Friday, October 17, 2014

There was that time I almost lost my leg

There are many types of users. There are "chippers". These are the junkie unicorns of users. These are people who can use occasionally. To me, any day was an occasion. How someone can take an Oxy or shoot some dope here and there is beyond my comprehension. Yet i hear that people do it. Personally, my drug of choice was more. 

There are pain patients.  After having three surgeries, I have a soft spot in my heart for them. I needed that pain medicine- needed it. I would be lying if I said it didn't feel good in the process. It would have been so easy to take that extra pill. And pain profoundly impacts your life. It is hard to participate in the world when you have trouble sitting in the chair. Pain patients- I salute you. You are like the food addict. You need something to live that may be killing you at the same time. 

There are the new users. They provide middlemen, older junkies, and dealers a constant stream of income. All that over charging and overdosing. It is almost as if they fell compelled to step on their dope to keep them from killing themselves. And they need you to do EVERYTHING for them. Please new users- quit while you are behind. If not, be safe. Don't trust assholes to give you clean supplies. Don't believe in favors. There are none. 

There are too many of us to describe in one place.
There are the maintenance users. They use just enough to keep from killing themselves as a result of crippling depression. There are the users that never save a wakeup and always push the limits, the greedy dope hogs of the world. There are tweeky mcdopeheads, always insisting on mixing uppers and downers. They like to nod out staring out the window as they look for the FBI and masterbate at the same time. There are the scientist users- keeping a sterile field, clean water while injecting dope that was up someone's dirty ass a few days prior. 

Finally, there are the garbage can users. They will stick a rusty needle in their neck on a street corner. That was me. They will use spit or tears to mix up dope. That was me. They will hate themselves so much that they will almost lose their leg to an infection because they refuse to go to the doctor. That was me. I think I shot up with grape crush trying to be cute. I wasn't laughing when I stuck my finger in a hole between the bone section. I paused but it did not stop me. We all have our crosses to bear. 

I walked around with the rotten leg for a month. I got it treated but never changed the bandages. I got arrested with four abscesses but that leg stunk so bad the police wanted to let me go. Too much paperwork to take a crazy junkie bitch to the hospital in handcuffs. One of my abscesses needed surgery. So I was in Jail with a bandage on each limb. 

People always say there is no one like me. You are just like me. We are the same. We chose different roads but end in the same place. Today, I chose to live. 

Monday, October 13, 2014

The Heating Pad

When I was a teenager, I remember sitting on the sofa starting blankly at the TV while my mother vaguely attempted to educate me on the ways of the world. She would have her heating pad on her back after a hard day at work. She carried most of the parenting burden as my father was either traveling for work or drunk or both. I would to lose myself in Star Trek the Next Generation, imagine myself being magically transported past the boundaries of West Chester Ohio. I had very few friends and an emotional unstable boyfriend, a perfect storm of self pity  I could not wait for the weekend so I could get out of the house.

 Around 7:30, my vegetative meditation would be broken by the sound of a car in the driveway. I could feel a chill go up my spine. I held my breath with anxious anticipation as my father turned the door knob. I never needed to look up from the tv but I could tell within three steps if he was drunk. In fact, I already knew he had been drinking today. I saw him at the bar on my way to school. The bus passed by the pub where he swore he ate his morning breakfast. I suppose it was more like hair of the dog. It was always silently humiliating to me to know that he was drinking before 8:00am. As if he was on auto pilot, He would come home in the afternoon, sleep it off, then go back to work. His command of the alcoholic arts was truly masterful- up until he got fired for being drunk on the job. He had "hid" it for years, or at least they had tolerated him. Now he was home from another job. It was too late to try to hide in my room.

As he walked through the door, I sensed the extra stagger. There was always an extra step on the end when he was tanked. I exhaled my frustration into the universe. With a silent glance,  my mother insisted I say hello to him. She said it "made her life easier" aka he would continue to put his check in the bank as long as I was nice to him. I knew his routine. He just wanted to get food, go upstairs, smoke a few pall mall gold 100s and pass out without incident. Normally, there would be yelling as I scurried away. She had her heating pad on so she wasn't up for an argument, not tonight.

