that I’d left the box inside our low level cleaning cupboard where we usually stored the ashtrays. Schoolboy error. My increasingly mistrustful daughter must have been looking around, chasing her own suspicions when she found the remains of the most recent consignment from Flick. She’d immediately tipped the contents of the (uncharacteristically modest sized) Tupperware box onto the kitchen table and yelled out for her mother to come downstairs.

  “Mum, come down here
now - what the hell was all THIS doing inside our cupboard?” said Hattie.

  “I beg your pardon?” Annie replied.

  “I said what is this box of weed doing in our cleaning cupboard - Mother?”

  “I th-th-ink you’re mistaken Hattie, I’m not really sure what you’re talking about, but can assure you...”

  “For once, don’t treat me like a bloody child, I know exactly what it is. It is called cannabis. You stick it in a joint and get off your face. Just be fucking honest with me will you AND TELL ME WHAT ITS DOING HERE.”

  Annie has always hated conflict and now, face to face with her worst nightmare, bravely attempted to convince our seething daughter the pile of dried leaves strewn across the kitchen table, were emphatically not derived from a cannabis plant.

  “Please don’t talk to me like that, I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for whatever it is, if only you’d give me chance to explain,” she said stretching out her sentence, to build in some thinking time.

  “Go on then, let’s hear it. How did you find yourself with heap of illegal soft drugs in your house? Come on, tell me, I’m looking forward to hearing this…”