Saturday, December 28, 2013

You sucked the life

As I look at your reflection,
I see the contradiction, 
I would love to crawl inside your skin, 
But you are so eager to let me in 

I grab for you in desperate silence, 
Once again,  you seek my forgiveness, 
You pull me down like frigid water, 
You drain my life and play the martyr.

We play house and I pretend,
You won't betray me yet again,
But I succumb to your advances,
Forgetting all the squandered chances.

I'm quitting you, yet again.
I'm breaking free from agony,
My knees are pulled against my chest,
You sucked the life out of me.
You sucked the life right out of me.










Thursday, December 26, 2013

A Tale of Arrogance- A guest post

One day back in 1996 or so, four of us got together for lunch. And not long ago, it dawned on me how arrogant the four of us were. One was the maintenance supervisor at a huge apartment complex in a large Ohio city. Another was a foreman at his brother's construction company. One ran the loading dock at a fruit and vegetable wholesaler, and me, I was a hot shot autobody repairman. A pretty tight bunch of characters, Smug and arrogant in our junkiness, each feeling superior in his own right. 

Back to the real matter at hand. 17 years ago, I was a heroin user of the 1st degree. Not realizing I had much of a problem, I would rationalize that by telling myself I was doing alright, I even worked 2 jobs (had to pay for it somehow, right?), so how could I have a problem? And in my arrogance, I would look askance at those boosters, hookers, and petty thieves who supported their habits in such ways. I, of course, was better than them. Yeah. A lot of stuff came back to me today, and I'm afraid if I don't write it down I may forget it all again. Bounced checks? No problem. Just write small ones and most businesses would not bother with them. Bank account closed? Move on to the next bank. A thousand dollars worth of new parts not needed to repair that brand new wrecked vehicle? Sneak 'em out the back and put them in the trunk. Parts departments will buy them back from you. Turning in your hours to payroll? They don't check too close, they will never notice they have paid you 3 times to work on a car that's not even at the shop any more. Don't have any quarters for the good ol' pay phone? Dig through the customer's cars, they usually yielded up enough for lunch too. Lost your license and your tags to the state? Customer tags will do, after all one size fits all models. Almost went to jail over that once. Had my car impounded and had to sneak into the lot and steal the customer's tags back. Broke and sick? I still had grandpa's shotgun, somehow. Let's head over to the gas station and make a withdrawal! Nah, better unload that damn gun, cuz if YOU shoot someone, you will get the chair. If THEY shoot YOU, they will get a medal. Yep, you bet, I was better than everyone. I had no problem.....and the friends at the beginning of this tale? Within a 2 year period, 3 of them died. One died from AIDS, another (heroin dealer) was found beaten to death in his house, and the third, he fell asleep driving while trying to get off Methadone. Thankfully, my arrogance died somewhere along the way too.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Christmas Eve Contradiction

I am sitting on my couch looking at my son playing in front of our Christmas Tree. In general, I do not care that much for the holidays. As a food addict, I appreciate any opportunity to stuff my face with sweets with no fear of public shaming. At Holiday Parties, the people with food issues silently nod to each other as we seek an extra helping of dessert. We recognize one another at buffets. We see the smiles as others are finally eating at our pace and it is glorious! For fifty weeks of the year, we deflect from our secret eating habits with our juicing and our fabulous overpriced salads. Two weeks of a year, we can relax and do what we do best- indulge without stigma and judgement.

I have spent every major holiday with the exception of Christmas in jail. I have been arrested on both Christmas Eve (for solicitation) and the day after Christmas (for drugs). December 25 is a day when many addicts are flush with cash or items to trade yet dealers may be closing up shop for the day. I remember vividly getting a brand new pair of shoes one day. They were blue suede Adidas. They were beautiful- exactly what I wanted in a shoe. Within a few days, I was attempting to sell them for drugs. I have seen people trade their children's Christmas gifts for a hit. I sold my holiday bag of groceries for $10 more than once after waiting in the cold for four hours to acquire them. Ho Ho Ho.

My life now is quite different. There is an abundance of joy in my household on any given day, not just holidays. Yet I still reflect on the suffering addict. I've had two people I knew die in the past few weeks. And the overdoses continue to roll in. Addiction doesn't distinguish between this day and any other day. All I can do I spread some holiday harm reduction. Our lives are valuable every day. My gift to you is the knowledge that you are valuable. You matter in the universe. I hope you are safe and content even if you are not feeling the season.

Love T.

I wish you a Messy Christmas 

Saturday, December 21, 2013

I wish I would have wrote this

I can't take credit for writing this but I wish I would have because I love it. I was written by one of my readers JF.

My minds been known to drift in to a pit of the sickness
I try to shake it off or find someone to talk but no ones there's to listen
So my companions always been me and my addiction
Depression and happiness is seperated by the line that I'm sniffin
And this ain't no happy chimp that sittin here on my shoulder
Its a 800 lbs gorillla and I can no longer control em
Can't even remember the last time  I spent a day sober
I hit rock bottom and still keep sinkin even lower
And I know some that still keep goin..still keep smokin
Carpet surfin tryin to find another rock.... as if it was golden
Its time to slow my roll,  im runnin outta time I'm already knowing
Its either jail or overdosing and id have to rob a bank just to get into a program
This can't be the path for my life that was originally chosen
Vivid pictures in motion, code blue crash carts, my body in convulsions...
Its time to cash in these narcotic tokens for some sober moments
Before I run outta time and fade to black ....and its game over
To break it down simply, theres 2 sides to my sickness
One side is bright n artstc 
While the other is dark n sadistic
And I knw its just a mattr of time before this reality hits me
Cause the business tht I'm in... and the life I live is risky
Its a Twisted mix of genius and madness
The Comedy blended in with tragic
Organized confusion in the mind of a civilized savage
A 2nd generation drug addict stuck in the habit
Still coordinating transactions
 pickin up packages
 and then I'm back into traffic...

Thursday, December 19, 2013

A Junkie Hooker Tale Circa 1992

"I'm in love with love so I scatter it in the breeze, until I fall to my knees, wondering why the trail to reason feels like a disease..." 

My eyes and blue and my skin is a shade of grey. I hold my fingers against the mirror. The reflection is in a window. I see a skeleton with big eyes and a small smile. I brush my hair behind my ear. I put my hair on backwards. My audience awaits. People want to see me perform. the ups and downs of my routine played out in front of an audience of unsuspecting fools. Can they see that I control them all? Can the see that I blend into any setting and command my universe with a wave of my arm? 

