Friday, January 31, 2014

Guest Post- Sean C.

This was written by one of my oldest friends. I love him.

I was watching the show "Girls" the other day (a show which I despise, my girl was watching a segment only because Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth was in it), maybe a five minute segment, and one of the characters was in a 12 step meeting (at least thats what I gathered, again, I only watched a few minutes of it) and she was arguing with the fella who was leading the meeting and she was saying how Heroin is "Fun".

Fun? Fun! I can think of a hundred different adjectives, but fun is most certainly NOT one of them. Dangerous. Yes. Romantic, maybe at first. Life-Fucking. Yeppers. (yes, life-fucking is an adjective in my book, errr blog, err geust post). Another word? How about- Malefic. More? Disabling. Corrupt. Crippling. Let's get more creative, huh?Friend-Euthanizer. Soul-Stealer. Emotion-Hider. Libido-Thief. Death-Dealer. It's also Injurious. Degenerative. Villainous. Oppressive. Ill-Fated. Disgusting. Horrendous. Gross. Fuckin gross. It's all so gross. Sinister. Unkind. Mind-Musher. Heroin is a Three-Card-Monty. It's a Sleight-Of-Hand. It's the Devil AND his Advocate. It's the Calm AND the Storm. Your worst enemy in the guise of your best friend. It 's a stalker, always there, always following me. It's the wretched Prince Of Lies AND the Angel of Death.

Which leads me to two parrallel stories. One, the calm, the other, the storm. One, a best friend, the other, an enemy.

The Advocate, The Calm, & The Best Friend-
I first went to San Francisco in maybe 1991, 92. I was with my three best friends. Patrick, who I hitchhiked into town with, Caine met me there a week later & Tracey was already living there. I was 17 at the time and if only I wouldv'e been a little older, a little wiser, seen the portents, maybe I wouldn't be writing this now, but alas, I am writing this.

It was maybe 3 days after I got there, though that number might be optimistic, might've not even been a day. I was in a squat on 3rd & Mission, and a kid younger than me, we'll call him Iggy, also a runaway, who was maybe 14, 15 tops, was slumped up against the wall in one of the rooms. It was dark out so the room was lit by candle, emitting a ghastly glow, and through the aura of the red-orange candle light I saw a dance, a symphony taking place. Iggy had just come back from scoring and the rites with which he practiced the ceremony of getting high was something I had never seen before, dangerous, yet with a romantic edge to it. As he cooked up the Dope, his rituals & his shadows played out a macabre waltz that had me hooked. He got it all geared up, put the needle in his arm, pushed the plunger all the way in and nodded out instantly. I watched him intently. I was enraptured. It was enchanting. The spell had been cast. His high looked so heavy, so grungy (not the Seattle 'Grungy', but grungy grungy), and so fucking beautiful. (It looked like) He was at peace and wore this wry kind of frown, which I saw as a smile, that looked so true to me. There was no lie, no falsehood in all this, it was an escape plain and simple, Iggy found an escape, a nexus to another place, a wormhole free of restrictions. And I wanted it. The Prince of Lies had struck!!

A few days later, the four of us, Patrick, Caine, Tracey and myself, were all at Traceys house somewhere between The Castro & The Mission. One of us, who was not me, had procured a bunch of Dope, enough for all of us. I was scared shitless, but not scared enough to be bothered by. Caine, I believe, cooked it all up, as we all went straight for the needle opposed to snorting it- Shoot It, Taste It~ Snort It, Waste It. The three of my friends all got high as I watched in dreaded anticipation. When it was my turn, Tracey offered to hit me as I had never done it before. She found my voracious vein within seconds and injected 10CC's of the Life-Fucking drug into a hungry bloodstream. I expected to be floored within seconds, as Iggy had, as Patrick n Caine n Tracey all had, but nothing. 30 seconds slowly ticked-tocked by. Nothing. A minute. Nothing. I started to feel a peace engulf me finally, a dark calm, knowing I was just in the eye of a very real storm that was about to pummel me. And it did. It did. Seconds later, I found myself crawling to the toilet to unleash a ferocious wave of vomit, emptying the contents of my malnourished stomach. Then comatose. Ahhhhhh....and I was head over heels. Smitten. I found something that I was able to make trades with. Drugs over responsibility. The high over those troublesome emotions. The fix over friends n relations n everything else. I found the portal to nowhere. Harry Houdini Heroin showed me The Art of The Escape. I gladly took this new found friend over life, over everything.

