Monday, June 30, 2014

The Real Hotel California

No no no, not the song. The places I have lived in my addiction should have been paying me to live there. THAT is how gross many of them were yet I paid $30-35 a day to live in squalor. Let's review:

The Civic Center Hotel- This was considered one of the nicer places. It was nice because it had a phone in your room so you could actually page your dealer. In addition, it gave you a front as if you lived a semi-normal life because your family was able to call you. There were no blood stains shot all over the walls in the bathroom. The doors locked (in some hotels they barely shut). I could buy dimes of dope in the hotel if I was REALLY sick, although it was cut all to hell, and the managers were women which was always a plus since they would smoke weed with me.

The Bristol- tweaker hell. Junkie hell. This place was more expensive than the rest because the rooms were slightly bigger. It was part of a few hotels run by a family of gangsters that were know to beat the hell out of tenants over disrespecting them. The manager was so generous (sarcasm). If you were late on rent, he would bring dates to your room because of course I want to prostitute for rent money RIGHT NOW or get out. When you checked in, you got a piece of towel and castille soap. The best place about this hotel was if you were used to being dirty, you fit right in. The bathroom down the hall was far too scary so you could use the sink. Hopefully, you had a window room so your friends could sneak up with a bump. There was always some half naked crack monster going from room to room. A few dealers were also located here. You could go in one of these hotels and not leave for a month if you had a hustle. Tits are a universal hustle unless your dealer is gay. Then you can always introduce them to your boyfriend. 

The Kinney- the third level of the inferno. For $900 a month, I got bumped from room to room. It was a set up there. Between the trick ass manager trying to lay me and the opportunistic janitor selling time in the bathroom to street people, it was out of a scene from a war movie. After my friend got raped trying to take a piss, I was afraid to be there unless I had someone with me. 

One day in particular, I was sick so a friend convinced me to do some coke. I hated coke- but do you have some? The junkie refrain. Anyway I was selling hop otherwise known as Chivah. I was all nestled in my room so I took the bags out of my mouth. I did my uptown and j was so sure I was going to fucking die but I was paranoid. 
"Dude you have to leave!" I said as I practically pushed him out the door 

"What the fuck?!" He looked at me. 
Suddenly I was dripping sweat. I was having a heart attack. I knew it! This motherfucker is trying to kill me! He is trying to kill me and get my dope. 

"Get out!" I scream. 
I throw a bag at him "get the fuck out!" 
I stick my head out the window and gasp for air. Ugh get out. I hear the door click. 

Then the feeling comes over me. The turtle head forces it's way. I feel my ass being ripped apart. After a week of not taking a crap, I am gacked and paranoid. If you don't know what gacked is, watch a hop head after they shoot coke. It is as it electricity hit their ballsack and came out their eyelids. Yes, you guessed it. I shit in the sink and threw it out the window. Then I wiped my hands with alcohol pads cause yeah that is sterile. And fuckity fuck, I pay to live here. 

Hell isn't a fictional place. It was where I was living. I could go on and on here. I got clean three months later. You can't go much lower than paying $900 a month to shit in the sink, can you? I don't think I will try again. 

Sunday, June 22, 2014

A Legend in My Own Mind

I reached my hands into my purse and stuck my finger. A god damned uncapped syringe again! So frustrating. I suck the blood off my finger.

The fact that I even carry a purse is a complete farce. What is the contents? A old tampon I really don't need since I haven't had a period in eight months. There are four condoms, three regular kind and one oral sex kind. They say if tastes like mint but it tastes like tums. I'm not having sex anyway. I keep those in case some hooker needs them. I am always prepared to assist for a price. I got a travel sized bottle of bleach, six alcohol wipes, twenty bundled up syringes, and two food stamps. I will buy some five cent candy to break them when I need change for the pay phone. I also have napkins in case I have to go to the bathroom and wipe off some blood. This is lifestyles of the the rich and famous in reverse. I am poor and infamous.

I almost missed the exchange today. I took some plungers out of barrels to make it look like I have the full twenty. I drop them in the container quickly. The volunteer smiles at me.