I see you wanting to approach me. I am full now. I am so full of drugs my world is on tilt. I am beautiful and I control this corner of the universe. The cars circle the block. Each man is sizing me up to judge my imperfections while he turns on the street. Will this man be the lucky one? Will it be him? They are all so very lucky that I am willing to turn my attention to them. They are honored to be in my presence. The heroin makes me a shimmer star in the Tenderloin morning.

As the hours go by, the sun begins to rise. The sweat begins to form on my forehead. I have been sitting here for a few hours. I am too tired to stand on my little heels. As I get into each car, I take my life and hand it to the mercy of stranger. Finally- I see a decent prospect. The chills are crawling up my spine.

"Hi sweetie- how are you today?" My words are like a sugary nutty bar, like the milk at the bottom of the fruity pebbles. 

I flip my hair back and turn my head to listen to his bullshit. He wants sex and I want money. Occasionally, I meet a nice man. Sometimes, they are good looking AND nice. That is not this guy. The first thing I notice is his wedding ring. He has hairy fingers and a neck beard that goes all the way up. He has on a white polo shirt and grey shorts. All signs point to a quickie in the car. His glasses are slightly fogged. I suppose he has been driving around playing with himself while he selects the girl that will satisfy his needs. The car is clean with no cups or wrappers meaning this is either a rental or he shares the vehicle with his wife.

"How much for around the world?" He gets straight to business. Makes sense. He doesn't want to cut my throat. he wants to cum and go. 

"How much do you got?" I ask smiling and batting my eyes. I am trying to play the innocent young girl trip that just started in the game but he is making it difficult. 

"Are you a cop?" This man reaches out and tries to grab my snatch with one hand and hold the wheel with the other. He is also checking to see if I have a penis. Transsexual girls work this corner. Clearly, this is not his first time.

I smash his hand "Um no. I am not a cop. You have to pay to touch it honey. Sixty bucks and you have to wear a rubber." Most people don't realize that hookers use condoms for blow jobs. Well at least hookers that are not desperate for cash. And I am not desperate...yet. If I have to wait a few more hours or jump in a few more cars and make no money, I am not sure what will happen or at least I do not want to admit reality. I will accept less. I sell myself short many, many times.

 I see my reflection in the window of his car. I see my eyes. I am crying now. I grab a napkin out of my purse. I am not sure why I even carry a purse. The only thing in there is napkins in case i have to pee outside, condoms, lube, and syringes. I keep my money in my bra. It really isn't a purse so much as a junkie hooker survival kit. I wipe the tears from my face. He parked the car now in the parking garage of the Walgreens drug store. We are parked in the corner so no one can see.

He is giving me the "I haven't got all day look" or the "stop fucking crying and give me a blow job look".
He throws $40 on my lap. I guess he wants a little less of me. We are running out of time. All that getting to know each other crap and all has made him late. Now he has a crying hooker in his car and I don't want to get out. He promises me he will be fast. 

I accept what I can get from this man. I sell myself for less. Neither one of us really get what we want. He doesn't get his trip around the world and I don't get my $60- enough to keep me well for an entire day.
I decide to call my connect and pray he will come out for less money. As I cook up a dark shot in my dingy hotel room, I realize I will be beautiful again. As soon as the brown mixes with red, all my troubles for a moment. I am in control and in command of my universe with a shot in my arm.







Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Guest Post- tronb3

Jekyll and Hyde.

Just do it.. Its been a while.. A few weeks right?? Maybe a few months? A Year?  Time is up.. Act now he says. Pick up the phone.. DO IT!!
Jesus fucking Christ… I don’t want to.. I have told you this a million fucking times now over the last 15 years… Why do you always have to get your way… Can’t we just be Normal for a while longer??
Normal?? HA!! I love how you throw that word around. Like when your two friends overdosed and at their service you told everyone how “normal” you were these days and glad you got off that shit before that was you lying in that box, only to go out a few nights later with that stripper you met. You remember her right??  The one we met at you buddies bachelor party? Why did you start talking to her? Was it her beautiful long hair?  Great body? Perfect ass? Oh no it was none of that.. It was the marks in the ditches of her arms that got your attention. That was a great week. Laying in bed with a beautiful woman drifting in and out of oblivion…

Fuck! I couldn’t help it! It had been almost a year at that point. A year since we got to lay in the bed of flowers.. We needed it!
AH HAAAAA!!! You said it!!! WE NEEDED IT!!! See? You can be just as bad as me you weak fuck. WE NEED IT! YOU NEED IT!

I don’t need it. I want it. I can go a good long while and not take a pill, snort a rail, or shoot a few bags. But the thought is always there. Like a thread woven through my minds tapestry. I always want it. Some days the thought is as small as a grain of sand on a far away beach. Other days it is a roaring inferno that burns everything it touches. Regardless, it is omnipresent.

Why though? With all the bad things it has manifest in my life. The hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on it, the countless hours of my life spent waiting on dealers and middlemen that I will never get back. The bridges burned, and countless days being sick. The stealing, the lying, and manipulating. Losing touch with my child possibly forever.  The hurt I have caused those closest to me yet still I go back.Sure there may be a month, or 3 months, or a year before I pickup again, but one thing is for certain. I will pick up again.

In my wise age of 35 years I have however gained some semblance of control over it. I feed Jekyll when I can. Placate the monster inside me when possible. Keeping the fire going just enough to be warm and comfortable.
Don’t mistake my tone for confidence that I have slain the dragon. I am not immune to full blown addiction. It is a fight when I get down to the last few bags or pills at the end of a binge. That’s when you start making deals with the devil. When it does finally run out, what then?? How sick are we going to get?? How long till I feel better?? How much lope have I taken today?? I wonder if I can get some subs?? Can I Iv subs? I would kill for one more bag. I wonder if my girl is convinced that this is the 8th time I’ve had the flu this year. I wonder where my daughter is right now? Where would I be had I not enjoyed that first Vicodin so much all those years ago??

I have no regrets…. Opiates have taught me volumes about who I am and made me into the man I am today. They are sacred to me in a way. When I am high I feel close to the universe.. All is right. I am truly comfortable in my own skin.

My bed of flowers…..