The Devil, the Storm & The Enemy-
10 years or so later (give or take), and I'm horribly strung out. I've nothing left. All possessions pawned. Parents don't talk to me. No more friends (when i see the last two holdouts I hide behind cars on the street, I have to duck them because I can't keep all my lies straight, I don't remember what I told who). No more relationships. My old life is only fond memories.

I find myself in a squat on 6th & Howard and it's late, maybe Midnight, the Junkies sleep, and I'm tiptoeing down the hall, trying not to be heard as I'm about to do a big no-no. I find an empty room, go into the corner thats unseen from the hall and i yank my pants down and relieve my bowels of all contents in a torrential heave, and it's alot, maybe three or four days worth of constipation. I have no toilet paper, so I grab an old newspaper and try my best to clean up the mess i've made between my cheeks. It's disgusting. The mess I made in the room I leave as is. It had to be done, and it's worse. I now smell worse than before, and that was bad. All part of the habits cycle.

I leave and tiptoe back to my room. I have it lit by candles which emit a bloody murder red hue and I sit down on a milk crate and go through the ritual of cooking my drugs, but it's no longer romantic, no longer a dance the way I first saw it with Iggy. I had scored the Dope from cash I earned through having sex. With men. And I'm straight. The habit dictates, because Dope is like Simon, and Simon says "Make me money no matter how, and feed me, feed me, no matter how."

I draw up a deathly black 90 CC's, only leaving enough room for blood, and try to hit a vein in my arm with no such luck. I next try for my hands, then my feet, my calves and then my groin. Fuck!! Nothing! I'm a pin cushion. I'm hexing myself with a voodoo doll thats me. I am out of choices so I decide to muscle it, but can't muscle it into my left bicep as it's abcessed, one which I'll be draining as soon as I get this no-fun elixer into my body. I shove the now dull and barbed needle into my right bicep , and it hurts, hurts like fuck, but no time for pain, I empty the contents into my muscle and lay down to wait the ten or fifteen minutes it takes before it hits me and I become a person again. Functionable might be a better word.

I have ten bucks left from having a dick in my mouth and I'm going to go cop a ten dollar rock, because I have to go back to Polk Street to make more money, because I have to cop more drugs, to repeat the cycle, and I don't wanna be sober doing it. It's all so exhausting.The cycle has gotten to be a full time job, with overtime, and fuck is it taxing. But Simon says 'feed me', and I do what Simon says because I'm hopelessly addicted. I have become Simon's puppet.

I leave the squat and it's late, about 1 A.M. and I hope I find a John willing to pay me some money at this hour as I have no wake-up shot and if I don't have one, Simon will be pissed and repercussions will ensue, notably vomit, diarrhea, tremors, migraines, spasms, and all those other horrible things that go along with withdrawaling off Heroin, the fun drug. I turn around as I leave the squat and above the door I could've swore I saw a flashing neon sign that said "Always Welcome Back My Friend", but it's only my worst enemy playing tricks on me again. Simon, The Prince of Lies, strikes once more, just to kinda fuck with me. Anyway, Off to Polk Street. Through the revolving door once more, going through the cycle again and again and again and again.......The habit dictates.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

The Savagery

One time I washed the dope dealer's dishes hoping for some crumbs. Or was that many times. Or cleaned their house. Or walked their dog. Or watched their kid. 
I dropped my heroin into the crib. I didn't know I had lost it until my boyfriend did not believe that I would lose drugs. We argued over $10 worth of tar. Forget the baby. Forget I could have killed a toddler. 

I called the mother "hey I dropped my dope." Going out of my way to be a fucking hero. 

"I flushed it down the toilet." Such painful words. Such painful fucking words. I dropped my heroin that I forgot I had and she flushed it down the toilet. 

The mother ends up with the virus, the daughter ends up on the street. I end up clean. Well, we are all clean now. The insanity of having the junkie watch your kid. I liked the child- I loved her in fact. She was the product of a toss-up. The mother traded drugs for sex and ended up pregnant. That was how she ended up being the dealer. Trading sex for drugs then selling them. 