"How many?" She says in her syrupy sweet, I never touched a drug in my life voice.
 I wonder what she thinks. Does she pity me? Did she have a brother who died of AIDS so she had to get involved? Is she draw to losers like me. Does she secretly go home and think to herself- THANK GOD I am not like THAT person. I could have been her. When I started using heroin, I was in college. I had a future full of such promise. I entered college with 42 out of 45 credits to test into my second year of college. What do you want to be, they asked me. I already knew I wanted to be a junkie. I just did not know what that meant.

I smiled faintly at her as I replied "Forty".

I wonder if she knew I was lying or if she just did not care. I must look like a pathetic creature. I am trying to get a box of syringes out of this place. I can sell a box for $50. Selling each individual syringe, I can get close to $200. There are plenty of needle exchanges but there are none between  two am and six am which is when I make all of my money. I went to school for business. Who knew I would be working as an entrepreneur in the streets. I gave up hooking awhile back. It was just too dangerous. After the guy tried to kidnap and rape me, I felt like it would be a good time to give up my corner. I also get paid as a freelance hit woman. Drug dealers contact me to hit up their girlfriends in the neck, boobs, or any exotic locale where they might still have a vein. It is dangerous work because if you fuck up, they will pay some crackhead some crumbs to fuck me up.

I was sitting in the classroom one day. They were teaching about the division of labor. Management has a unique obligation to keep the union out of the workplace. I am being trained to be everything I despise in this world. I slowly sink into my seat. I am so hungover from last night. I live in a University town. At twenty years old, it is easier to buy weed then to buy beer. I should never have mixed a vodka and cranberry juice with those vicodins. I need to leave-NOW.

As I rush to the bathroom, the irony is not lost of me. I was a student that was so full of promise. I barely make it to the toilet in time to puke. The cranberry juice makes my heaves vibrant. There is no food in there, not a drop. I stupidly arranged to live off campus so I could do my dirty deeds without an audience. Now I am both drinking myself to death and starving at the same time. If I wasn't so hung over, I would table surf at Taco Bell for left overs. I have no shame. I dry my face off with some paper towels- is this how bad it can get? Ha, I am just getting started.

In a few more months, I would be on my way to San Francisco, the trip that would change my life. Now, I just want to keep the world from spinning. In the course of a year, I would lose everything. My job, my apartment, my family, would be all gone. You didn't realize that did you? Did you think I was born a junkie. Sorry to say, I ended up that way. I stuck my arm out on a cold Cincinnati evening and the rest of was history. You may not see me now. Shuffling down the street with a purse full of broken syringes but I existed once. Now I just make my life up as I go along- a legend in my own mind.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

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Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Tastes like victory

"Am I getting a holiday take home?" he says as he throws in cup in the garbage.
 He would ask to see his counselor, but he knows there would be no point in that conversation. Everything involved in a methadone clinic is a delicate balance between not getting caught and not getting high.

Most people start with failure as the motivator. They have some how failed to keep their shit together. Some tiny little insignificant chemical reaction had taken over their entire being.  At first, methadone tastes like victory. You crush that cup with joy like "I got this" as you beat on your chest. The power of the purse has allowed you to pay your way out of your habit. It feels good. The dose may not be right but you feel like you have done something. 

Flash forward a few weeks or months to the grind of clinic shackles. The window! Do you even know about the window bro? Have you ever had the clinic door shut before you have gotten to the window? Have you ever stood in line waiting for the miraculous raspberry yumminess that makes the world bearable? Have you had your dose held to piss in a cup when you JUST went and you have to be somewhere NOW. What do you know about the liquid handcuffs? SUCH a blessing, such a pain in the ass. The 'done tastes like victory and makes you feel like a child again. 

As he rolls over to his boy's place, he briefly looks in the rear view mirror. The eyes are slightly bloodshot from smoking the night before. His lips are so dry a bucket full of Carmex couldn't fix that shit. Is that a grey hair along his part? Somehow he never imagined he would be in this place at 25. Selling weed to support an old lady, a girlfriend, and all his friends. Some days his hustle feels as tired as the lies he tells himself. 