Sunday, December 15, 2013

Another Tenderloin Day

I woke up and brushed the fear out of my eyes. The day ahead was not for the faint of heart. I needed to draw my my courage and step among the broken hearts to find the path to opiated glory. You want to hear the story. I was tiny, I was starving. I was withering away in front of my picked up face. I was barricaded in the room. I was alone in the dirty sheets with the burn hole from the junkies that had passed before me. The ghosts of the overdoses traveled down the halls haunting me as I went to pee in that lonely place no one called home.

I looked at my face in the mirror. Then I browsed my neck. Will I stick the needle there? I brushed back my hair. This is all I have left. All my fantasies I can pull up from the bottom of the spoon. There is nothing but the clothes on my back. I take a hit of crack. The world is buzzing now with all my rings and tweaks. The freaks await me down the stairs. I need to get my hustle on. I need to plot and plan and scheme and dream empty bags and full arms. I pray to Junkie Jesus. Please let me get through this. Off into darkness. Please relieve my sickness. A hustler on a mission, another Tenderloin day.

Friday, December 13, 2013

Guest Post "High In The Chi - The Cicero Blues"


I feel like a purple fucking alien. Standing by the doors on the 
7am Blue line train headed into the city in my grubby jeans and dirty hoodie surrounded by all the early morning commuters in their button down shirts and ties and sensible pant suits. Well dressed slaves, I think. " Cicero is next " the canned pre recorded voice drones over the trains speakers. " Doors open on the left at Cicero". The train squeals to a stop and I elbow my way through all these captains of industry with their sharp little briefcases full of dreams and sales projections. These poor bastards wouldn't step foot off the train here if the fucking thing was on fire. I stumble across the platform and up the escalator to street level. The chills and sniffles are really starting to kick in as a step out of the station and onto the sidewalk. The chilly October wind slaps me in the face and I pull my hoodie up over my head just in time to see a Chicago PD Suburban gliding up to the curb in front of the station to watch for skinny white junkies coming off. Its just creepy and ominous the way they look at you like " Yeah, mother fucker, I'll catch you on the way back ". The fuck you will, I mutter silently.

A couple blocks up Cicero ave, Rothschild liquors is my first stop. I consider for a moment buying a pint of Richards Wild Irish Rose just to slam down to fight off the chill and creeping sickness. I settle on a warm Gatorade and change for a couple of $20's. As I step back outside I see Dayday standing on the corner trying to scribble out a sign on a piece of cardboard so he could spare change a few dollars while he waited for me. " What up, dog " ? I yelled , as I walked up to him " The fuck you doin, arts and crafts "? " Getting my hussle on. You don't know nothin bout that, White Boy ". He grinned as he said it, his teeth gleaming in the morning sun. The guy had perfect fucking teeth, for a homeless dude. Dayday wasn't really homeless. Not in the down and out kind of way. He ate at restaurants twice a day and slept in a hotel every night. He had money. I think the only reason he hussled and panhandled was because it just killed him to spend his own money. Cheap bastard even made me buy him a blow every day just for the privileged of hanging out with him and copping dope. Truth is, I always did a little better rollin up to the spots with him and being the cheapass that he was, he always knew who was running the pass outs ( free blows to advertise a new product ). That's where we were headed this morning.

Dayday said they were passing out the red tape foils over on Washington st. We headed a few blocks up and cut east toward junkie heaven. People were already lined up 15 deep when we got to the spot. If you've never seen a pass out it is some crazy shit. Nothing draws a crowd like a crowd. They can only keep it running for about 20 minutes till things get too crazy and someone calls the cops to break it up and get all the fuckin junkies off their lawn. Dayday would usually cut a deal with the worker who was passing out the blows and the guy would hold back a jab and sell it to us for a discount. We knew damn well this could get the worker and us shot or at least beat the fuck down by the gang security but greed always won out. Those were the best blows you could get, too. They threw very little cut on that shit that they used for pass outs. On those mornings the Chicago fire dept stayed busy pickin up junkies around the area that fell out from the raw ass dope. That was the best advertising the dealers could get.

Me and Dayday headed back to Cicero ave and up to Madison where the harm reduction needle exchange was. Every time I went in there the black guy that ran the place would give me the run around asking to see my card and making me fill out and initial forms before he would finally give me one single pack of rigs and a couple of cookers. Dayday would go in there and shake up with the brother and just wipe em out. He would emerge with 2 boxes of needles and a fucking grocery bag of cookers, cottons, alcohol swabs and several bottles of narcan. Later, he would post up at the trap house and sell all that shit off to the junkies a dollar at a time. Cheap bastard! After that we headed over to the Citgo station and split up the blows in the alley out back. Dayday said he would call me in a few days when he got the word about when and where the next pass out was goin down. I bummed him a smoke and headed back to Cicero. It was time to get well.

That's my life right now. A daily race to keep up with the addiction that afflicts me. I know something better is waiting down the road but for right now I'm just chasing it down the street.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

This is a post about rotting flesh

This is a post about desperation. This is a post about rotting flesh. This is a post about the point I got when I was using where I cared so little about my body, I would take a syringe full of blood and hot bacteria laden black tar heroin and shove the syringe through my pants leg and into my skin because I was sick. This is a post about the time when your nose is running and you are dry heaving and no one understand the tears running down your face are because you don't know if you are going to sneeze or use the bathroom on yourself. That is what the post is about- those times.

I was never much of a self contained person. I always seem to let me emotions leak where I ever I go in some kind of outburst. There are as many kinds of users as there are starts in the sky. In the course of history, there are have been millions, make a billion users of all types of substances. There is also a unique set of users. That classification falls on the hope to die dope fiend. The hope to die dope fiend has gotten to the point that they will go to whatever extremes to stay full of chemicals 24 hours A day seven days a weeks. So, when that person starts coming down, the fall to the ground is hard and ugly.

I would put my former self in that category. At a certain point down the rabbit hole to drug induced self destruction, a person seems to not notice the changes to their physical being. MaybeI am starving. Maybe I am picking at myself. Maybe I have this cavity I am fully ignoring. Maybe my leg is rotting off from an abscess.

I had not changed the bandage for a month. I intially went to get the wound treated. They gave me a bag full of saline, bandages, and alchohol wipes. Living outsside, I had placed these items behind my head one night when I went to sleep. Someone stole my medical supplies. I imagine them in the trap house "I got that good gause, I got that saline." I was afraid to change my clothes many times because when you live outrside, you are surrounded by predators. So, the hole festered as my life festered right under the surface. I knew it was there but I used to ignore it as I used to ignore the parallel mess that was my life. Finally, the bandage started to stink. you could smell it three feet away. I was JUST about to change it (I was-really) but I got busted getting high in an alley first and was taken to jail. Well, not right away. First the police argued about letting me go because neither one of them wanted to deal with me at the hsopital. My pants had fused to the wound and had to be cut off of my body.