I took a sip on my beverage, a sprite and peach schnapps. I had started stealing from the bottle and adding water here and there. This was a Christmas bottle from a few years back. If my mother smelled the alcohol on my breath, she never let on. Maybe she thought it was better to have me drinking in the house than out with my "friends". As I sip the syrupy relief, I resolve to myself that this will not be my life. NEVER. I cannot wait until I leave for college in a few months. I cannot take these feelings.

Between the cutting and the laxatives and the alcohol and the vicodin, maybe I can be thin and normal. I think to myself would rather be curled up with some drugs than stuck on the couch with my fucking heating pad waiting for my drunk husband.

When I look back now, it was so easy for me to judge them. So easy for me to feel superior to my hard working parents. I left Cincinnati Ohio with my college money that a traded for an arm full of heroin. As I puked from one end of the public bus to the other, I thought to myself "this is the fucking life". I never wanted to be like my parents. In fact, I wasn't like them. I was a spoiled self indulgent asshole that only thought about myself. A heroin addiction, I believed, was my cosmic punishment for being so ungrateful for the life I left. 
 The truth is somewhere in the grey area. I am sitting on my couch tonight with a heating pad wondering what my children will think of me someday.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

90 day wonder

"Hey Tracey I have 90 days clean " he says. 
I see the glow has returned in his eyes. He has that look, that swagger. That pep in his step like fuck yeah my dick works AND I can take a shit every fucking day. Feel me?  I haven't seen him in awhile. I assumed he was in jail. When people come around after rehab, they have this bloated look on their face. Like a fucking chipmunk storing up for a relapse. Their food reserves hang off their cheeks. 

The first week after getting off dope is spent masterbating, showering, and marveling that a needle is no longer hanging out of your arm. The first month is depression alternating with boredom. Suddenly you are sober to realize OH GOD I FUCKED UP MY LIFE. There are parents to deal with, bills to pay. If you duck off to treatment, these will be waiting for you when you come home. It is amazing how fast collection agents get your new addy.

By the second month, the connection is no longer on speed dial. Fuck, they may start calling you. They sound like a jilted lover "hey bro- what's up? It's been awhile." Fuck you dude. Remember when you gave me one fucking bag for my play station, the one I got for Christmas. Eat a dick. Or at least you WOULD say that if you were not so scared you would need them again. 

By 90 days, you think you are solid enough to come around scumbags like me. Yeah man, let's chill- you, me, and this monkey on my back. You look like shiny new money to me. Should I ask you to get high? No. Too obvious. Should I ask you for some money. Negative. You will say no. 

"Hey man. You look good. You know I am going to see my boy. He has that fire man. But I know you don't do that anymore. Much respect." 

I can practically see the money fly out of your pockets! You got 90 days bro? You got some money. Well, once I get you back on that horse, I got 99 problems and a fix ain't one. You are about to hook it up. 

That is this life. 
What comes around goes around. 

Friday, October 3, 2014

What Deserves My Attention

I took some time off work this week to finish my book proposal. There was a time when getting a book published was my only dream. I remember bringing a sample of my work to the English Department of the University I was attending when I first started using drugs. The professor was nice enough to humor me by reading it but I could tell he was put off by the content. He referred me to another colleague and I never pursued it. 

I had more important things to do. My work at the time was filled with near pornographic material on my love for opiates. I loved the burn of the needle, I dreamed about when heroin and I would be together again. Drugs were my sex, my romance, my joy in one place. I never had to look beyond the plastic bag or bottles of pills. As I licked the blood of my hands, it was as if I was embracing life when that needle came out of my skin. My foreplay consisted of two hours of waiting for a dealer. I was in that phase when heroin WAS love and we were happy. 

And then the years passed, they inched along at a snail's pace. The life of an addict and the life of a user are two totally different things. A few mornings spent broke on a toilet in withdrawal let you know that opiates are in charge and you are their bitch. There is no love anymore. There is simply the absence of pain. Remember that first time you slipped money out of someone's wallet, or shorted someone on a bag, or slept with some dealer, or worked some ugly girl for some drugs. Or maybe you are one of the unlucky ones that puts your paycheck up your arm and your stuff in the pawnshop. The servers, the drivers, the workers who are hooked one day at a time. 