He tells his reflection "this is my last..Last what? " He stops himself. He knows he isn't stopping. He learned how be a man from his Dad. One step ahead of everyone. But he is better at it. He has out slicked them all. Twenty five years old and never spent a day jail. Who are you going to turn to when you can't let anyone in? 

When do you know it is time to quit this life? When you are high on Mother's Day or every day? All the days blend together. Life leaves you with a bitter after taste like you get a the clinic. All your emotions are tied in milligrams. Until you either get clean or stop coming. Are you going to show up or be tore up from the floor up? 

He puts a few drops of Visine in both eyes. It is show time. Don't let the face match the insides. One day he will get clean. He will. I know this person. But today is not that day. Cause you can't stop until you are ready. And everything can end in the blink of an eye.

"Are you coming back to visit?" the nurse asks
Fuck no, he thinks.
He takes his last drink of that magical elixir.
It tastes like victory.

As he walks out of the methadone clinic for the last time, he touches the sterile white walls. No more pissing in the cup. No more getting up before work to beat the rush. No more handing over $400 a month. A lot can change in three years. No more crack, no more dope, no more window. There is a crisp in the air on that Michigan morning, just enough to frost up the windshield. As the car warms up, he sees himself in the rearview mirror. The face is the same yet everything is different. And for one brief moment, he is at peace. 
Photo credit to dyiingbride 

Friday, June 13, 2014

Anonymous from US

The creation. A fiend in the making. 

When shortcuts end up taking you down long dark paths..

Trying to find happiness isnt easy for some, i know it wasnt easy for me. Looking back on my childhood years I should have been sent to a shrink sooner...or I should have been sent to the right psych because there were some years of counseling that had little to no effect on me or my father.
I also know now that there was damage done to me before I took my first breath, and that damage is part of why I have a dark side that I need to hide for 99.5% of the population.
My father smoked crack throughout most of my childhood so I grew up around drugs forever,I can remember his paranoid flip outs and hallucinations..he boarded up all the windows to the house one night during a wild binge..we lived in a pretty square suburb at the time so im sure the neighbors knew he was tripping..this was 85 and crack was spreading like wild fire throughout the san francisco bay area and pops caught the fever.  I can remember seeing crack made in a microwave in 1985 and my father caught me looking. He bought me a chemistry set as an apology...I dont know if he knew the effect that gift had on me...I just watched yo smoke crack dad and now you want me to play with som lab equipment and learn something new....really?

thanks god there was no such things as the internet or google at that time..

Moving on....Cocaine was a part of my childhood, clicking lighters, the smell of heated glass with the glow of red hot copper,the sizzle of each crumb..and somehow i thought this was normal since i didnt have many friends and didnt get out much as a preteen...i was a bit of a loner in school that didnt really fit in, i moved around a lot so I was always "the new quiet kid" I tried to change that in 3rd grade...i learned that doing bad things made people want to hang out with you,  even the girls would talk to me more after a fight Id get into to...years after year One day I snuck into my dads room and found his dope kit, i took a baggie of coke, probably about a gram or two. it was those old school baggie with the red line alone the top ( you been getting high a long time if you remember those)

At school I tried to sell it to a few of my new "friends", and Im sure I offered some to the girls that would sometimes talk to me..I was playing the bad ass role pretty hard for 4th grade, I was a menace that never listened, didnt do homework and smoked father was on drugs and I knew if clearly by then..  At some point during the day i was called to the office and brought into a room where the ptincipal was waiting, I was told to empty all of my pockets...and bam, they find a nice size bag of coke on a 4th grader...I tried to play dumb and didnt know what to say to them, i told them i found it and was going to throw it away.    

Too bad half the class had already snitched me out and turned me in as a group...Surprisingly I was not given detention and they seemed to just let it go, no mention of calling my dad or anything, they just kept the bag.

I got home later and Dad didnt seem to know anything about what happened and I thought I got away with it. He was in his room getting high with whatever bitch he found that day...i went to my room and played with my GI Joes or whatever I had back then.


I walked out to see what the noise was right before the door exploded into pieces..i ran into my room, i knew I was going to be in truble now.