There is not real moral of the story. I almost lost my leg and I got better. I got out of jail a few months later and went back to using. Not everyone does these crazy things. These are the crazy things that I did because I just did not care about myself more than I cared about getting high. And guess what- I don't do these things anymore.

Please use sterile techinique. Please go to the doctor if you see an infection. I have known people to lose arms, legs, and there lives from these infections. An alcohol wipe and a clean needle may literally save a life. Be kind to yourself.

Saturday, December 7, 2013

The good news is that I am not dying...

I was walking from the train station. I noticed I was starting to get some type of weird tunnel vision. I felt as if I had a hot flash on the train. I thought to myself for a split second- is this beginning of a panic attack. No, I think maybe I just don't feel well. When I got home, it seemed as if my arms were going numb. I was trying to adjust my breathing so i went to lay down. Everything seemed to be going black. The feeling I was having was as if I was having some sort of medical emergency. I felt as if I was going to pass out. My husband told me to sit down but it was if some kind of electricity was running through my hands and they were shaking and I had to move them.

By the time I realized I really was having a panic attack and was not dying, at least twenty minutes had been spent in a terrible state. I went into my purse to get my ativan. It had been so long since I had a panic attack, I was just about to take this old medication out of my purse. My insane thinking- is this a relapse- UGH! I was taking my own damn prescribed medication. I have to say I used to LOVE benzos. Yummy, yummy, yummy. But today, I hate them. Within a few minutes of the medication hitting me, I momentarily felt suicidal. I snapped out of that once i finally felt as if I could breathe.

Today, I feel like a truck ran over me. I haven't left the house yet to give myself a day to recover. This whole insane circle started when I decided to cut back on my ridiculously large intake of coffee and chocolate. I feel like the panic attack was nature's way of telling me "SLOW DOWN". My neck is killing me today from being all bunched up with tension.

The worst part of having a panic attack is the fear that you will have another. It makes you never want to leave your house or rejoin your regular routine. For my part, I am going to have to start back to the things that help me. I need to go back to my support groups, start talking to friends, simplify my life.

Stopping drugs is just one part of addressing our issues. Abstinenced based recovery sometimes can really be difficult. No other method works for me personally but I see why so many people chose to use something. When I take away the drugs, I am left with the same conditions yet I am consistently aware of them. I hope dear readers that you will find a away to be kind to yourself. Find a way to nuture yourself. Eat something. Take a walk. Find someone to talk. We all tap into our strengths. We find ways to overcome our feelings. And the good news, of course, is that I am not dying. I have already been dead and instead to chose to enjoy myself despite my imperfections.



Wednesday, December 4, 2013

My life as a female user- Judge me not

I am all over the place and I hope you do not mind.

To start, it is a not so well kept secrets that eating disorders and drug use go together like sugar and cigarettes. Food was usually the last thing on my mind when I didn't have drugs. When I did have drugs, not only could I EAT whatever I wanted, the only thing I wanted was generally a cinammon roll. The thinner I became, the more compliments I received from observers. "Look at you- Looking good." I remember the first time I put on an outfit that was an "acceptable" size 6! Starvation looked good on me! It was a skin tight black dress. I was walking around the Tenderloin. A man asked me for a quarter. My response "where would I put it?" yeah. It was that tight.

Secondly, there is an unspoken paradigm. I want your drugs, you want in my pants. However, that doesn't mean the female user is always up for a trade. It is as if when the drugs enter the blood stream, predators decide you no longer have ownership of your body. Sometimes the female user just want to get high and not be bothered m'kay? And and yes, sometimes I am willing to trade. Or I was. Or I will. 

My voice can get irritating. True. No, I can't carry all of the homeless crap as well as you. I can't use the bathroom outside as well. No, I don't need to use less than you. Please don't water down my drugs because you think you need more. Yeah. I notice sweetie. 

I no longer carried the emergency tampon in my purse that had the half ripped wrapper just in case I got caught off guard. One time in my addiction, I was wearing yellow shorts. I hadn't gotten my period in six months. I wasn't sure if i had a miscarriage or my period but I bled all over myself. I was so depressed at the time, sleeping in an alley, I just stayed like that for days crusted in my own blood. No one tried to help me. No one cared for me and no one cared. I let myself get that way. I was strong enough to clean myself up. The story is not in the suffering but in the overcoming of tremendous obstacles. 

I am not the sum of any guilty shameful thing. I am not the sum of all the things that I have done. I have endured, I have witnessed, I have enjoyed, and I will thrive despite my imperfections. I am a woman. If I using but I am not to be used. I am recovering from many things. 



the scars still remain

Sunday, December 1, 2013

I appreciate the warmth

I was laying bed last night reflecting on the past few days. I decided I would focus on how different my life is from when I was using drugs. My son is sitting here cuddling with me. He likes to get up in the morning and put his little hands against my face. He has on his Christmas pajamas, the kind with the feet. They are brown with smiling animals like foxes, deer, raccoons, and beaver. I am not sure what these cute, but generally nuisance type animals have to do with Christmas but my son loves them. Some happiness is appreciating things the way they are in the moment. I have been typing this same paragraph for ten minutes because I am holding my son with one arm. He still has his hand on my face.

It has been cold in my house so I have been sleeping with my hoodie on at night. Have you ever slept outside? Have you ever slept in an alley, a car, or a park? Even if you are high or drunk, it pretty much sucks to sleep outdoors. If it is cold, you wake up and your hands are like swollen rocks. The concrete sucks the heat out of you. Your eyes sometimes start to swell shut from the elements. Your face looks puffy within a few days. If it is hot outside, your mouth gets so incredibly dry. You can look ten years older in ten days from constant exposure to the sun. In rainy season, the homeless fight over dry areas to sleep at night. storefronts turn into encampments that must be dismantled at dawn. There are mice, lice, rapists, and thieves to contend with on a daily basis. Most shelters are scary and require residents to be in at 7pm and out at the crack of dawn. If you are young, you are a target therefore most avoid the shelter system.

