Sunday, December 28, 2014

Big Titty Kitty and other family Tales

"Aren't you done in there?!"
He screams from the bedroom.

I guess he is lonely. I invited these two over to my place because they agreed to give me a little taste. Now, I am regretting this choice. He is insane and she is annoying. Getting high with a brother and a sister team reaches a new low in my book. I am not sure why it jiggles my moral compass. The family that gets high together... Yeah it has me all fucked up as I ponder my existence while looking for a perfect spot of useable blue.

I thought the mother and daughter prostituion team was odd, but I guess it is more common than I thought. The mother swore she never "turned her daughter on" to drugs. Yeah, right. MAYBE . Either way, I found it fairly horrifying to see the 44 year old aging woman with her premature dentures and her abscess scars continuing to work the streets.

The woman in black and her daughter were sex workers of opportunity. Dealing, stealing, anything else to make money would come first. But on cold nights and sleepy mornings, desperation would drive one or other into crimes of opportunity. 

I would notice her on my way in and out of the hotel. Sometimes I would go to her for what were called short money bags. A person would buy a half gram or less and break them up into five smaller bags they would sell for $10-$15 a piece in the middle of the night when all the connections were fast asleep. These bags were just enough to hold a broke hustler until the morning. Some days, you could go all day and only put together a few bucks here and there. Any decent dealer would not deliver for less than $50. Street dealers wanted $20. A person buying a short money bag was getting ripped off and was paying for the pleasure of not feeling a thing but perhaps not shitting on themselves for a few more hours. 

When I was released from jail after six long months, the mother was more than happy to take my money and get my drugs for a fee. Her name was a easy to remember - big titty kitty. She had some of the largest breasts I had ever had the displeasure to see. I say displeasure because I like titties as much as anyone else, just not when I get to see them being stabbed by a needle as she searched fruitlessly for a useable vein. Some people would hesitate to get a person drugs who has been clean for awhile. She wasn't one of these softhearted characters. If she needed a fix, she would do pretty much anything. She wore this perfume- the smell of vinegar from tar and crack sweat. 
"I can get it for you." She smiled "no problem." 

She would rip me off from time to time but that was to be expected. She "needed it more" than me and she always paid me back. 

The daughter was 20 years old but looked like she wasn't a day over 16. Or maybe it was the other way around. People lie in the life. Their names, their ages, and why the came to the city are always a mystery. People called her "little bit" because she was so small. Not really small in stature. Her speed habit made her look like a goth elf. Ho ho ho. 

What could I say at this point? Do I have room to judge anyone? Here I was, trying to find a vein in my stomach. One of the dyfunctional wonder twins was trying to find a vein in her foot while her brother now was smoking crack in my bedroom. This day just keeps getting worse and worse. 

The bathroom has no shades, no curtains. I can see in the room across the airwell from me. The garbage is piled almost to the ceiling to the point the cat is so disgusted, it is hanging out the window. Fortunately, the owner isn't home. He is an old 300 pound convict. I've heard from one of the working girls he likes to wear a diaper and be coddled like a baby for $20. I always forget that while I am half naked looking for a vein this guy is probably touching himself with a ham sandwich for lube or whatever else gross shit he does in there. 

Seriously, fuck this day, fuck my life, fuck this shit. I got the vein now and it blows out. My tiny bit of drugs is lost in the no rush zone. I am left with a burning pain in my stomach, empty pockets, and I have to figure out an excuse to get the siblings out of my spot. Another day in junkie paradise. 

All the characters in this story existed. The truth is stranger than fiction. 


Thursday, December 25, 2014

Happy Holidays

To all my readers- I wish you a SAFE holiday season. I hope you are with people that care for you. If you are alone, remember this pain is temporary. A solution can be a moment away.

Love Tracey

Monday, December 22, 2014

The reason



I started crying. I can’t go on like this. I thought I was crying but I guess it was a dream. My life is like one endless dream where I no longer feel anything.

There was a time when I had dreams. I had aspirations of being a lawyer. I had thought that one day I could see myself achieving things. In the depths of my depression, I had made myself a promise. I had a razor blade in the bathtub as a 12 year old. I had wanted so badly to slit my wrists. Some children seem born happy. This was not the case for me. I was born with a sadness that hung around my head like the fog in my brain. I had wanted to kill myself at 12 years old. I was fat and sad and alone. With no one to talk to, I traced my legs up and down with a razor blade. I promised myself I would never try to kill myself. I was strong. I could find a way to survive my feelings. 

