Chemsex is the biggest challenge facing gay men today. It’s more than an addiction: it’s a slow-motion suicide; a dark world of drug-induced psychosis, super-strength STIs, and fatal overdoses.
When you’re trapped in this cycle of self-harm, the crushing isolation makes escape seem impossible. But people can recover. Often, the most effective way isn’t an expensive stay in the Priory, but the simple act of connecting with a fellow addict and discussing your shared experience.
That’s the idea behind 12-step recovery programmes, which have helped millions of people recover from alcoholism, drug and other addictions. But these fellowships can only work when they provide a safe, respectful space for everybody. Tragically, that’s not always the case.
Here, two recovering chemsex survivors discuss what happens when gender politics corrupts and destroys a fellowship – and the incalculable damage it does to vulnerable gay men who just want help.
Robert: Thanks for taking the time to speak to me, Patrick. You were excluded from the fellowship you helped to set up. Before we get into that, can you tell me briefly about the story of your recovery?
Patrick: When I moved up to Manchester in 2021 there were no specific 12 step fellowships or groups for people struggling with crystal meth.
There are lots of fantastic Narcotics Anonymous (NA) groups, but many gay men don’t feel comfortable talking about their specific experiences with crystal meth because 99% of the time it is wrapped up in chemsex. In recovery, we try to find the similarities in each others’ experiences, but chemsex is so specific to gay men. When we meet through this fellowship, it feels special. There is a bond, because we’ve all been in that extraordinarily dark place. The relatability, relief and hope from seeing other crystal meth addicts with months and years of clean time is so important, especially for the newcomer.
In February 2023 I was part of a group that set up Manchester’s first 12-step group for crystal meth. We had a few growing pains – people dipped in and out, we had to change venues a few times – but it gradually grew into a thriving fellowship, with a regular attendance of around 24-25 men. Newcomers would arrive and they’d be like ghosts, just empty shells of human beings. And thanks to our fellowship, dozens of men heard the message and got on the pathway to recovery. I can’t tell you how rewarding it is to see that and know you played a part in it.
Robert: What I’ve learned from these fellowships is that everybody plays a role in recovery. If you share in meetings, you’re helping others. If you make the tea or set out the chairs, you’re helping. Just listening is helping.
Unity is essential for recovery, and that’s only possible when we concentrate on our similarities rather than accentuating our differences. Sadly, that’s not what happened with your group. How did things go wrong?
Patrick: I bumped into my friend from the fellowship at the gym, and the subject of the Supreme Court ruling came up, I didn’t think I had to censor myself. I didn’t have very strong opinions back then; I don’t think I even knew what ‘gender critical’ meant, but I was already frustrated with the lack of respect for women’s rights shown by the LGBTQ+ community. I said we weren’t doing ourselves any favours by heaping abuse on women who don’t want to see penises when they get undressed. And that’s the moment everything changed.
Robert: Playing Devil’s Advocate here, but could it be argued that you shouldn’t have brought up politics? As many readers will know, alongside the famous 12 Steps, we have 12 Traditions. These include the Tradition reminding us that personal recovery depends on unity, and another stating that our groups have no opinion on outside issues. Weren’t you in breach of these?
Patrick: You’re absolutely right about unity and keeping politics out of recovery. But that’s not a prohibition against having opinions, or sharing them outside the group.
Robert: Fair enough. So, how did it play out? Did you have a stand-up row in the gym?
Patrick: No, but I could tell he wasn’t pleased. It all kicked off that evening when he sent me a WhatsApp calling me transphobic, a bigot – all the insults and ‘arguments’ I’ve come to see as standard for anyone who challenges gender identity ideology.
I replied saying how hurtful I found his message, pointing to the volunteering I’ve done for the LGBT community beyond our 12-step group and asking if we could talk it over. He said No.
I carried on hosting our meeting, but I quickly found myself ostracised. People became very unfriendly and the recovery chat groups I was in went quiet. I could feel the animosity radiating off my former fellows and friends.
Robert: I can’t imagine what that must have been like. I once had a brief discussion with someone at a meeting who told me “Terfs shouldn’t exist” and now we avoid each other, which is sad. But to have the whole group turn against you…what did that do to your recovery?
Patrick: I’m not going to lie, it was awful and the closest I’d come to relapsing after two and a half years clean. I avoided the meeting for a while but when I came back it was worse than ever.
Maybe I didn’t handle the situation brilliantly, but I was upset — not just for my sake, but for others in the group who had been excluded and bullied. It was terribly sad to see how attendance had dwindled while I’d been away. I shared about how hard it was to come back and how unwelcome I’d been made to feel. As I talked, I could see one person shaking with suppressed laughter, and when I asked what was funny, he just got up and left. Then my former friend spoke up and said, “The reason we’re laughing is because what you’re saying is fucking ridiculous.” He called me a transphobe in front of the whole meeting, and the Chair had to interrupt to stop him.
Robert: Wow – that’s pretty serious. There’s a huge taboo on stopping people sharing. I’ve only seen that done when someone’s being really obnoxious or disruptive. So presumably people could see he was completely out of order?