I have been bitching about my life. Not out loud, mostly to myself. This thanksgiving, I did not sell my box from the food pantry for $10. I suspect I won't sell my shoes that I got from the outreach place for dope. I am not getting kicked out of a parking garage in the rain. I am not lancing my abscesses on a street corner only to have some steal my saline and my gauze from behind my head while I am asleep in an alley. Who does that anyway? If you are reading this gauze thief- that was some low bottom addict stuff right there.

I guess what I am trying to say here is that I have come a long way from my using days. I know it is easy to point the finger at me and say "I will never be like that." However, you may not ever fully experience that same joy I have knowing I am NOT in the place anymore. My son just crawled off my lap to get his blanket. He likes to cuddle with me for hours and I need to appreciate the warmth while I have it.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

The Witness

" I haven't seen you for a long time."
As I approach the homeless encampment, I see all the familiar signs. There are clothes strewn about the ground. There are wrappers from sweet treats eating in haste and discarded by the user. There are cardboard boxes folded flat. There are old couch cushions. This is clearly an area where someone has set up house.
" I haven't seen you in years!" I hastily reply as I dart around the corner.
I am attempting to catch the next train out of the shit hole that I use to call my home. I need to get home before the tofurky starts to thaw that i have placed in my back pack. Tofurky- a "roast" made out of meat substitutes is a tradition for me. Now that both my parents are gone, I have started to create my own legacy for my children to grasp on to long after I have left the Earth.

I recognized the face. The face was that of an older black man. His eyes have glazed over with time, almost a greyish color. The bags under his eyes have been a prominent feature in the twenty or so years I have seen this man. There are places and moments in our lives that remind us of how much we have changed- positively or negatively- since last had a witness. This man, in his peacoat and his beanie cap, has been the witness to many moments in my life.

When I first came to San Francisco, I was a naive child in what I thought was an adult body. I quickly learned that my use of opiates required a level of dedication that keep me busy day and night. When I wasn't nodding in a doorway, I was out in the street searching for the ways and means to get drugs. I would walk past this man. I did not pay him any attention because he had nothing to offer me. I needed chivah. I needed money. I needed you to get me well. I was a dramatic young addict on the search for a high.

I passed by this man a few years later. I was tweaking my brains out. I had seen him a million times or at least a thousand or maybe I saw him or maybe it was the police fuck. I don't fucking know. Stop asking me questions. Anyways. yeah. About that. I saw the fucking guy. I think I did see him. Who?.. Fuck.

I passed by this man again. Chivah, Chivah, Chivah. Bring me a few clients and I will kick you down bro. You know that I am selling now, homey. No, I don't have a dollar. I got to put all this money into the re-up. The quicker you can bring me a few people, the quicker I can help you okay?

The next time I saw him, things had changed dramatically for me. I was living in a sober living house in the Tenderloin. I lived RIGHT were I used only six months prior to moving into my new place. As the crack heads and the dope heads and the families shuffle by, I realize I need to make a decision. I am standing with my back to the wall. I have on my hooded sweatshirt, my Ben Davis pants and shirt. My hat is turned backwards and I am ready for business. Am I selling? No. I need to head to aftercare.This is all a conversation in my mind. Truly, no one gives two fucks out here if I make it or if I use today. I pass by the man. He is in the doorway. I have never seen him use drugs. He always smiles at me.

I moved away from the Tenderloin. I would see him from time to time for my jobs. I would give him my left over food or buy him something when I could do it. He would always be grateful for someone that stopped and acknowledged his face. I remember what that was like to have someone see me as i stop by my shopping cart. For a moment, I was more than a homeless junkie. I was a person.

I saw him today. I guess he set up camp in the Mission. He also left behind the Tenderloin. I suppose he is in the sixties now. The streets are rough and people are ruthless in the area we both called home. He had another young girl sitting with him. She had her hat on backwards. She was sitting half way in the crosswalk. Obviously, this is her area. She can have this place. I am fucking done with all this shit sweetie. You can have it.

He never asks me for a dollar. He has never asked me for drugs. He has just witnessed the past twenty years of my life and he is still happy to see me.


Monday, November 25, 2013

Help support my work

Buy my PDF for the holidays or kick down a few dollars to junkies in need. My Paypal is traceyh415@gmail.com. My email is the same. I send care packages to users that have no access to clean supplies. 

Saturday, November 23, 2013

The End of My Using

Holes in my skin,
My eyes are pinned,
Fell into a hole,
I have no control.

The thing I love is killing me,
I'm escaping from reality,
I just want to get high,
I can't remember why.

My money left with all my friends,
I sit alone, blood on my skin,
The pinprick is now a festering sore,
Leave me- rotting to my core.

If I knew something different I would do it.
So I am left with fuck it.
I deceive myself and love my lies
Tears of happiness are in my eyes.

One day I will stop this madness.
One day I will end my sadness.
But today is not that day,
So go the fuck away.
Now go the fuck away.

This is a person sleeping on the concrete


Thursday, November 21, 2013

Dealing with the Holiday Blues

Holidays are just different when you are a drug addict. Every day is so unpredictable, let alone a day when dealers decide they need to spend time with their families First, there is the whole "how many people am I going to have to hide my using from?" I think in many families, there is that one family member who could potentially "out" you as an addict. Do you bring drugs with you? How long will you be staying? Is traveling involved in this deal. So many elements to ponder.

Secondly, there is the opportunity for a parent or sibling to have WAY too much to drink and decide to make your using a subject of meal time conversation. "well this must be better than the meals you had in jail" or "before you wrecked your car" or "what happened to that last girl you were seeing" and finally "if you ever had any money". An addict already has low self esteem. Therefore, these digs provide more ammunition for me to dig in my arm. The Holiday Season is always a time to reflect on the fact that I was the scumbag who couldn't get it together and broke my mother's heart year after year.

Then, there is the issue of the food. Will I be too high to eat? Am I too sick to eat? Fuck I quit eating meat when I decided to stop using drugs. UGH. Eating in front of other people kind of sucks. I like to inhale my food in two minutes. Unless, I am alone, then I like to stuff my face with unhealthy stuff but that is another post.

The weather sucks around this time of year. Nothing to kill a mood like rain and shame. Let's do a new holiday tradition. Let us embark on being kind to yourself. I, personally, am doing my part to spread information about harm reduction. When I get out of myself and do service for others, I get a brief reprieve from that feeling of dread that comes with remorse. I am going to do my best to save someone from infection, overdose, or despair. I hope you stay alive this winter by finding the strength to care more and use less.


