Sunday, July 17, 2016


I have said before that heroin probably saved my life. I still believe that. I know that doesn't make sense to the uniformed. How is it this substance that grabs the user by the throat and leads them around could possibly have a positive impact? Well, it was certainly true in my case. There comes the point in the life of a suicidal person where there are only sparse alternatives. For me, drugs were the very last one. The crippling depression I had experienced since I was an adolescent was pulling me under like a rip current. I no longer could paddle my way to the sandy beach. The more I tried, the more I felt the undertow. The cold blackness pulled at me until I felt as if I was walking around in life, merely gasping for air.

Heroin, for all the myriad of drawbacks, provided a brief salve for my mental wounds. I didn't go STRAIGHT to heroin, of course. I had to work my way around the other opioids first. Eventually, those had become less and less effective. Never the less, they call them "pain killers" for a reason. They soothed my pain. The pain that I had deep inside of me. That pain told me I was worthless. That pain told me no one loved me. That pain told me day after days in a variety of ways that the world would be better off if I was not in it. So- there it was. The heroin was a triumph of sorts. It gave me the way to navigate all the fucked up things my mind told me. Instead of battling my demons, I was chasing my tail. The struggle to maintain a drug habit is a sudoku of sorts. You are constantly trying to find the right combination to unlock the puzzle of life. It is a puzzle you can never finish once you start playing. The only way I could win was to walk away.

Someone asked me this week how I could have compassion for active drug users. I guess it is because I understand them. I am them. I ate all the candy then evolved into my final form. We found the same joy, felt the same pain, and travel the same path. It bonds us. The fraternal order of the spoon so to speak. We made a blood oath to the same master only to see it change faces.

I love you all. I hope you are having a good Sunday. XOXO Tracey.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

Heroin- that bitch ain't real

I wish you could see the person I see
I wish you could feel the way I feel 
I wish you could feel love again-

Heroin- that bitch ain't real. 

A different clip from my appearance on Dr Oz

You can click here to see one or both clips

Saturday, July 9, 2016

The Good Girl

There was a time when I was the nerdy kid flipping through pages of my latest book. I would be sitting inside  laying my blanket on the vent of the air conditioner on a hot summer day eating Doritos and sipping on Mountain Dew. Summers in Ohio would get sweltering with the heat mixed in with the humidity. An occasional thunderstorm would roll in to water the grass, only to create a outdoor sauna in the morning. My hobbies included playing video games, drawing, and staying up all night to catch the latest R rated movie while my parents slumbered unaware in the next room.

I was the good girl. I didn't have teenage boys awkwardly fumbling between my legs or weed stashed in a hollowed out book in the closet. I wasn't oblivious to vices, I just wasn't interested in them. I had seen the sloppy way the people in my life moved and behaved after they ingested a substance. They smelled of desperation, the alcohol leaking out of their pores as they swatted mosquitoes next to tiki torches or fading barbecues. The conversations would always end in someone stumbling in the general direction of their homes while the teenagers silently swilled the remnants of their whiskey sours with puckered faces. Maybe someone puked that night. Maybe some one flashed the top of their panties as an invitation to sloppy fornication as the saxophone from Saturday Night Live blew the melody of an ending day.

I don't know how I ended up a heroin addict. Well, yes I do. I tried heroin. I guess that was the first step. But how did I get to that place. How do you go from watching a Star Trek Marathon in footie pajamas to finding a vein between two parked cars on a foggy San Francisco morning. The chilly wind forced goose bumps to spread across my pale flesh. All that matters now is this brown, some blue, and a flash of red in that syringe. If someone would have told me I would become a junkie, I would have never believed it. I was a good girl. Good girls don't become junkies. Until they do....

Saturday, July 2, 2016

Open letter to my readers.

Today's entry is directed at you. You as in the collective "you" that take the time out to read my blog stories. First of all, thank you. I started this blog a few years ago as an outlet for the memories that have haunted me over the years. The memory of the hooker with the colostomy bag, the 13 year old boy who used to turn tricks then cry as he begged people to inject him with the money he extracted from the pedophiles that picked him up. There was the opportunity to explain that Jake was a fully realized human being that I called my friend. There was the legacy of the lovers that passed through my life only to end up dead as a result of their drug use. Finally, I got a place to process all the traumas that occurred in those years while I lay slowly dying. The rape, the violence, and sense of despair that hung over my daily existence.

Over the course of publishing this blog, I ended up becoming friends with many of you, mostly young folk. I use the term "friends" to describe a loose relationship based on mutual affection. I have met a few of you in real life. Most of you remain anonymous through reddit or some other form of social media. The blog turned into a naloxone program, a book, and many long days of texting you while you struggled to understand how to get out of the grip heroin had on you. Many of you died. Many of you have gotten clean. Some of you linger in that place of general dissatisfaction. I respect that.

I wanted to make this post to tell you that I love you. I wanted to make this post to tell me that it is possible you are going to die soon if nothing changes. I wanted to make this post to tell you that in six months or six years you will wonder how you could have spent so much time chasing dope. The only thing constant in life is change. You can change for the better or this can get worse. Only you can decide that. But really, truthfully- it is up to YOU. Take some ownership of your destiny. In the years that I have been writing this blog, I've met a 19 year old that died from sepsis from unclean injection procedures. I met a veteran that survived the war then died in a train station. I met mothers and fathers who have lost their children because of drugs. I have seen car crashes, death, despair, and even HOPE. I get letters and messages daily "hey do you remember me?" Yes. I do. I remember you all. And I am richer for knowing you.