We all trade something in that life. We trade out dignity. We trade our morals. We trade our self concept for a hit. I'm sitting on sheets with burn holes about to stab you in the eye with a broken spoon for nodding when I am sick. And I love him. We trade society for savagery and lick the blood from our arms in agreement. 

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

A thousand deaths

A junkie experiences a thousand deaths before they learn to live. 
All your happy chemicals are stripped and depleted and it becomes impossible to care about anything with the exception of relief. 
Every day and any day can because the worst day ever because all your hopes are tied up in a substance and the substance cannot nurture you. 
In the end, the veil of cognitive dissonance is lifted and the two realities can't live in harmony- death and life in the same body at the same time. 

    Saturday, January 25, 2014

    Guilt

    The other day my daughter went into the kitchen. She turned on the light. She pulled open the door to the refrigerator. She scanned the food that was present and selected yogurt. She went to the drawer, got a spoon, and sat down. She opened the yogurt by herself and started to eat alone in the kitchen.

    This event may not be significant to the rest of the world. To me, it was both exhilarating and scary at the same time. My child did not need me. She didn't call for me to help her. She didn't need me to prepare anything for her. She had some form of independence. Suddenly, I shrank into the couch. I was not needed by my little girl. What does this new chapter mean for me?

    I saw myself in her. What choices lead to my decision to use drugs for the first time. She is six years old. Am I a good model for her? By the time I was five, I was playing truth or dare underneath the picnic table with my neighbor. By the time I was seven, I had gotten high on weed. What can I do to protect my child from these things.

    When she turns thirteen, will she ask me how I used to stick needles in my arms? What it mean for my kids to know that I was a junkie hooker wearing clothes I found on the street and eating leftover food on the top of dumpsters. What will it mean for my kids to know that I literally spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on drugs while I caused enormous suffering to everyone around me. I am not sure what I will say but I want to start the conversation. I would rather tell them myself.

    Guilt is a useless emotion. It keeps us stuck in our sickness. It tells us "why bother?" Why should I change when it will not matter. I chose to avoid guilt when I think of my past. I did the things I did in the past. I don't do those things anymore. I am okay with myself and the choices I made in life because I have no choice but to accept them to not repeat them. I may not be perfect but I am okay just being me. "And all of you should be okay being you..." 


    Tuesday, January 21, 2014

    Crawling Back

    You will come crawling back to me.

    It is hot outside. So hot, the sidewalk smells like fermented piss. The concrete is hot. My brain is frying in the sun. I am sticking to the sleeping bag. I am laying underneath a sheet strung between two shopping carts. The carts provide me with shade. I try to drink water but beer tastes better on a hot day. My liver aches as I put the bottle to my lips. "Nooooooooo!" The organ cries out for mercy. I drown my sensibilities with more alcohol.

    My hair is stuck to my head with grease and sweat. The worst is over. My leg twitches. Theses restless fucking legs. I would be okay if my legs stop popping.

    "How you doing?" A head pops in my make shift tent.

    I take another pull of my beer. "I am starting to get sick again."
    The beer, once cold, is starting to go flat and warm. It was delicious when he brought it to me at six am. My lips hurt as I try to suck down some more misery in a glass vessel. Here it comes. I feel the non existent contents of my stomach creeping up the back of my throat. I push him aside to dry heave off the curb.

    He waits patiently- a minute, five minutes. He climbs into my home bum shanty. His tent is farther up the alley where his fifteen year old girlfriend is passed out after a night of tweaking and fucking. I know this because the walls are pretty thin when they are made of cloth. He stretches out his legs and pulls out the goods. It isn't heroin- it is crystal. He pours a twenty dollar bag of stinky product. It smells like nail polish remover and burns like death. I see the pipe emerge. It is time for my medicine.

    Of all of the times I kicked heroin, the worst time was spent flopping on that sidewalk full of crystal meth in the hottest part of the summer. Four full days and nights awake boiling in my own fluids. The pain was excrutitating yet my homeboy insisted it must be done. I would be so much better off, he said. He would stop by a random intervals to provide me with bbq chicken wings, reece's peanut butter cups, St. Ides, and a blast. No IVing, he said, I was so much better than that.