Monday, November 18, 2013

I have to be me

I have these holes in my legs. I have these scars on my arms. I have this hole in my heart. I can not be you, I have to be me. 

I accept my imperfections. I do not need to be afraid of the different. I am unique and I have lived a life. I am wise beyond my years. 

Do not think that I am broken. Please accept that I have sinned. Kiss my tears and hold my bruises. I think it is time I let you in. 

Come inside. Who knows what you will find. 



Saturday, November 16, 2013

This song reminds me of you

Music can remind you of a time and a place in your life. When I hear certain songs, it seems as if I am transported to a different time and a place in my memory. There are some songs that make me FEEL a certain memory. I feel what I was feeling on that day.

As I moved from homeless junkie punk into mini van mom, I noticed music is hard for me to enjoy. So much of my using involved being in a closed space listening to the same 12 songs over and over, too fucked up to move. I would have a 40 oz in my hand with a trickle of blood on my wrist or dripping down my forearm. There were so many spots, it look like I had a skin disease. I was sleeping where I feel out and waking where I came to consciousness, where that was I had not control of after a blackout evening. I have lived in three different music studios as they were a safe place for a homeless person to catch a safe nights sleep and still have access to a bathroom. I think one of the intrinsic selling points of a mini van is that if things go wrong, I can always go live in there. Being off drugs is never a guarantee of much of anything except not having to fix every day. For me, that seems to be enough to make each day somewhere between bearable and enjoyable with the freedom a drugless life brings me.

I was driving along with my kids strapped tightly in their cars seats. I wondered to myself "How did I get to this place?" My son was grouchy all afternoon. There were a few screaming tantrums today. I was also embarrassed as he bared another children from entering the playhouse. Where did this self centered little bully come from? Ugh. I see myself. The stubborn little boy that has to be extracted from a situation rather than listen to reason. The low point in the afternoon was when he smashed his brother's newly acquired soccer trophy went he did not get something HIS way.

As I am driving back to the house, I try to find some kind of song to tune these kids out for a minute. We have worn scratches into the Sex Pistols CD we got for free from the public library. You have not seen cute until you have seen a three year old sing out "I want to be in Anarchy" then ask about fruit snacks. As I flip through the station, I hear the song "Dream On" By Aerosmith. I have heard that same song hundreds of times.

 I remember being little and listening to albums while people rolled joints on the back of album covers. My experiences from that time of my life are not so different than many other kids with the exception that drugs, alcohol or both seem to be in all them. I hated seeing adults under the influence. I hated the way they did funny things like show each other their private parts, demand to be hugged, or send me to my room. I hated how people would fall down or not be able to get out of bed. I hate how they SAID they were going to be right back but returned hours later with some invented story. I saw these things as a child and I hated them.

What do my children see? When they sit in their car seat and stare out the window, what are they thinking about me "STOP SINGING!" Apparently, my singing voice is not appealing to a four year old. He starts to kick my seat. "Stop mommy." Is my singing voice going to be the only thing that makes them embarrassed? What will happen when they find out there mother was a drug addict? What will happen when they find out their mother used to pull her pants down in doorways and shoot dope in her thighs? What will happen when they search the Internet at 13 or 14 and find these writings? Will they be proud of all the things i have accomplished or will they be upset that their mother is junkie whore.


I can not predict the future. I hope when they remember a certain song or a certain day, they will remember that their mother loves them. They will remember the days I held them while tears ran down their face. They will remember the nights they crawled in bed with me to comfort them after nightmares. They will think about the time I spent trying to remember the things they like, the kids they play with, and the animals they want to see at the zoo. I hope they will be forgiving of my transgressions and the way that I sing classic rock in the mini van on the ride home.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Some days

Some days I hate trying to write and everything I say seems to come out the wrong way. I am sensitive. I want you to like me. I want you to think I am special because I can turn a phrase. I get frozen with my insecurity. Understand my confusion when my tongue is tied for you. 

A Cast of Chemical Characters

There are different kinds of people in this world. Just as there is diversity in the world around us, so it logically follows there would be diversity in the addict habitat. Here are a few:

Captain save a bro:
This type of user refuses to admit he is addicted, yet constantly wants to sample some of your bag. He will arrive on the scene with money swearing up and down that he is not going to use. He has a job, a place to live and will occasionally let you stay there. Yet, the captain can only use at your place therefore you are happy to see him as he always has money.

Chronic illness Jill:
Jill does not have cancer, lupus, or any other diagnosable condition. No, Jill is ALWAYS sick yet will not have sex with you or anyone for drugs. Her general good looks enticing yet she only wants to cuddle after she has ingested copious amounts of YOUR drugs. If she ever has her own drugs, she certainly is not sharing with you. Between her over priced connect and constant whining, you would put her out if she was not so damn cute.

Scandalous Steve: You can not trust this motherfucker with a god damn thing yet he always has access to THE BEST drugs. Plus, he save you that one time from that overdose. Steve is a ride or die kind of junkie when he is holding but those fingers get sticky as he gets sicker.

Scripted Shelia- She is that older chic with the pain pills. She will give you a ride if you kick her down when her monthly runs out. And it always does.

Stepper Sam- Sam went to twelve step meetings once a few relapses back and likes to talk about recovery while you are high. He can quote all the literature and like to say things like "easy does it" while you are fixing your drugs.

Always Overdose Oscar- Get your narcan ready- Oscar is coming over. He likes to do WAAAY too much. When he wakes up under a table, he denies that he ever fell out. You have strongly considered taking the locks of the bathroom just in case.

Prison Paul- Prison Paul likes to get high and tell stories about the joint. He is an expert in both dropping a bottle for your PO and creating delicious entrees from ramen and cheetos. He never carries his own syringes for legal reasons.

Finally, there is your get high and hope to die dope fiend. Everyone enjoys talking shit about this person yet wants some of their drugs. Some work, some do not yet using is their full time job. They can explain how to extract the opiate as well as extracting the last dollar out of your pocket. They think in grams, stamps, books, bindles, and bundles. They are part doctor, nurse, chemist, criminal, counselor, and attorney.

I am just playing around here but if you find yourself....


Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Not sure if punk is dead, but most of us are by Anonymous

When I train hopped, the easiest way to score- Look for a punk flyer, go to the show, meet new people, get connects, and hopefully find some young chick wanting to piss off her parents so we could crash for a while and use her sweet, sweet cash while we talked about what we'd steal when we left.