Unfortunately, that way seemed to involve heroin. I wish it wasn’t the truth, yet it is, it was for me. Heroin saved my life and took it from me. So many years spent in the depths of despair. I was fumbling in my dark room, watching tv and vegetating. By the time I was 17, no amount of weed, or alcohol, or LSD, or anything else could make me feel better. I wanted to be one of those kids that stood in the corner and could laugh at the colors. Instead, I was always so trapped inside myself.

Opiates made me talk. They made me not care if I did not have all the answers. I had been trying so long to have everyone like me. Suddenly, magically, I know longer cared. Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you too. It was awesome.For once in my life, I was no longer crippled by expectations. Until my solution became my much bigger problem.

Then the sickness came. I was not expecting it. Nor could I have anticipated the slow decay of my morals. Just this once, no one will know, and well fuck it became my personal slogans on my campaign for Team Heroin.The voices came and went. The voices inside my head, the ones that said DON'T do this, I pushed them down, down, down. 

I woke up one morning. It was a few years later. I was skinny and old and scarred and scared. There I was was in the mirror. I woke up from a long dream. I had broken my promise. I was killing myself a unit at a time. I was committing suicide on the installment plan. My time was nearly up.

No one has to love me anymore. No one has to believe me. No one has to listen when I whisper "hey I know how you feel".  I am not inside your head. I don't walk around in your skin.

Yet- There are some things I do know.  I do know- that burden is heavy. I can also tell you, there is room for you at the other side. Maybe today isn't the day but you CAN stop using. In fact, you WILL stop using. All of us stop at one time or another. Find a way. Find a reason. Find a purpose. Find a dream. 



I love you readers. My dream for you is a safe and happy holiday. 



Sunday, December 14, 2014

Christmas Time Again

I feel uncomfortable in a church, even if it is in some type of reception area. If there is a GOD, what does he/she/it think about me? I used to pray so hard. I cried as a child when they killed Jesus on those Easter mini-series. Why mommy why? Why did they kill Jesus? I was so confused. I remember when I was 12 years old, a kid died running laps in gym class. I thought God was there for us. So, I tried a little harder. I read the Bible on my own at 14 one summer. That was some super boring stuff. Pages and pages of this person begat that person. I did like the New Testament though. When Jesus turned over the table in the temple, that was some bad ass stuff. I saw Jesus as punk rock. he didn't want material things or to be part of the system. He wanted to change the system. That put me at peace with God. I wasn't sure if God existed, if Jesus was his son, if he was born in a manger. But I knew I was one poor soul living out in the lonely world. I needed to believe in something besides dope as my only God. So, I agreed to come to this Church for Christmas. Hopefully, old Testament God won't turn me to stone.

This time of year the church people and the do gooders of the world take a day here and there to be kind to us homeless. 362 days in the calendar, they simply cannot be bothered. They are easily irritated if someone in front of them in line pulls out food stamps. They want to know if he paid for that steak with his welfare check. "Are my tax dollars going to buy that beer?" they wonder in disgust as they step over my feet. Compassion comes in the form of blankets, socks, and warm beverages.

The irony of public benefit is that the agony people are put through for $175 every two weeks is rarely worth the money. Welfare requires waiting in line and in hard chairs 8 hours, being finger printed, and asked to sweep the streets. The same job pays $20 to city employees but the city gets people on welfare to do the job for $15 a day. Fuck that shit. The only time I had welfare for a few months, I had a raging case of Hepatitis A. Your eyes and skin turn a yellowish color. Your piss turns brown and your poop turns white. Needless to say, my worker had pity on me and let me stay home for a month to get better. I took a week off from turning dates but could not afford much longer with a habit to feed and rent that was $120 a week. When I decided I no longer was willing to prostitute myself to keep a roof over my head, I ended up on the streets.

I lied to get in here today. My drag queen friend and I both lied. I think we were supposed to be much younger. We are not the target homeless. People have less compassion for us at 25 and 26 respectively. We didn't actually lie, we just blended in. I looked much younger than me age. Or at least I thought I did. The men used to pick me up and ask me- how old are you? I would tell them 22. They would tell me to get out of the car until I told them NO NO. I am 16. They wanted me to be 16. They were not interested in me being of age. The specifically wanted me to be younger. One guy took me to a trailer right before Christmas. It was on the side of a property he owned. Inside the trailer, he had a bed. It was a princess bed, with a canopy, like the kind a 10 year old girl would have. With dolls on the side on makeshift shelves. He wanted to fuck me on the princess bed. People wonder why I can't stop using drugs. Because I know there are men out there pretending to be normal while they take young hookers on princess beds. I tried to shut this out of my mind while I got passed the hot chocolate.