    I loved this man so much, my home boy. I was willing to try anything scheme to make him happy. By the time I fell asleep on the fourth day, I was so dehydrated, I could barely move from my sleeping bag. I passed out and woke up in the exact same spot. I was free of the shakes and the pain and dependence.

    "Where are you going? " he asked. Where was I going? I was sneaking off to cop dope, of course. I had been sleeping on twenty dollars the whole time. I let people share their space, their love, and their drugs. Deep inside,  I knew I would come crawling back. Because that is who I was...









    Saturday, January 18, 2014

    Another chapter in dopesick love

    "Hand me the alcohol wipes" I reach over the bed " this is finally starting to drain"
    He hand me two packets of alcohol pads.
     "Damn Tracey. How many fucking times are you going to do this to yourself?"

    That question rang in my mind for a month to come. I had been performing surgery on myself. I was laying on the bed of our hotel room. We had hustled all day to get the $35 we needed to stay here tonight plus money for dope. Soon, we will have to do the whole thing all over again. For now, I needed a place where I could take off my pants. I needed to lance this abscess to get the pressure off. It wasn't getting all that red or hard but it hurt to walk. I knew the signs. I knew when to go to the doctor. I had been there many times before. The clinic would slice me open and send me on my way with some sterile water and gauze to pack my wounds.
     
    I was quite the amateur doctor, at least in my mind. I had taken a new syringe and stuck in the middle of the infected area. Now I was sucking out the puss. This was a tweak for me. I would mix together heroin and speed. I would do a hit and pick at my wounds. When I got the hard core of the infection out, I would clean out the area. I would need a place like this. A place inside when I could let this wound drain into a loose bandage. This was all my own fault. I muscled dope through my pants leg that I mixed with dirty water. That day, I did not have the luxury of searching for a vein for two hours. I was living outdoors, I was sick, and I knew this might happen. I just did not care.

    "You have to be more careful, babe. You are going to lose that leg if you aren't careful".
    He said this he brushed the hair away from his nodding face. He is slowly sinking forward at the side of the bed. I let him fix before I did mine and he is just now feeling it. He is one to tell me about being careful. The only way I could get him to go to the hospital with a raging hepatitis infection was the promise of drugs. His eyes and skin were yellow when I helped him check in there. It was clear they wouldn't let me stay. I kissed him deeply and transferred the balloons into his mouth. They gave him 10mg of methadone and I gave him three grams of heroin. I wished I could just curl up in the bed next to him and watch him sleep. I prayed that he would get better yet I was killing him at the same time. We were slowly draining the life from each other.

    Daniel and I were the oddest of couples, yet heroin made everything fall into place. He had been raised by junkies so he took care of me in a way I didn't quite comprehend at the time. He never passed judgement and he never asked me to do things I wasn't willing to do for drugs. I had just left Ben when we met so I was not looking for a relationship. He followed me and talked me into love. He never wanted me to prostitute myself. He would rather we be sick together. And he would sit with me for hours as I tried to get a hit, switching from syringe to new syringe. The blood and the drugs were all part of the relationship. The insanity of our routine did not diminish our affection. He wanted to walk hand in hand with me while I limped and drained and grimaced in pain.

    This life was killing me. It was killing my body. It had taken my will. Yet, I was not ready to stop. The drugs, the love, the warm blanket. It could make me forget all my troubles If I could only sleep a little longer maybe I can make this feeling real...

    "Damn Tracey. How many fucking times are you going to do this to yourself?" The end was soon to come. This was the last month of my using.


    Thursday, January 16, 2014

    On the Death of a User

    Death is never an easy thing to deal with but that sorrow is compounded exponentially when the person who has passed on was a user of drugs. Suddenly, the person we loved has the privacy they cherished pulled from them. Why did this happen, people ask. The answer becomes drugs. But the truth is more complex. The person who has passed on may have been a full blown addict, an experimenter, a chipper, a self medication expert, or maybe they just liked getting high. We will never be able to ask them. And in the end, it does not really matter because we are powerless to bring them back and reassure them we accept them. We love them. We understand. We want to comfort them one more time. We want to remind them they are not alone. Even if we do not approve of their drug use, we want to remind them they are valued as a human being of worth in this world.

