Tag: addiction


It’s confession time.

I drink a ton of coffee.
I quite like sugar.
I have a whisky, or two, almost every evening.
And I take half a sleeping tablet at night before I go to bed.

But when a friend of mine said Violet, you have dependency issues, you’re an addict and you need to get help, rehab help, I got really pissed off.

I love my coffee. I hang out in coffee shops, I write, I order another coffee, I work, I sip, I love it. And it’s just coffee for goodness sake.

Sugar, well, I know I shouldn’t, but you know, a piece of red velvet cake with my coffee every now and again is very nice. And it isn’t every day and hey, it’s not gonna kill me.

Whisky – come on, my Dad’s been having a whisky every night for the last 70 years and he’s (mostly) okay.

It’s the sleeping tablets that are the bigger problem.

Yes. My name is Violet and I am an addict.

And I get that I’m talking exactly like an addict but hey, does it matter so much? Half a tablet a night? For the last five years?  They’re also not gonna kill me.

Are they?

I mean, they might be why I’m a little bit ditzy and forgetful, also why I struggle to wake up in the mornings, but you know –

I only take half.

And I do at least sleep.

But according to my friend I should be getting medical help, therapy and treatment because all these terrible things I do mean I have dependency issues, I am a dependent person, I use crutches, I am an addict, my life will be shorter, ruined, I will die…


Am I in denial?

I genuinely don’t think, apart from the stilnox and even them, that any of these things are soooooo bad for me.

Anyway, I climbed the moral high ground and smugly told him I flushed the pills down the toilet.

Which I did in a very brave and mad moment.


He yelled at me.

Are you nuts mad, come on Violet, what’s wrong with you, how can you flush them down the loo?

Hey, calm down, I said. I thought you’d be proud of me.

You’ve put them in our water supply you idiot. You’ve put them in MY water supply.


I did.

And I’m sorry but not sorry.  I hope he sleeps really well.

And stops telling me I have a problem.


Violet Reviews.

I tried hard not to spill crumbs on the sheets or coffee down my cleavage. I tried hard not to smear butter over the pages or honey on my cheeks.

And I did try really hard to get up and out of bed.

But I couldn’t. Not until I’d read every single last word of Melinda Ferguson’s new book, Crashed.

I almost felt guilty for enjoying the book. Not just enjoying it, loving it. Because I was never overly complimentary about her first book, Smacked, also a memoir on addiction.

I know Melinda, not well, but I know her. We have kids the same age, mutual friends and we’re kinda in the same community.   I’d struggled, reading about things that she had done and had to do to get her daily fix. Smacked was a pretty in your face kind of book.

I have to admit, when I read that book, I was harsh.

Judgemental would be the word.

And not just me. I’d sat around many a dinner table where people trashed Melinda and her writing. Not because it’s badly written, because sweet Goddesses she is the most wonderful writer, but because people felt she’d aired just a little too much of her dirty laundry.

In her current book, Crashed, she’s been clean for fifteen years, then smashes a Ferrari. You’ll have to read the book to find out why she even has a Ferrari.

And then she spirals, out of control, fast. And she keeps on, crashing and crashing and crashing.

It’s compulsive reading. She airs a lot more dirty laundry.

And I have been a little obsessed by it.

Because I have learned so much. Apart from Melinda being very bloody brave, she has opened up discussions and debates about addiction. And not just addiction to heroin or crack cocaine but to social media, to sex, to love and to men.

I have one of these addictions. Maybe two. As do a lot of the people around those dinner tables.

Melinda’s journey of self-discovery really shed some light for me. She gave me quite a few boom bang kapow moments. And I realised how harsh I’d been with her first book. Somebody has to write these stories and good for her for being the one.

I don’t think this book is meant to be inspirational. But I found it inspiring. And helpful. And bloody brilliant reading. It’s funny, it’s sad, it’s raw and it’s heartbreaking.

And really worth a read. Buy it.

It’s addictive.