I had planned to spend my time writing but I spent a lot of time with my youngest child. Having kids was a dream I had given up on. Now these kids are my everything. They are my hope for the future. They tell me every morning with their soft hugs and laughter than mine is a life worth living. I am more than a scumfuck junkie. I am capable of love. 

I don't know if my book will get published but in the game of life, against the odds, I came out ahead. These days I have with no needle hanging out of my arm have taught me my dreams were so small, my vision was so narrow. My life is filled with ups and downs but they are no longer held in powders and delivered at the cost of my dignity. 

I'm just going to sit here and watch my son play with trains because that deserves my attention. I am living my dreams and casting aside bad memories 

This is my cat nesting in my clothes. I guess he loves me too xoxo 

Friday, September 26, 2014

Guest post SF Bay Area

CHAPTER: "Push Down and Turn"

"Life..its not meant to be easy and sometimes you may feel liked you are locked in the same everyday routine that never ends. There comes a time where you will have to "push" yourself a little harder, Take the things you normally do, with a firm grasp, grab ahold of your emotions and "twist" them in the opposite direction... and you will be surprised on how some doors open to reveal the "fix" you have been needing all along.

2:37 AM 
As I sit here getting high I stare at the top of the pill bottle. The white cap with the blue letters marked "PUSH DOWN AND TURN" stare back at me. I think back to the hundreds, if not thousands of pill bottles that have crossed my path. From the great ones like the original OC80's, the roxi's, the xanax bars....down to the norcos, the vicodins, somas,percocets,flexeril....then the tylenol 3 and 4's, neurontin, marinol....the list goes on. Then there are the pills that arent fun, but they are needed, mainly due to the psychiatric issues I have chosen to admit it.  My "issues" just didnt appear one day...I just was never willing to admit that my mind wasnt right, and chose to spill my guts to a doctor one day. Then comes the pharmacuetical version of musical chairs...the cocktail wheel of fortune...the trial and error method that doctors have to use to try and find tbe right mix to fix you. So on came Zoloft, then prozac, then wellbutrin. Xanax finally came to the party as well, my salvation and savior to 75% of my issues.

By no means did I have an easy childhood, I was exposed to way too much ...way too fast. I learned lessons in life as a child that are normally reserved for the years that would come much later in life.  Now I am not saying my life was worse than anyone else's growing up....every one of you has a story, this is just mine and it wasn't easy for me.  It could have been a lot worse, but it should have been a lot better.
So in a sense,  I will be a drug user until the day I die...and these pill bottles will be a constant companion and part of my life. Ive grown to accept this fate. Some of these drugs I should part ways with, while others are mandatory to keep me leveled out.  The bottles themselves will always be a reminder of my love for heroin..since these little bottles are what I use to turn my black tar heroin into powder..

The sound of .75 cents rattling in a pill bottle is as distinct of a sounds as a gunshot or police the sound of loose change to a panhandler..  No matter where I hear it, no matter how far away or faint the sound might be...I know exactly what it is. It soothes the evil baboon on my back like a lullaby to a sleepy baby. When hanging out with my other associates that use, if I hear that sound coming from their pocket. I know there is a good chance I wont be sober for long. The sound is part of my "ritual" when getting high...similar to the sound of a razor blade on a mirror chopping lines, or the sound of a drivers license crushing meth chards into dust..I'm sure you get my point. At the same time, my method of use is different from most heroin users, especially those in the east coast or anywhere else where that good powdered dope is common. Black tar heroin if definitely the shittiest form of such a wonderful drug, but at time I am glad that I have no access to ECP (east coast powder) because I wouldnt just have. a monkey on my back.