Funny enough, as a squatter who frankly stank like ass and looked like a leather peacock with studs, I only one time caught shit while walking in projects and ghettos. And even that one time was some punk kid with his boys telling me I had a hole in my pants (the knee was completely gone by that point). Other than that, always got treated like I belonged there.

I think the reason you don't see many is because alot of them are gone...I know I only have one friend from that time that is still alive and still living the life that I know of. One went back to nyc and got clean.

I watched them drop around me like flies. Tim, the 17 year old who didn't take methadone seriously...that was a sad funeral to be at. Barely knew the kid and played paul bearer. Made a post a few weeks back about losing another one. I can list a dozen names, as I am sure many here can. But the punk scene is all about live fast, die young. A lot of them treat it like a game. I did until I fucking died for three and a half minutes. And then I kicked, for the very first time. Was sober for a while after that. But my friends...they just kept on dying, like it was their fucking job (not that they would work a job, fuck the man!).

I think that is why I went all goth. Lots of sadness in my sober years. Plus t.s.o.l., the damned, and the misfits were some of my favorites bands so the switch was easy. Throw in some Christian Death, some joy division, then hit bauhaus and never look back. Plus I always loved that industrial shit. Damn I am rambling. Feeling much better huh?

I remember skanking on new years to Operation Ivy's "unity", after a fucking brawl that almost ended one guy's life. I remember watching a friend being beat to shit by police, while all I could do was scream for help, and nobody did a thing but watch and then to see the paramedics spend more time clearing the blood from the pavement than treating my friend. I remember riding in the back with my buddy that od'd and hearing the medics laugh at the tattoo on his stomach that said "warrior" and them saying, "he ain't much of a warrior any more", and the tears just flow as he is laying there dead. I remember spanky stepping off the corner drunk as fuck and watching as he got hit full speed by a car. Didn't even stop. So much blood. He died in my arms. Paulie's gf getting hit by a semi while we walked the interstate. He took the locked bracelet from her wrist. I still have it...

The junkie life is hard enough. For those of us who lived it on the streets, or in a squat in the frame of an old water bed with a girl you barely know, both naked and huddled under a blanket just to stay alive after drinking the bottle of thera-flu you stole, cause your bronchitis just may be pneumonia and this time the fever might kill you if the fluid don't. And you kiss that girl, just to feel something other than high or drunk or sick. Then you have to get up early to spange, and some of the girls sleep all day, cause they work all night, even when a fucking blizzard is going down. Guys always wanna party.

My point is, that life is hard. Hell, I only lived it for a few years. My boy germ who died a month or so ago, he was still moving, still squatting or getting a room for the night, still living fast. But he didn't die as young as he thought he would. And he left behind an ex wife, and a current wife, and a baby boy. The needle and the damage done, no?
You ask why we don't see more, I ask how we see any at all. Me and you, we're the sell outs, we gave in and gave up. But I say fuck all that. To paraphrase SLC Punk, I ain't selling out, I am buying in. Me and you are the lucky ones. I have earned all the grey in my beard. I am sure you have earned every grey hair you got. Junkie life is hard enough, junkie street punk life is a whole different thing.

And as a warning to any young people, punk or otherwise that read some of this shit and think, "train hopping sounds cool! See the country, get laid, get drugs!", just remember that there are gangs on the rails. And if you're on their box or they find you on their train, and you're not with someone who should be there, they cut your dick and balls off and throw you off the car. If you're a woman, you don't even wanna think about what happens. And don't even think about faking it. You need a tatt, or a handshake, or a code word. They are brutal as hell.



Saturday, November 9, 2013

A happy life of low expectations

Right now the cat is sitting on my lap picking at his skin. He over grooms himself to the point that he leaves bald spots and scabs. I relate to my cat. I am abrasive like the tongue of a cat. I dig at myself with barbs of insecurity. I rub away my healthy exterior and dig until I reach the vulnerable places. When I reach my sore spot, I am left with an ugly spot on an otherwise beautiful person.

I have fifteen years in recovery. Fifteen years of declining the invitation to say fuck it all. I have to find daily ways to cope with disappointment. I have to deal with resentments. I deal with track marks that have turned into sink holes. I have abscess scars that look like the landscape of the moon. I have cellulite because I took up eating as a recreational activity. I have some fabulous tattoos, a wedding ring, some grey hairs, and some dark circles under my eyes. 

Am I happy with my life? Absolutely! Simple things make me happy in my daily life. I am not focused on the next hit. I am not worried about getting ripped off. I am not hiding from the police. I haven't ripped anyone off. I haven't compromised my life for a few hours of relief in the bottom of a spoon. 

How do I explain my happiness? I wake up in the morning, I wake up. I am not kicked awake by the police. I am not pulled awake by illness. I wake up next to someone who loves me. I get to eat food. I can pee in a bathroom that has toilet paper. I hear happy kids screaming "mommmmeeee!" They need me. I need them too. 

My life is pretty fucking boring. I get cereal and coffee. Well first I have to get my son. He likes to cuddle on my lap. He gives me hugs and snuggles while I trick him into eating healthy cereal. If I  eating it, he wants some of it. Some mornings, one kid is snuggled next to me while two sit on my lap. 

I go off to my job. People respect me there. I get to help people fulfill their dreams. I help people get decent jobs. I get paid well to do a job that I makes me feel like a rock star. 

I come home to animals jumping all over me. It is fairly quiet before the kids come home. I sit down on my couch. I like to leave the front door open so the sun can bounce off the ocean and warm up the front of the house. I usually cook some food. I use all kinds of different vegetables. 

I do not know where I am going with this post. I may not know where I am going with my day. There is one thing I am sure about- it will not be driven by the need to inject chemicals into my body to make me feel human. And I am okay with this fact. I may be self critical but I am not crazy. My life is awesome. 

PS this is a persimmon and they are my favorite. 

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

The Craving

Grinding my teeth. I've had so much coffee.
Thinking about you gives me a fucking headache.
I've got another craving. I am crazy over you.
Why do I care about what you are doing right now? It has been so long.
 I felt so strong- knowing I can just let you pass by without a tear being shed.
You like to get inside my head.
You make me afraid to be alone with myself.
 I put my heart up on a shelf- to get it away from you.

The drugs that coarse through our veins make me insane.
I have dope sick love.
I swear I won't take you anymore but I draw you up inside me.
The chills coming up my spine split my mind into painful pieces.
They are a reminder of how you bound me.
All my friends are gone. All my money is gone.
Cuddle up with my bones. We can pretend I'm normal again...