Apparently, the bag of coke i took to school that was confiscated by the teachers, well, it seemed to have come up missing that day. Im guessing one of the teachers there must have had a taste for nose candy and snatched it..prompting a call to the police, who then got the full story and stepped in and came after me/my house. they caught a personal use amount of dope and a bunch of arrest...i was hoping they wee going to take him so i didnt get my ass beat.. I was arrested and released for possession of cocaine with intent to sell, my father got possession , child endangerment and paraphenalia charges.
What a family charges were dropped and I was ordered to attend a bunch of counseling at school. 

The monkey on my shoulda started chasin the chips

Started doin flips off the dagger in my spine thats buried up the hilt

I seen him slip a couple times in all the blood I done spilt

And now the angel and devil on both sides .......are playing monkey in the middle

Over time hes getting bigger and he aint so little

  He came into his own and now they call him king kong nigga

What ever you try and tell him he aint tryin to hear it

And whatever that muthafucka wants.. hes gonna get it!

He's on my shoulder and whispering to me,Tryin to influence me,back into my addiction

And the only way he'll leave me alone
Is if I say "fuck it man I'm wit it"

Its gettin harder day by day to try to make the right decisions

And the sweet scent of temptation just makes it so appealling

Just the thought of the feeling When its in me......Man I'm the zone

I'm out my mind all my problems gone

> And yeah I know its wrong........ .and I always find an excuse to do it

Get high then a muthafucka and just get lost in the music

Wit a cup of that fluid, now my thoughts..they flow so freely

Until the monkey on my shoulder starts wantin to regain control of the chips

My bi polar side kicks in,

And the angel and the devil start workin in shifts

You could say that I'm crazy, and I really wouldn't doubt ya

But its the ones that won't admit it that are the ones you need to watch out for

Monday, June 9, 2014

When the Dope Starts Doing You Part Two

Remember your first crush? Not that hottie in home room. Remember the first time you stuck something up your nose? Remember the first time someone held off your arm? Remember the romance of your first high. You puked on the sidewalk and thought FUCK I WANT TO FEEL THIS WAY FOREVER. Then, the honeymoon when the dope was plentiful and we still had FUN together. It was so fun. I scratched my skin until it bled. My eyes rolled back in my head. And I never felt so alive as when I brushed the hand of death trying to pull me in. We were doing some drugs my friend.

One day, I felt sick. I felt a heaviness in my legs and I knew. That is a moment when the dope starts doing you. I was emptying my bank account with empty envelopes. I was sleeping behind the counter at work. My cupboards were bare and my spoons were full. The dope, it seemed, at turned on me. BUT I LOVE YOU, I told me drugs. We can never go back to the way it was. The romance is dead and the lie is true. You thought you were doing the the drugs but the dope was doing you.

I wake up in a cold sweat. I dreaming of those days. I was reaching for the needle and woke up in a haze. I have been clean sixteen years. I have some control. The drugs don't rule my life but I feel that pain deep down in my soul.

I gave up my life for one more hit.
I kicked ten times, it took eleven to quit.
I stole from my job.
I stole from my friends.
I stole from myself,
My lies had no end,
I stole from my mother and sold her stuff.
I turned tricks for dope,
It wasn't enough.

I know many functional users. You may not relate to what you see. I know many people feel like some how they are better than me. Some people can use successfully. I know that is true. Ask yourself though, is the dope just using you? Are you doing the drugs or are they doing you.

I want to let anyone reading this that there is hope.
If you still enjoy using, be safe.
If you are on the fence, try using less.
If you are ready to stop, give yourself a chance at life.

The picture below is of an abscess scar. I almost lost my leg because I did not take care of it.
I had got it taken care of but I never changed the bandage for almost a month. My leg stunk so bad that the police who caught me argued about letting me go because no one wanted to take me to the hospital. I just didn't care about myself or my life. When they filmed me for "Black Tar Heroin" in the jail, they were treating me for this one and three other infections. I am so grateful I'm not dead and lived to tell you this tale

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Today is a good day to be clean

I don't spend a lot of time talking about my present life. Maybe I should. Today is a day though I feel extremely lucky to be clean. I woke up at the crack of dawn. The cat was climbing on me. The dog needed to go out. My kids are bouncing off the wall. They need to be fed. And I am grateful for these things because I never believed them possible.