No, I would be a full blown fuckin crazed ape with an endless appetite for destruction...there would be none of the control I have now, and I only would be referred to in past tense where anyone would speak of me. I still fear dying from my usage, as I know it would disappoint anyone and everyone one that ever knew me...Knowing Id be remembered for being a secret junkie still hurts me inside. I know it broke my mothers heart when she went to wake him up that morning and his body was cold and unresponsive. It was my second day, just got off work at a new job and I called my brother to pick me up from BART and he wasnt answering his phone...I called one of my female friends for a ride and she said she would come get me...I asked her if she had seen my brother that day and the line went silent...I asked her again, "where's Tone at?".....and then I heard it

"wait....nobody told you ?...Tone's gone"

Im thinking his ass got arrested again ....he was always into something and it was pretty common.

Thats when the clock stopped, the atmosphere around me went completely silent...all I heard was 
" Im sorry baby, but Tone passed away, he died in his sleep last night"

It didnt hit me right then, it didnt seem possible...I was just with him less than 24 hours was 5pm, we had kicked it until almost midnight the night before..he was waiting to pick up one of his scripts for a shitload of Roxi 30's. He texted me at like1:30 in the morning with "i got those"...
When I left him he was sippin on a pint of hennessy, just chilling, we smoked a blunt or 2 and were just trading war stories. He gave me a few valium, and popped a few himself. I left and went to my sisters house, I was sleeping on her couch at the time.

When what she said hit me I fell to the ground, I couldnt breathe, I couldnt think...I just disconnected from reality. Then the tears came and they didnt stop...when she arrived to pick me up ...all I could do was cry and tell her to take me to the liquor store, and I bought the same bottle we were drinking together the night before, I drank it like water...I had no feelings in my body, I became numb to the world.

And I write this and relive the pain again from that day, I reach into my pocket and pulled out my old familiar friend, the orange bottle with the blue writing on the top.

That day ...I was pushed down harder and farther than I had been in a long time....and it turned me.

I pop the white cap off and dump a pile of brown sugar into it...and snort away the pain that his death brought.
Deep breathing is only relaxing when you have a pile of powder and a rolled up dollar bill to go with it.
When life hands you lemons....fuxk everything else and grab the Salt and Tequila

We've all been pushed down, and we all turn at some point...some just turn in different directions than. others...

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Life outside of plastic bags

I did not wake up one morning and have one year, two years, five years, a decade, or sixteen years clean. When I read literature, personal stories, and academic articles so much is left out of any description of the process of recovery. It is as if nothing after the first year exists. It is assumed if you can make it through the initial year, you are magically released of addictive thinking. This is simply not true.

Sometimes, whether you have four days or four years clean, you are going to feel like absolute shit. Addiction is like an abusive relationship. Despite the fact that you are clear this is no good for you, you still romanticize the memory of your time together. "Remember when me and you were cool, drugs? We could hang out all day and never get tired of each other? We did big things together ". But then those drugs beat your ass over and over and over. You FINALLY left but you can't forget them. 

When you get into recovery, everyone thinks you should be so motherfucking happy. Yay! Meetings! Yay! Pee in a Cup! Yay! Medication! Yay! The complete loss of freedom! It is 100% okay to admit you feel like shit. It is normal. In fact, when I got clean, I realized I was a person who experienced a lot of depression as part of my daily existence. 

In a life without drugs, things are not perfect. The reality is you will experience a broader spectrum of emotions. In the earlier months, the main emotion is pain. Anyone who does not acknowledge that is woefully misguided. It is as if you woke up from an extended nap only to realize you are broke, you have not spoken to your family in months, you have achieved very little of your potential, and you have little human interaction beyond people who support your dysfunction. But hey, that self awareness is a good start. Then, you start having appropriate boners again and pooping on a regular basis. You realize life is not as horrible as you imagined. 

Getting clean is hard and it is worth the struggle. I stick with feeling good with small things. I enjoy the ability to not degrade myself on a daily basis. I enjoy my work and feeling like I am accomplishing things. I enjoy not feeling sick every eight hours, eating food (some times with other people), having some one kiss my face. I get hugs from people and I realize they care about me. I feel it. I see changes working in my life. I cannot promise you a lifetime of happiness. But I can promise you something different. Maybe all you really need is a chance, a spark of life.  
I think of all my readers fondly. Whether you are clean or in the bag today, I love you.