     In our moment of pain, we search for answers. Unfortunately, more often that not, the STIGMA of drug use is what killed many of our loved ones. How else can you explain why a 19 year old could not get effective treatment for what began as a simple infection? How else can you explain why my friend Jake died in his room and was dead for four days before anyone found him? What about the countless folks I have known who did not receive medical care until what would turn out to be the very end of their lives because of their concerns of the way addicts are treated in medical settings? Stigma, limited access to clean supplies, and restrictions on the life saving antidote for opiate overdose naloxone are allowing people to die daily.

    I survived my own struggle with drugs to bear witness to the tragic death of countless friends and acquaintances. In my anger and frustration, I chose to work to end these senseless deaths. For those that are suffering today, I wish you peace.

    Tuesday, January 14, 2014

    Thank you to my readers

    I just wanted to take another moment to say thank you to all my readers. 

    Monday, January 13, 2014

    A Tale of a Greedy Dope Hog.

    I am resting my mind in between stories when I reflect on the greedy dope hog. The greedy dope hog is not one person. It is a series of people I have met through my life. 

    There is the undercover benzo Betty. She likes to nibble on a few bars or consume some klonopin. And never tells you. When she heartily ODs, it's always such a mystery how this could have happened especially because they are prescribed and she was "just sleeping". 

    There is "I've done this before" Don. He INSISTS he is an opiates regular yet falls out on half a bag. He is either stuck with his head in the toilet or found under a table. Don- you do not need to lie to kick it. I would have shared- especially since you always have money. 

    There is alcoholic Annie. She likes to drink cheap vodka. And cry about how sick she is or she needs her medicine. Damn bitch. Shut the fuck up. Yet when she turns blue while you went to the store to get a five pound bag of gummy worms you realize she had a few extra pills stashed she didn't want to share yet you gotta save her. She kicks you down when she gets her script since she needed a lift- that damn DUI. 

    Hurry up Harry. His habit is scary. There is not a wake up, not a cotton not a rinse in sight. He uses every fucking speck. He hits in his neck. And falls out in the dead of night. "What is that cut on your face?" He hit the floor. Now he wants more. 

    Maybe you have met sanctimonious Sara. She is just a snorter who swears she doesn't need to be sorry. "You can't OD from sniffing" until she does and her boyfriend is calling you.  "Help, help, help". Call 911, not me son. 

    Add to my list. Be safe. Or else 

    Tuesday, January 7, 2014

    Dopesick Love- PART 1

    He was sitting on the concrete. I barely noticed him there. I was on a mission. I had two balloons in my mouth. One for now, one for later and I needed a quick place to fix my heroin. It had taken me all day to get my money. Why would I notice another sick junkie? I nearly tripped on his feet.

    Our eyes met WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING is what he had planned to say to me. When our eyes met, he whispered "Oh, fuck." This was the kind of statement a person make when they have come upon something so glorious and so destructive at the same time- the force that pulls two junkies together. He had a baby face. He had one of those soft sort of half formed mustaches that was not quite whiskers. He had on a baggy t-shirt and some loose army pants, the black kind, with plenty of pockets, to hold all of his belongings. You could tell he was rail thin under his clothes. I wanted to touch his collarbones. He had wavy short hair and was shorter than most of the men, if you could call him a man. He had the face like a boy and the eyes of an experienced hustler. He jumped up from the hot bricks of the sidewalk.

    "Where are you going?" Time froze for one second. For one second, it was like a real love story from any movie. Boy meets girl. There are butterflies. They have this instant attraction. But this wasn't the movies. This was the streets of San Francisco and I was fucking dopesick so fuck romance. I never said a word to him. He just started walking and talking to me.

    I was a few feet in front of him. I did not care at this point. I was sick as fuck. I walked up a four car lengths. I was in a good spot in the alley where I could see the police in either direction. I sat on the curb. Then the dry heaves hit me. FUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK. I was trying to get my dope out of my mouth so I wouldn't throw it up into a storm drain. I felt his hand on my shoulder. He was moving my hair so I didn't get puke and snot on it. That face. Those eyes. 

    He never said- here let me help you. He reached in his pants and pulled out his cooker. He moved me to the side so he could sit down. I couldn't talk- I was too sick. 