I haven't seen my family in a year? Two years? Another Christmas spent alone again. My friend tries to cheer me up by handing me a new pair of shoes. They have long tables full of donated items. We can all take a few things. These are $20 shoes from Payless that hurt my feet within 20 minutes of walking in them. At least they look nice. I would get arrested in them for selling drugs to pay my rent, the day after Christmas.

I am sitting against the wall wondering if there is something I could sell here? I don't need to steal. They will just give it to me. They can give me a few trinkets but they can't give me what I need. Can they turn back the clock on the past 5 years? Can they take the needle back out of my arm? Can they repair my self worth and restore me to a feeling of belonging in the company of friends? No one can save me. No one can help me. I am out on the street again. I am full of food with a backpack full of donated stuff. I have empty veins, A broken heart, and a void in my life than can only be filled when I fell that rush. Then, it will be Christmas time again. 


Monday, December 8, 2014

I was dreaming of home

I was dreaming of home. These rooms have bright lights with no shades and dirty walls. They are perfect for finding a vein, not so good for sleeping. I fell asleep holding my knees. I was rocking back and forth. It soothes me. I don't feel so alone when I hold myself. I came to California alone. I spend most of my time with me, my cooker, and my memories.

I was dreaming of home. The cold of winter grazes my cheeks. I am rocking back and forth in my empty apartment. I have the windows open. My heart is going to beat out of my chest. I am grinding my teeth for what seems like weeks. My parents live 45 minutes away but it might as well be at the other side of the world. I am in this room, in this body, in this moment. This might be my last. Sweat starts pouring off of my forehead.

I moved out of my parents house when I was three weeks shy of 18 years old. I was still in high school. It was weird to transport myself from my apartment to high school. I thought I was so grown up. My parents agreed to help me with college expenses. I had such a bright future. I was such a bright kid. I was taking vicodin here and there. Some acid from time to time. Smoking weed every day. Drinking until I blacked out. You know how it goes.

It wasn't long before I saw a different side of the world. I lost my virginity to my first serious boyfriend my last year in high school. I thought it was true love always. Within a few years, I would be trading sex for drugs. Because that is where the drugs lead me. I had always wanted someone to love me. I grew up an overweight smart girl with glasses. I always wanted someone to love me most of all. When I took those first few pills, I saw myself the way I had always imagined. I was thinner, more confident, and most of all I did not give a damn what anyone thought. Until the next day.

I remember getting drunk and beating up my roommate. She had left rehab and seemed to always be whispering about me. I had confided in her and she abused my trust. One night, in front of a room full of people, I snapped and kicked her door in. As I was hitting her, I realized all the anger of my 18 years of Earth was coming out. I could have killed her. I stopped myself. I couldn't take my emotions. It wasn't her, it was me. I pulled her up and told her to get the fuck out and never come back. I destroy everything I touch.

My parents dragged themselves across town a few days later.  This was only one of two times they ever visited my apartment. They shook their heads in disappointment. How could I have done such things? How could I be such a monster? I didn't know either. I didn't know why I did anything. All I knew is that I grew up with my father drunk and my mother crying on the couch because she couldn't save him. All I knew was that I tried drugs at 7. All I knew is that there were all these things inside of me and no one cared, least of all myself.

Why did I want to try heroin? Why not? The feeling, the absence of pain, was what I craved. That feeling of fuck it and numbness that rolls over you. It is the only thing that can push crippling depression into the backseat and tells it -let me drive for awhile.  Heroin is a drug for people that think to much. Heroin is for sensitive people who have trouble relating to the world. Heroin is for the person whose words get stuck in their throat. Heroin is for the person who sees the world and wants to watch it burn. That was me.

I used to sit and dream of home. A home that never existed. I imagined a home where I felt safe. People loved me there. I was okay within my skin. I did not need to use drugs. I would nod out after injecting a half gram of infectious poison into my body withering of starvation and dream of a place where I could be accepted for myself. I never found that place until I quit using.