Patrick: I wish that were so. My ex-friend continued to abuse me after the meeting, in front of the newcomers, telling me I was a transphobe and no longer welcome. I tried apologising to everybody within earshot, but no one wanted to know.
The next day, I sent a message to the Chair – a guy I’d actually used with, and whom I brought into the fellowship – apologising for my part in things. He told me he was going to take it up with Area [the regional governance body]. And since then – nothing. I haven’t been back in nearly a year.
Robert: You talked about how close you came to relapse in the immediate aftermath. How has this affected your recovery in the longer term?
Patrick: It’s been by far the most challenging chapter of my recovery, more so than heartbreak and losing a dear friend to cancer. I lost the spaces and the people who played such a pivotal role during my early recovery, which is possibly the most important period of my life.
I went into full isolation for quite some time. I was overwhelmed with anger, resentment, sadness, shame, regret. I didn’t want to see or be around anyone. I had to let go of two sponsees because my mental health was so bad. At times it felt like I was back at day one. I even called the Samaritans a couple of times, things were so bleak.
On the flip side, I’m very grateful to people outside of the LGBT spaces and in Narcotics Anonymous who kept reminding me that there were other meetings and recovery spaces.
Eventually I started going to NA in South Manchester, which has been fantastic and so welcoming. It helped me hear the message and feel the magic of the rooms again. I regained my perspective and still attend regularly.
I have also had some incredible support from close friends and meeting like-minded people through LGB Alliance, and my participation in the Gay Men’s Health Group. We’re doing some really great work behind the scenes, such as engaging with public authorities to ensure that the voices, experiences and needs of gay men are heard.
Robert: Do you still have friends in that particular meeting? Has anyone given you support in private or in public?
Patrick: Initially, no. I had the odd message from people, and one lad insisted we meet. He agrees with me in private, comparing gender surgery to historic lobotomies. But when I asked why he didn’t speak up in my defence, he had nothing to say. In many ways, I don’t blame him. He obviously wouldn’t want to go through the same ordeal as me.
But it turns out that since I left, quite a few others have also been excluded. Apparently the meeting has dwindled into a kind of small friendship group.
Robert: That’s so sad, and so contrary to the spirit of recovery. Cliques are the quickest way to destroy unity. I’m the token “posh” guy at my spit-and-sawdust home group, but I’ve never been made to feel anything but welcome. We’re all there for the same reasons and we support each other.
If you’re not getting that from your fellow addicts, what’s the solution? A “gender critical” recovery space seems like exactly the sort of politicisation that 12-step groups are supposed to avoid?
Patrick: Well exactly. And that’s what’s so ironic about all this — people claiming they need safe, inclusive spaces who end up excluding people in desperate need.
It results in gay men getting thrown out of the one space where we can truly relate to our fellows, and having to go into heterosexual spaces. We’re not unwelcome there, but discussing our experiences makes us very visibly “other”. It’s unfair on everyone, really, because straight people don’t want to hear about chemsex, and they certainly can’t relate.
I don’t think a “gender critical” fellowship is the solution though. It feels too political. We just need to stick to the traditions that have worked so well for decades, and address bullying the moment it arises.
Robert: How are you managing your recovery now? Have you found a new group, and are you worried this will happen again
Patrick: It’s going well! As well as the NA meeting, I’m helping set up a second meeting in Manchester for crystal meth recovery. I’m really buzzing to be back involved.
But it’s taken its toll. The feelings of shame and fear are like being in the closet again; like if I don’t conform to the “correct” opinions, I’ll be ridiculed or ostracised.
Am I worried it will happen again? Absolutely. This culture is rife, inside and outside of recovery. You hear stories all the time about people losing their jobs/spaces/tribes, when all they’re doing is trying to have a respectful discussion around female-only spaces or child safeguarding.
Go to any LGBT Pride march and you’ll see how this culture has been completely normalised. I often ask myself how the gay rights movement has fallen to the level of calling women TERFs and c***s whilst simultaneously shutting down the conversation – even rallying for violence and harm.
Robert: Thank you so much for sharing your story Patrick. Before you go, do you have any advice for gay men in recovery who find themselves in a similar situation?
Patrick: It’s going to be tough, and it shouldn’t have to be that way. Being bullied and cancelled is always going to raise the risk of relapse. I’d remind them that they have already done the hardest part, which is to admit they’re addicts and sought help. It can seem lonely being a gender critical gay man, but we are out there — maybe even sitting next to you, though terrified of ‘coming out’.
For me, standing up for myself was incredibly painful, but it was one of the best things I’ve done in recovery. I was true to myself, and I learned a lot about my own powers of resilience.
I want to make a plea to all gay men, addicts or sober: don’t accept bullying. The LGB is a small community and unity has always been our greatest strength — just like recovery, funnily! So I’d repeat the words of Maeve Halligan: be brave and question the narrative. That being kind doesn’t mean lying or complying. That’s how we restore our fellowship and rediscover our strength.