Friday, June 6, 2014

Occasional Companion

"Nothing ever starts on time " I hear some crack head remark in the foodline. He says this with conviction as if he has important places to go.

His partner asks him "where the fuck you need to be homey?!" 
Great minds think alike. 

 I smile at the friend with the subtle recognition that the partner he is Rollin with is a lop. A lop is a step below a lame which is a step above a mark. A mark at least has some money. A mark is a kid that comes to the city. You pinch his drugs and charge him double. He accepts this with a smile. This fool, this lop, has the nerve to believe the world owes him something. The world owes you nothing, friend. You got to take that shit. You have to grab life by the balls and get the world to beg for mercy. 

I try not to associate with this or any crowd. When I pair up with someone, it is out of desperation. The drugs suppress my desire for food, for love, for self respect but they cannot suppress my desire for an occasional companion. I saw him in the hallway. A drag queen kicked him out of her room. He was out in the hallway of the hotel in the middle of registering. I could see the blood mixed in the syringe. Like rotten maple syrup and kool aid, I saw something so grotesque in him. It drew me like a moth to an open flame. Here was a man sicker than me.

As he pulled of the tie he was screaming to the queen "You are just going to put me out in the fucking hallway?' Slam went the door. That was his answer.

He was sweaty and alabaster and perfect to me at that moment. He actually had the gaul to finish shooting up in front of me or anyone who was bold enough not to avert their eyes. What a magnificent creature. He out junkied me by a mile. As he licked the blood off the fresh hole in his arm, he noticed I was staring at him. I was on the landing between the third and second floors. I had moved in here when I was released from jail a few weeks ago. Six months and sixty pounds later, I was working on a small time habit. A bag here, a bag there. I was not much to look at with my coke bottle glasses and big ass but that didn't stop him.

He started walking towards me "Are you coming?" He had this blue eyes with pinned pupils, blonde hair. He was toned in an way that was unusual for a an addict. Was he doing push ups between hits? I wasn't sure how this was possible.  Without speaking a word, I started following him up the stairs. I was looking for some excitement. I had found it.

His room should have clued me in that I needed to fucking run. Everything was torn apart. The mattress had burn holes but that is fairly standard. The nightstand had some rigs, some cookers, and a thing of store bought lemon juice. There were empty wrappers, empty backpacks, cigarettes packs scattered in piles. he moved a few mounds of clothing out of the way so I could sit down on the only place to sit, the bed. He has the lamp with no shade on the floor. He leaned down to turn in on in a frantic motion.

"Do you want to get high?" he asked me as he plopped down on the bed after locking the deadbolt.

This was truly poor addict form. He hadn't even asked me my name or spoke more than a few words to me and he thinks I am going to suck his dick for some drugs. I must look really fucking shitty right now. Damn. As I try to get up, he grabs my hand. This wasn't a grab of force but more of a quiet gesture to let me know he did not want to be alone. When he smiled at me, I saw there was something else there. He was tweaked! He was speedballing in the hallway and clearly did a little too much.

Then we talked, and he talked, and I talked and he listened and talked and talked and talked and talked. His name was Brian. He didn't want a girlfriend or a relationship but he really wanted me to stay there with him. He would get me high if I would stay even though we just met. Yeah, it happened. And eventually he fell in love with me but he loved crack just a little more. I would nod out while he tore the carpet apart for a rock he never lost. He liked me because I hated crack. He knew I would never steal his first love and it only cost him a little bit of his comedown stash to keep me happy.  

But nothing ever stays the same. Nothing ever starts on time. There is no happy ending.

 A few weeks later he was on his knees.

"I would rather wait in the fucking food line then watch you tear the room apart Brian" I uttered as I left in disgust. I left him there panning for gold. I am not sure he even noticed I was gone. I had no place to be but I could not stay there watching him kill himself.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Life as an addict- guest post US

Life as an addict...half the time you spend it high, the other half you spend waiting to get high...the never ending chase for a little peace of mind. It took awhile for me to finally wander down that wasnt so much a path, but more of a dimly lit corridor that is barely 3 feet wide, with doorways every 15 feet that contain small compartments of heaven and hell...with the aroma of sulphur mixed with burning copper and the never ending scent of crack being smoked...these odors stick with you like the smell of death, once youve smelled a decomposing body you will never forget it...