    "My name is Daniel." He completely took over. I let him. I handed him my drugs. I pulled up my pants and got a clean rig from my sock. I tried to say that I was not sharing but I was still heaving at the impending dope. He knew I was going to share. I was going to share everything with him. He reached into my balled hands to get the drugs like a mouse approaching a crouched tiger. I opened up my hand. That was the moment I gave him everything. 



    He never asked me I was going to share with him. He did everything for me. With a profound speed, he prepared my drugs while I puked on the side walk between my legs. He has a cooker, water, wipes, everthing in those pockets. He held up my hot syringe and pushed up my sleeve before I could protest. "Damn girl- you got no veins!"

    He reached down and pulled out his shoe lace and wrapped it around my arm. Why did I trust him? I had no choice. I needed him. I needed him at that moment more than I needed anyone in the entire universe. He looked at the back of my arm. Before I could argue that it was impossible to hit me there, he stuck the needle in. As I felt the warm come over me, I no longer wanted to be alone. I wanted to be held, to be adored by this man. 

    He had saved himself a very healthy cotton. He looked around for traffic, the police, anyone who could interrupt this moment. 

    "I'm doing this- okay?" What? He is asking? Why is he asking me anyway. What the fuck. It is only a quarter gram. The sense is starting to pump through me again. Who the fuck is this dude? Once the rush wore off, I saw him in a different light. He wasn't a hero anymore. He was an opportunistic fuck face trying to use me for my dope. Where is my other bag? Somehow I managed not to give it up in my moment. 

    "OK dude. You can have that. I got to bounce." As I started to get up, I could see the pain on his face. he thought we were going to hang out. he thought this thing had started between us. He thought that I was going to be some fucking lightweight that was going to kick back and sun myself after less than a quarter gram. And then, he saw I was not that person. And he liked me even more. Because he was not that guy either. 

    He reached out for my wrist "...babe. Seriously wait for me. Wait one minute. I promise you won't be sorry." In what seemed like less than 30 seconds, he handled all business and threw the cooker and the syringe down into the sewer grate as if he say he was not planning on coming back.

    He jumped up. "You know, I know who you are Tracey. I've seen you around." I cannot tell if he is 16 or 22 but I can tell he has been watching me. He saw an opportunity and he took it. He pulled me up. He wanted to make some "real" money. He wanted to see me. He wanted to get me off the street. He wanted to get a hotel. He wanted to get inside my skin. He wanted to get inside my mind. He knew that many men had fucked me. He just wanted to know me. He just wanted to touch my hair. He wanted me to know I was more than a piece of ass or a way to get a fix. He loved me. He talked me into taking a risk and loving him.

    "I don't want to fuck you Tracey. I just want to love you."









    Monday, January 6, 2014

    Ramblings- RIP "Irish"

    These are writings from a loved one of one of my regular readers. This person left behind a child and some writings I hope you enjoy .

    PART ONE:
    WAY TOO MUCH EXPERIENCE. seriously ive been addicted since i cut my calf damn near off while kicking through a window while drunk. once again mars can vouch for this, he was there. when i asked him how it looked he said "it looks like two hamburger patties fighting every time you take a step. up until this night i HONESTLY DID NOT KNOW WHAT PAINKILLERS WERE. so i went to the ER and they gave m morphine and stitched me up and sent me home with a script for 60 vic's. all the pharmacist said was "eat it with food it might make your stomach upset. the first time i popped i took two and threw up about an hour later and almost swore them off because the pain wasnt really that bad. but the next day i took one and filled a glass of pepsi and popped in fear and loathing in las vegas and fell asleep half way through the movie. the next morning was the same ritual. (mind you i was off work for three months to rehabilitate and relearn how to walk on my right leg) and at this point i kept the bottle of pills in the bathroom. well after about a week or so i was popping two at a time and the bottle found its way into my room next to me and it went to any room i went to and stayed in my sight. well now its a few weeks and im poppin 3 at a time and the bottle STAYS in my pocket very near me where i can touch it and hear the pills, even the sound of them rattling around was fuckin euphoric. i dont think anyone realizes just how hooked i was AND TRULY DIDNT KNOW IT. so now im going to my follow up appontment and the doc asks how the pain is and i found myself lying to get more pills. again i get another 60 with 2 refills. those bottles last about a month and i found myself panicked that i had no pills. so at this point i call the doc and he tells me im released to go back to work and my leg shouldnt hurt anymore and to just take ibuprofen. i was heartbroken, i truly felt like my world just crashed around me. so i went back to work and was talking to this guy i work with and he asks what they gave me for pain and i told him vic's and he asked if i had anymore (looking back he was a pill popper too and was prayong on me, much like ive done to people in the pastwho are unknowing) and i said no and he said "you know how to get more? tell the doc your back hurts, they cant prove it doesnt" worst advice ive ever taken. i took that little gem of advice and fucking ran with it. now ive got 3 doctors who dont know that im seeing all three. one in brentwood, antioch, pittsburg. all contra costa health care (free). and im getting 3 scripts for vicodin, one doc gives 60 a month, one gives me 30 per week, one give me 30 a month. and if i ran out i hit the ER with back pain and got hooked up with scripts. this was my life from about 21 years old til 26 years old. not to mention that i had now found street dealers and graduated to oxys percs soma klonopin xanax valium etc..

    PART TWO:
    ok so while im doing all this madness i get this terrible pain in my side one day and HAVE to go to the ER. so i go and the doc tells me to piss in a cup. so i do and he tells me i might have a kidney stone so he does a cat scan and sure enough ive got two big ass stones in my left kidney and i passed a little one. he sends me home with a script for perc's and im on my way. ALL THE SUDDEN I HAD A NEW ANGLE! I went back to all those ER's i already hit for "back pain" and re did the gimmick with "kidney stones". HERES WHERE I KNOW IM A SICK ADDICT: i would go to the ER and tell them about the side pain and when they would have me piss in a cup i would piss in it and then rip off a hangnail on my finger and dump the blood into the specimen cup. instant kidney stone. i did this and the back thing at EVERY ER FROM SAN JOSE TO SACRAMENTO AND EVERY FUCKING ONE INBETWEEN. IM now red flagged at about 16 different ER's for opiate abuse. ive been told straight up by ER docs that they know what im doing and im flagged. WALGREENS even has me flagged to this day for narcotics, they wil lnever fill a narcotic script for me again. im talkin im poppin 20-30 vics a day easy.

    heres where i truly know ima junkie. this is the hardest thing for me to ever admit to anyone, my grandfather who raised me since i was about 4 (my mom and i lived with him and my grandma) was dying of throat cancer. i would stop in and see him here and there, he lived in union city. one day i went to visit him and every one in the house was gone including him. i knew he had passed cause he had one of those hospital beds in his room and never left it. so i knew he passed away and i sat in the room crying for a while and then some sick voice in my head said "check his pill bottles i bet hes got vic's" and he did and i took the bottle on my way out. <---that moment will haunt me forever. words dont describe the shame.

    PART 4: HOW TO RACK UP A $1,000 TAB WITH THE HELLS ANGELS
    kodoggs measly fuckin debt he owes a few people reminded me of the time i owed roughly a thousand bucks to the red and white. at the time i was working at a tire shop in town and bouncing at irelands 32 in SF. irelands 32 is a cool ass irish bar out there that the HA frequented. the member i met lived out my way and had a mean hook on oxy's. seeing as how we were all white/irish/ and big ass whiteboys i fit right in and was trusted within their circle.oxy purchases were daily and it got to the point where he asked if i needed anything and i told him i was broke and he said "dont worry bro i'll put it on your tab". and there you have it, oxy on credit and life was good. workin on cars dont pay the bills like it used to and i was literally handing over my checks to this guy cause i wouild run up a 400-500 dollar tab in a week. well one time a week turned into 2 weeks and i was all outta pills and called him up and he said " bro you know were at a thousand right? are you sure you can pay this? cause i cant front you til you pay this." i assured him i would have the loot that friday no problem. friday came and i had about 600 bucks. what do i do? remember ive got no pills. i go and cop some from someone else. now i got a grip of oc's no money and my good friend is leaving some very nasty voice messages on my cell phone. so i popped a buncha pills and got the courage and called him up. he answered the phone literally sayin "rich i dont wanna kill you over a thousand bucks". most threats like that are pretty much empty and if the average guy says that to me i'd probably samck em, but this was no idle threat from some asshole, this guy meant business. i called my brother in law and he loaned me the cash and i payed up. moral of the story- dont get fronted

    tuesdays,thursdays ive heard they do warrant sweeps and seen it first hand on a thursday. you know the hills a crazy place. i just went back there TODAY (yeah i know i just warned everyone and shit but hey im a junkie fuck.) and it was all good. and yeah gas i know bout the substation, thats been there for a while, but even still that place was like the wild west. the thing i liked about the hill back in the good ol' days was the simple fact that all the degenerate junkies had a code they followed strictly. they would always yell if there was a family with kids walking up and everyone would put their shit up while the family walked by. they would never smoke crack in front of the kindergarten school right next to that old ass church. they were over all well mannered junkies and crackheads. i actually saw on a few occasions a crack head get beat up by his fellow crackheads for not following the "code".
    BUT I DID LEARN SOMETHING TODAY THAT COULD BE USEFUL TO ANYONE: apparently the fandanglers are painting pills that are about the same size and shape as OC's (both original and generic) and ripping people off. so just another buyer beware. theyre real slick about it too, they'll show you one REAL oc then when you ahnd them the money they give ya 3 fakes.
    just lookin out for my fellow pill hunters.
    OH BY THE WAY- i had to go to the hill today cause my good friend hoodratmatt bought every last methadone pill from the guy i usually get them from. isnt that cute? i'm nice enough to hook mat up with this guy adn how does he return the favor? he fucks me.



    yesterday i got blood work back. i contracted hep c. not sure how i got it. it couldve been from all the unprotected sex. it couldve been all the homemade tattoos. it probably was the needle play. i'm no stranger to the local shooting gallery and love blood play. my doc told me yesterday that my liver is like swiss cheese at this point and HOPEFULLY it will regenerate a portion back. i can remember half of the shit i did while gone off benzo's and H and painkillers. maybe i didnt practice safe needle use like i "thought" i did. towards the end of this last run (and arson can vouch for this as he saw it first hand two times at least) i suffered from horrible delirium tremens (d.t's), to the point i dropped the cooker cause i was shaking uncontrollably while trying to fix. and to think i was worried about wasted dope spilt on the carpet. next up is an aids test. the blood work was just a routine check up on my organs cause of the massive amounts of shit i was taking. i never thought it was gonna play out like this. you ever get that real sick feeling you get when you hear bad news? ya. times it by about ten.

    ima keep it real gentlemen. i just got off the phone with my dear friend that ive know for 17 years in real life g-dubb/ both in tears. im HIV positive. im at a loss of words. thid post is tear filled
    gentlemen, like i told a close friend. please take heed and thank me for going through this so you dont have to make the same mistakes i did. if you wouldve asked me when i was 20 if i was gonna be an addict i wouldve laughed in your face. welcome the reality after ten years of avoiding it at all costs.
    this is not a pity party. im not looking for sympathy. just stating facts. cause i now understand the pros and cons of living the lifestyle i did

    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.

    Wednesday, January 1, 2014

    2014

    I started writing this blog Jan of last year. I had been privately doing my thing as a semi-soccer mom in relative obscurity until  2011. I started getting a collection of weird facebook requests from people taking about the movie "Black Tar Heroin". Hmm. I wondered why but did not think too much of it. Then, 2012. my ex Spanky pointed out to me that people were watching the movie (or at least poor quality 15 min segments of it) on you-tube. The movie was getting tens of thousands of hits. Suddenly, people were interested in my story over a decade after the filming ended near Christmas.

    As time went by, I became more interested in the comments section because close to 80% of the comments I saw on you tube were full of fallacy yet it was not just a movie, it was MY life, it was MY friends these people were talking about in those comments. So I decided to make some of my own videos. My first updated video I wanted to define my own narrative.

    Finally, in 2013, I started writing about my experiences. I went through prostitution, rape, depression, violence, excessive yet glorious drug use, abscesses, attempted suicide, nearly being killed, shooting everything from gutter water to PCP, and the process of ending the one solid relationship- that one with a little brown substance that takes everything and demands MORE. I also have had a chance to support a large community of guest writers. I have really been pleased with the results.

    I was going tot close my blog this month dear readers but I guess I will keep on going for now. I enjoy your thoughts, your stories, too much to let them go this month. I am going to put together some juicy stories just for you this month then get back into the last of the editing of my book. Happy New Year my loves. I hope this year we will only get safer and stronger.