Friday, January 3, 2014

"C'mon let's GO!"

"C'mon Let's GO!" he squatted down, pleading to me in the way that only two dope sick lovers can understand.

I am sitting on the floor tweaking through everything in my bag. I have dumped out the contents and packed and un-packed them for hours now. I have been up for a few days now. One, maybe two? A week? A month, a year? I have started back with doing heroin so at least I can sleep from time to time. Right now, I have no heroin and I am content to sit on the floor rumaging through my belongings. Staying inside is unusual for me at this point. I feel trapped inside the walls of these hotels. I am too afraid to leave, too afraid to stay in a place where anyone could come in. It is not usual for people to randomly kick in doors just to see what is inside them.

"C'mon Tracey. I am fucking leaving if you don't get up."

He is sick and he isn't waiting much longer. This boyfriend is different than many of the others. He had the most beautiful blue eyes. The had a thick New York accent and had just been released from Rikers Island. He wanted to be where the drugs were, without the legal complications. I can not recall exactly how we ended up together but I knew he was different than many of the men I knew in San Francisco. He INSISTED that people treat me like a "lady". He never wanted us to spend a night outdoors. He was a hustler. I was never about MY money, it was about what we could do together. He made me feel something besides fear. He had a big habit but was willing to share. I actually liked him. I actually liked him but I could not get up.

He was crying now. Crying because I was spun out, stuck on stupid and he knew there was no way to reach me. I knew those tears. I had seen them before. I had seen them from other people. I had cried those same tears earlier this day. I had gone in the bathroom. He was picking at his face. He was picking at his face until blood was streaking down his face. Digging and picking at scabs. The beautiful face I had seen was covered in blood and newly forming scabs. He looked like hamburger with blue eyes. I tried to hold his hands. I begged and I pleaded for him to stop. This was the secret he had been hiding that brought him down from the junkie stars to the scortched Earth. Add a little bit of stimulants he was lost in the mirror.

He opened up the door now. He needed a fix. He needed to come down from this misery. I had given up hours ago. I was tweaking through my stuff. The love I had for him was not enough to get him out of the mirror. Now as he stood at the door, he needed me. He needed me to walk him down the street with his disfigured face and prove to him that this would be okay. He needed me to go with him to make the money. he would share everything with me if I would only leave. I could not move. I could not deal with my life yet again. I would let the dope sickness gnaw at me. I could not get up. He left in tears. That was the end of us.
He could not deal with my insanity and I could not deal with his. He found another girlfriend, another fix, and I went back on to the streets alone.

6 comments:

  1. Hey girl! I've never been on drugs, but I can't stop reading your blog, it's fascinating! I also loved the documentary. So happy to see you doing and looking so well! How can I order your book??

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  2. Is this post about Ben? x

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    1. No. This is about a guy named Scott. I sent it to him

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  3. Your writing really hits home for me. I saw the documentary when it came out as well. I was 15. I'm dumbfounded as I sit and admit this but it didn't faze me. I was on a mission. So far that mission has cost me my childhood and my twenties. I've been somewhat clean for the last few months. Yet, I seem to slip every week or two for a night(s). I get overwhelmingly bored. I don't know what to do with myself. What do you do after being high for so many years? I mean, it's so hard. I can't focus. Almost like I'm manic.

    Regardless, if I don't succeed I can still honestly say that you are an inspiration. I hope one day I will be where you are.
    xo

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    1. Sometimes it's a struggle. Sometimes it is a little less effortless

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