"The anticipation of pleasure or pain is always greater than the reality of it" all the time you spend thinking about how great the next high will be usually leads to disappointment...especially if your deep into your addiction. You dream of how great the next hit of crack will taste, how relaxing the next nod will be, how high the next joint will get you...and it doesnt, so you keep living life in a hamster wheel.

Its the chase that is part of the high for me, the calls, the meetups, the score...and that few moments of bliss as your preparing your fix...for me I was a snorter of anything and everything, as needles as I never got along too well..but I could snort and 8ball through a tiny coffee straw with ease 
    Black Tar Heroin, black beauty, downtown julie and bobby brown, boy, dogfood....just to name a few nicknames.  My first bag I copped was a half gram for $20 ( I got ripped for awhile, full grams are $20 or less now in SF if you know the right people)...I secured my package and headed home to prepare. I couldnt believe it, I finally copped

My first attempt was to smoke it, I had been fascinated by the opium pipes used by the chinese in the dens...they all looked so peaceful and I craved that peace.  After spreading some tar on the oil I attempted to chase tbe dragon, and that dragon bitch slapped my lungs...there was no warning about the taste and harshness from my dealer, so that didnt would think I would stop there

I then learned how to turn tar into powder, id freeze the tar if it was the gooey kind, crush up some sleeping pills and add tben both into a pill bottle with a few coins and cap it.  A few shakes later and the mixture turned into the powder form I was it was time to party.  I was no stranger to snorting dope, I had battled crack, coke and meth addiction previously and my nose was well seasoned...

I began snorting heroin and never stopped....fell in love wih the nod and coulddt go...I found a new love, one I must keep secret.
Its a love hate relationship that is now a big part of me...kind of like the girlfriend I currently have, cant stand it but I cant let go.

The way heroin turns off my emotions is magical, it makes me numb to my mental pain ( I suffer from PTSD, insomnia, depression and anxiety)  heroin shuts up the voice in my head and allows me to just relax....I get irritable when im high, but its better than high anxiety...and it lessens with the higher I get...soon im cool as can be with my dopey smile and low eyes, and then I turn into a bobblehead,trying to stay awake.

I once said that if I knew I had a terminal illness or didnt want to live anymore, I would buy 5 grams of heroin and kill myself with it...HA...if I had only known, 5 grams wouldnt kill me..might give me a mean headache but thats all.  No one will ever believe me but withdrawal is something I havent experienced, call me lucky.  First thing you are thinking is "you didnt do enough" or "yeah right...bullshit"

2-3 grams a day for months at a time, and when the supplier ran dry....yeah, I was pissed and mentally fiending for it, but no cold sweats, no restless legs, no pain, no nausea...I dont understand it and neither does anyone I use with, after a 2 day run they are fucked and fearing sickness, and herebi am...just fine, grumpy as fuck but im not shaking and puking.  I think my father had done so much dope in his years that I was born with some weird tolerance for heroin...unexplainable as hell, but im not complaining...yeah I know..."bullshit" right?...

My days of going hard are over, I still get high from time to time, but my life no longer revolves around copping dope....Heroin is the best sleepin aid ever, and ive tried everything short of propofol for insomnia.  Ive cut loose a lot of associates who got lost on dope, they werent friends.....friends keep in touch when you stop getting high, friends call you to say whats up and check in on you...these fucks were the type to leave you somewhere dying and not turn back because they didnt want to get in trouble...and then raid your pockets when your dead...heartless fucks with no loyalty.

At 35 I think ive finally hit a point when I can say "im too old for this shit"
Ive defeated the gorilla many times in small battles, but he returns because the war on drugs never ends...temptation is his tool and your weakness is his food, how do you think that monkey keeps his weight up? He feeds off your soul like a parasite, everytime you feed hi. He grows stronger...and when hes hungry the rage is unreal.

One day I got so stressed out I decided to try that chinese relaxation thing with the needles....what it called again?.....oh yeah...HEROIN. -JF