During my first attempt at getting clean I learned that there were two kinds of therapists. There were those who tried to get you to accept presonal responsibility; not particularly helpful when you’re coming off a three-day binge with your synapses firing so quickly that you can say the alphabet within five seconds but can’t remember where the fridge is.

Then there were those who explained that it was our mothers’ fault. This appealed to me. My mother had always been calm and gentle, accepting and slightly worried. Dinner was at seven, my clothes were usually clean. It was this mediocrity, this safety that turned me into the hedonistic Speed Daemon that I was now, I was sure of it. It was, indeed, my mother’s fault.

The therapist suggested confrontation when I left. After a week of sober-living, one mental weekend sent me spiralling downwards again. The effects of this and the several following weekends prompted me, stupidly, to tell her,

Mum, you made me take drugs.

It was two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon when she opened the door to find me waiting. She lived on her own now, with Dad gone. I swayed, waiting for the words to form. But they didn’t, I was losing my buzz. She looked at me and her face creased in disappointment.

“Oh Mark...love...”

I shook my head to clear it, mumbling. Say it!

“I need help Mum.”

My second trip to rehab was Mum’s fault.

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