My self esteem is in shards.
It is crystal clear I feel the cravings.
I'm grinding my teeth with anxiety.
I have a craving.
I'd give anything for that feeling that took everything.
And just like that...I win, I won
My desperate hunger is gone
My life will carry on.

Dear Ruvi

Thank you for my gift 

Sunday, November 3, 2013

"Haunted while the minutes drag"

I have some time to kill in my hotel room in Portland. I have had a few days to think about things besides the mental health of those around me and the immediate needs of my children. I have to say that while I am enjoying my vacation, I also enjoy the chaotic life I lead at home. I feel as if so many people bounce from thing to thing. They never get an opportunity to find the things that give their lives a purpose. While junkies maybe be an incredible pain in the ass at times, helping them achieve a voice has created a new sense of energy. 

I can only be myself. In being myself, I have many complex layers. I can be the PTA person and the syringe distribution advocate at the same time. I can discuss with my son that a crescent can be a shape AND a type of moon at the same time. We are all many people that inhabit the same skin. Unlike others, I don't feel the necessity to suppress the areas of my interests that don't seem to relate in some way. 

I think more than anything, my mind get bored if I don't have things in the planning stage. I have mental lists of things I hope the achieve. I wasted years of my life: waiting to cop, waiting for you to fix me, waiting to fix, trying to fix him, trying to love away the pain while feeling unlovable, and sitting in a stupor on a stoop feeling stupid. I am living my life in technicolor. It is no longer in black and white like the substances I injected into my body. I have the freedom to change myself and the world. I am taking a chance on life. 


Wednesday, October 30, 2013

"Hey that bitch Tracey got married..."

Letter and emails oh my!. I get so many emails, I call the my junkiemail. More surprising, is when I run into people I used drugs with that are still alive and out in San Francisco. First of all, most of them are surprised by my overall health displayed by my chunky figure and smile. I am kind of a grumpy person but I make a daily attempt to smile at homeless people. I say hello to them. I answer their questions when I have a minute. I respond in a kind manner that acknowledges their existence. I see myself in their faces.

Surprisingly enough, I remember being out of the streets. The cardboard boxes houses, the coldness of the sidewalk stay with me. I remember being so afraid of sleeping outside. Many nights I would take speed or sit up staring at the streetlights. People leaving their jobs or the bar or their apartments would stroll pass me ignoring my very presence. Looking at me mean that in some way your soul needed to ponder the fact that people like me existed in your world. I was so close yet so far away. I would spend hours at a time packing and unpacking my belonging. I also spent hours changing my clothes. What would be the perfect outfit to sleep in misery. I had to be able to access my veins, pee outside and still maintain the appearance of barely being female.

I am much rounder now. I am softer around the middle. It is hard to believe that anyone would love me enough to marry me but this weekend, we are making an early celebration of the anniversary of the  event. In my addiction,  I never allowed anyone to take care of me. In my recovery, I had open enough to let someone love me. Then slowly, over time, I realized that love is not about not getting hurt. I was used to dopesick love that turns at the whim of a substance. Now I am learning that life is more than a series of random painful experiences. life is the memories I make when I seize this moment.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Guest Post Kitty from US Heroin- A Morbid Love Story

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown. – The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

I love heroin. For the average person, these three words are shocking, grotesque even. “How can you love the worse drug ever” and “It’s such a horrible, horrible drug. Didn’t you listen to your parents/society/church/politicians/DARE? It WILL kill you!” Heroin is a bitch, no doubt about that. She can make the most pious, virtuous person pawn their family heirlooms for a fix. She can make the strong, fall. She can make even the most disciplined, controlled person keep coming back over and over and over. She can corrode the soul. She can fuck up your sense of right and wrong. What is up is now down, and what is down is now up. Heroin is terrible, ruthless, heartless , but that makes me love her even more.

She soothes my troubled spirit and my overactive mind. Forget tai chi and yoga, once heroin is flowing through your veins, you’re in heaven. You’re teleported in your own little nirvana. Heroin is Shambhala. It is true bliss. The voices of disapproving parents, fair-weathered friends, depression, anger, mediocre school or work performance, the little critic inside each and every one of us are drown by the oblivion, by heroin’s special ether that creeps slowly through the toes and up until it hits your skull. Your heart rate slows down. Your eyes softly droop and the world takes on a more harmonious hue and all you can do is exhale.



Heroin delicately cradles me as she further envelopes me in her high. The opinions of my mother and father no longer matter. The lack of support from my so-called friends no longer irritate me. My depression, cynicism, and self-hatred dissolve as beautifully as heroin dissolves on the spoon. Anger? What is anger? How can you be angry when you see that crimson plume of blood flow slowly in the syringe? School and work? It’s for the birds. No matter what you have ever achieved, the rush from the needle surpasses it. The little, hideous critic that questions and doubts and torments us is silent.

Heroin is so sweet, so loving, but ever so selfish. She wants our love, adoration, and resources and in exchange she gives us inner peace. This is the exact moment when hatred, love, fear, and awe swirl together and we no longer know what we really feel. Heroin is like a neuronal, chemical Faust. She beckons us lovingly with hands stretched out. “Give me your me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” The tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the depressed, the fucked up, the derange, the outcast, the cynical, the confused are attracted to her cries of true love and true peace. But heroin is a wolf dressed in sheep’s wool. She doesn’t tell us that we’re going to spend every day, every hour, every second obsessing about when we’re going to see her again. She doesn’t tell us that we will offer everything of value, money, house, family, self-respect, to her. She doesn’t tell us that we must deal with the possibility of abscesses, track marks, and HIV. Oh no, she smiles and laughs at us sweetly. “Track marks are the physical covenant of our love.”

She doesn’t tell us that we’re rob our families without care. She doesn’t tell us that we’ll sell our bodies to anyone who looks our way just to spend a few hours with her. She doesn’t tell us that she will rob our souls and kill our spirits.
No heroin is mum about that. But we keep coming back to her. She knows that sobriety is nothing compared to the delightful haze of her high. She knows that life will wear us down and we’ll be back to her in no time. She knows us so well and she has us in the palm of her hand. Sooner or later, she closes her hand and we are no more.
Heroin is the antithesis to life but I keep going back to her. I know one day she’s going to get tired playing with me and eventually kill me. But what can I say?
I’m smitten!

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost