Saturday, May 30, 2015

No Man is an Island- guest post from a loved one

Names have been changed 


No Man is an Island

 

June 24th 2009 my phone rings.   On the other end is my wife.   For five minutes all I can hear is alternating between crying and screaming.   Finally she breaths enough to tell me her son is dead -- come home.

 

It had happened as it often does.   He had been found in his Grandmother’s bathroom cold and blue. Benzodiazepine and heroin were the cause.   He had just gotten out of detox but was also facing time for possession.   His addiction was so strong that even after getting popped for copping he went right back to the same spot and got busted again.  He was scared of the prison time that was coming.   We will never know

if it was an accident or running away from jail.

 

John wasnt always like this.  Addiction was a slow and steady progression.   The drunk wrecking of his Dad’s truck didnt stop it.   The broken ribs and punctured lung didn't make him miss a beat.   The near death experience of just making it thanks to a helicopter ride to the hospital wasnt enough.  Rock bottom did not come.

 

What followed was my wife sinking into depression.  Suddenly my sweet wife

had “major depression disorder with suicidal ideation”.  What followed were

attempts at self-harm and psychiatric hospital stays.   After much hard work

things began to look better.   Lindsey was starting to return toward normal.

Ironically, drugs (antidepressants) allow her to function.

 

Meanwhile her daughter Amber is pregnant with Ruth.   Sure enough, the father gets popped with possession.   In July of 2010 Amber moves back home.   It’s a crowded home but it is our home.   Everyone has a bedroom.  It just is

unusual to have five humans in our house.

 

When Baby Daddy gets out of jail a year later two of the family leave our house.   Things are looking up.   We go months without seeing Amber.   When I do see her she has lost so much weight.   She is

now an active addict still nursing Ruth.

 

What followed is not uncommon.   We dug into our savings to pay cash for a doctor and suboxone.  Things went well for about nine months. Ruth and Amber were back in my home.   Amber was

on ORT and attending meetings. Then it happened.  Heroin returned and let her know who’s boss. Suddenly she and Ruth were gone again.

 

This time was different.   Off to find a lawyer who could help us fight for custody.  Suddenly Lindsey is on the stand recounting Amber’s addiction.   Testifying that your daughter is not a good. Mom is heartbroken.  Testifying that she is unable to raise her child because of addiction hurts. Lindsey wins custody of Ruth and crosses the Rubicon.  

 

It has been a year.

 We’ve no end in sight.

Amber refuses any help.

Perhaps we’ll save Ruth.

Perhaps it will be for naught. 

In the end, it is a crap shoot brought on by addiction.

 

My point seems to be ‘no man is an island’.

 If you are going to use, use as safely as possible, (see harm reduction).  

 You may not believe it but someone will be bawling if you were suddenly gone. 



Friday, May 29, 2015

The World is a Better Place with You in it

It wasn't often that I felt love. 
It wasn't often that I felt anything.
Except the prick of that needle. 
Except the sting of my tears. 

I grew up to believe that love was some complicated mess of emotions never to be trusted. As a child growing up in suburban Ohio, having a two parent household wasn't a luxury. It was business as usual. Until I was much older, I never understood why my parents stayed together when it seemed like they stopped loving each other many years prior. He drank and she tried to get him to stop drinking. It was like like Ying  and Yang, the darkness and the existing in the same place. They were connected yet always apart. 

It would be a stretch to say that no one loved me. My family certainly had problems but loving me wasn't one of them. I was easy to love. I was a chubby little smart ass kid who wanted to know everything. I used to kids in the school gum and candy to get them to talk to me. I was a trick before I knew what one was- always reaching in my pockets to get you to love me. I hated myself. I used to burn my fingers with candle wax. I cut myself with knives. I had never heard of anyone else "cutting". I am not sure if the term existed then. I just knew I wanted to feel better. 

Middle school was hell for me. I was teased relentlessly about my weight. In addition, there wasn't plus sized clothes for fat girls. i had to wear adult maternity clothes. The more people teased me, the more i ate, the fatter I became. I was diagnosed as having depression around the sixth grade. I would get this unshakable feeling like I wanted no longer be part of the world. I used to think about suicide before I knew what it meant. one entire school year, I didn't eat lunch. I saved my money to buy toys while I spent time in a classroom with a teacher. 

I feel like I didn't find opiates, they found me. I lost fifty pounds around the age of 16. I was still chubby but I guess I was no longer on "orca the killer whale" status. I got into goth, punk rock, metal. I  had smoked pot and drank here and there. Nothing worth noting except maybe puking on some warm Pabst Blue Ribbon I stole with a friend from my dads trunk. 

I had a boyfriend with red hair and freckles. He was constantly telling his friends he didn't really like me. I remember him coming over after I had my teeth pulled. I had my own bottle of pain pills my parents let me manage. I took those pills and everything in the world seemed fucking beautiful for the first time in my life. He sat next to me on the bed in my room in my parents house while I felt that feeling. That feeling of numbness and happiness at the same time. I realized that magic bottle contained "I don't give a fuck" and "I love you" at the same time. I laid back on the comforter my father had inherited when his mother died. I smiled. I really smiled. 

Then the feeling wore off. I was back to painful reality. 

I hate to admit this- I wanted to be a junkie. I just didn't know what it meant. I didn't know I would trade everything for that feeling. We all know the progression. I moved out of parents house to go to college. I received an A+ in alcoholic foolishness. I started getting into fights. I was never a good drunk. I was either crying in the bathroom or trying to stab my friends. 

I had become close friends with someone with a small circle of friends that used harder drugs. That is how it happens. Vampires make vampires- no one wants to die alone. I held out my arm a year later to join the secret society of the spoon.  

When a person tries heroin, they think to themselves- how did I ever get high off of two Vicodin? Like seriously, what? The high isn't that different. You just FEEL elevated to a new level. 

What can I say about my life as a heroin addict? What do you want to know? People have preconceived notions. It was great at first. I thought I was on some great adventure, like I was "On the Road" with my "Naked Lunch" until I hit the fear and loathing. The thing I want people to know is that being a heroin user doesn't make someone a bad person any more than not using heroin makes someone else a good person. Even in circles where people use opiates, when you say "heroin" people act like their pharmaceuticals somehow make them superior. All aboard the the SS junkie, you are in the same boat sweetie. We all like those receptors FULL. Am I right? 

What came next was a horror show:
- homelessness 
- degrading myself for drugs (begging)
- no periods
- no sex drive
- horrible constipation
- horrible cycles of use and withdrawal
- inability to have relationships 
- inability to function as a human

This is the tricky part. I was suicidal without drugs. I was suicidal BEFORE drugs. So I found it difficult to find a reason to stop because heroin feels GOOD. Can I get a witness? Thank you. To get clean means giving up the one thing you think feels good. Getting clean was a massive abyss I didn't want to face. What if I got clean only to discover I was the fucked up person I already believed myself to be?  When I looked inside myself, I had no idea if I was capable of feeling anything that wasn't dictated by and served to me in a plastic wrapper. 

I understand why people use. I understand why people get clean. I want you to live, reader. I want you to be safe no matter what your choices. If you read this, I want you to know that I love you. I won't give up on you. Why? The world is a better place with you in it. 


Don't fucking die on us. 
Be safe. Talk to someone. Ask questions. 

Live. 






Thursday, May 28, 2015

Skeletons in my closet- Guest Post

Skeletons in my closet

"You are only as sick as your secrets.." a phrase that has stuck with me for many years, as it is some of the truest words that I read in all my years.

It means your sickness can be measured by the secrets you keep. The more you have, the sicker you are. I suppose it is intended to suggest that talking about your problems is healthy, while keeping them secret is unhealthy. I've carried secrets with me for as long as I can remember, and rarely would they ever be exposed to another person. There are secrets that I will take to my grave, but hopefully this inside look into my life will be the outlet for me to finally let them out.

There have been things that have happened to me in life that I am ashamed of, the fear of being looked at differently because of these secrets is why I keep them inside. There are 2 people thatyou should   never lie to in life, your doctor and your lawyer...and during my psych appointment I've

let out some of my deepest secrets but never went into full detail like I should. My mind is a complex and twisted place and even I can't understand the reason I think the things that I do.

From strange sexual perversions and fantasies all the way to my countless addictions, secrets have always been a normal part of my life. My mind always seemed to operate on a different level than others, and I never understood wby I am the way I am. I have questioned my sanity to endless degrees, and just have accepted the fact that I cannot be completly honest with everyone.

While some people do know some of my secrets, tbere isnt a single person I can tbink off that really knows ALL of me..because I havent found someone that I can open up to and trust completely. That is why I hope tbat when Im gone, these words will help everyone understand what made me the way I am. If i ever kept a secret from you, it wasnt your fault, it was my inability to trust others as well as admit my sickness.

There is a darkness inside of me that I could never quite understand, Id have thoughts or feeling that were so strange that I would be forced to ask myself "what the fuck is wrong with me, why do I think like this". 


Whatever chemical imbalance I was born with has kept me riding that fine line between genius and insanity my entire life. My actions at times even mystify myself, and if I cant understand my own madness, how will the rest of the world?

I hide my addiction to drugs because of the stigma associated with drugs of choice...its not like  hiding smokin weed or a few drinks. No, Im hiding either an expensive   heroin habit, a love for endless sex on crystal meth, or my addiction to lacing my weed with crack cocaine in order to get the high I needed. These drugs have all controlled my life to different degrees.  

Being seen as an addict, people to see you as a dopefiend. I chose to hide my addictions, not be seen as a junkie. Inside I know the truth.As long as I can play it off , I can maintain my image of being somewhat normal.

I was born a drug addict and the drug abuse by both of my parent is the strongest contributing factor to me being "different". Cocaine and alcohol were their favorites. I recall my father telling   that my mother may have been huffing glue and drinking during her pregnancy as well. 


My father was pimp in New York City for quite some time. During  this time, he also had a pretty good drug habit. He said his habit would cost 200-300 a day when he was shooting heroin, and cocaine was part of his daily cocktail. My father was a successful pimp because of his ability to con women into doing whatever he wanted. He had the gift of gab. He could talk a cat off the back of a fish truck. I'm sure he was able to sell his hoes dreams with ease, keeping them on the hook by keepin them hooked. Half dope dealer, half pimp, and 100% smooth talker...he maintained a stable of 3-5 women that always did as they were told.

As a young child I would hear the stories he would tell about New York, as if it was part of a movie he was recalling. I would be fascinated by my fathers stories and they way he would tell them....some kids got bedtime stories before bed, I would get drunken war stories of the pimpin and dope game told to me. Dad would let me stay up with him and he would replay memories to me in such detail while pouring drink after drink. These arent normal things to hear as a 5 year old, and it definitely made me grow up much faster than I should have. But if it wasnt for the game he passed on to me, I wouldnt be who i am today.

My father was what you may have considered a typical pimp, he always drove a brand new Cadillac, had his bitches on the track making money, and he was always dressed as fly as could be. For most of my life I only recall my father wearing a suit, usually a 3 piece and a brim hat. I look at my fashion sense now and it definitely rubbed off on me. A leather jacket and a fedora were always part of his ensemble...sharp as a razor blade and as fly as he could be at all time. My father only owned 2, maybe 3 pairs of sneakers. He had a closet full of Stacy Adams shoes in every color and style you could think with a pair to match every suit he had and he had a shitload of 3 piece suits. In my early years I lived with my mother after they divorced, and I can recall him always driving a brand new car when he would pick me up for his visits. A black leather 3/4 trench coat was his trademark, along with leather interior in most of his cars. Monte Carlos, Chryslers and Cadillacs were his favorites. Most of the cars I have owned as an adult had a spinner knob on the steering wheel  aka a "suicide stick"..a small knob that allows you to turn the wheel with ease, and I recall seeing one on my fathers Monte Carlo as a child in the 80's. It's 2015 and my car parked outside has one on it now. I can picture him rollin through the streets of New York City, turning corners in his Cadillac and "checking his traps"...making sure his women were on the job and getting that money. My father could easily be called SuperFly, because of his smooth swagger and overall demeanor, very distinct. If he stepped into a room you noticed him immediately and could feel his aura of importance before he even spoke a word. You KNEW he was somebody, but you just didnt know who. 

As a young child I always saw my father as the epitomy of a business professional, as he could have easily passed for a doctor or lawyer if you passed him on the street. His vocabulary was a vast collection of words and phrases that confused me as a child, but he made it a point to always teach them to me. 


When I didnt know what something meant or how to spell it, he would bring out that huge dictionary and make me look it up. There were no easy answers with him, he definitely made me earn my education. I hated it back then, but I sure the hell respect it now. I naturally grew a talent for reading and spelling and was definitely more advanced then most kids in my class because of his constant lessons.

While I grew up faster and matured quicker than most children my age, it wasnt always in a negative way. I was trained by my father at a level that was far more advanced than other kids my age. This always made kids my age seem boring and as I grew older I could hold a conversation with adults better than I could with my so called "peers."  I was once given a series of tests in 6th grade to determine my aptitude and the teachers were blown away by the results. I was told tbat I had scored closer to high school and college levels than junior high, and my teachers wanted to place me in the advanced classes. There was just one problem, I hated school and was extremely rebellious to all forms of authority, which didnt mix well with the level of potential they saw within me. I was somewhat of an outcast and a loner for most of junior high. I had gained noteriety in elementary school for being a troublemaker, always gettin into fights, and being the kid that got caught with cocaine in 3rd grade.

I stole a bag of coke from my fathers room and took it to school to show my friends...one thing led to another and the smart ass girl in my class ratted me out. I was called into the office and searched, they found the dope sack and confiscated it. It seems that someone in the office had a taste for nose candy because my bag of coke somehow came up missing from the office, the cops were called and a report was made. Surprisingly,  I didnt seem to get in much trouble for it and didnt realize how serious it was...until the drug task force kicked in our front door the next day. I was playing with my GI joes in my room while dad had a bitch in his room and was gwttin high...I heard a knock at the doo and knew to NEVER answer the door...then I heard them yell "POLICE DEPARTMENT, OPEN THE DOOR, WE HAVE A SEARCH WARRANT"....and then the front doos seemed to explode and I ran back to my room...12 uniformed officers and detectives flooded our 2 bedroom apartment and tore apart the place looking for dope.

Yeah, I knew I was in deep shit...the fucked up thing about it was while my dad was smokin crack in the next room, I was in my room and was playing with sugar...and when I say "play" I mean I was making lines of sugar and snorting them to imitate what I had been seeing done countless times before.
I remember trying to hide it when the cops came into my room but they saw it....and I was only in 3rd grade, just a kid (but I already knew how to line up and snort dope...crazy right?)

Yeah..hahahhahaa....my childhood was definitely different than most...

To be continued......

Friday, May 22, 2015

Not today

I used to firmly believe that drugs were not my problem.
I believed the lack of drugs was my problem.
If I only had an endless supply of drugs, I would be fine.


It was a scorching summer morning, a rarity for San Francisco. It had been impossible to sleep the night before. The heat of the approaching midday made me feel as if my eyeballs were going to explode. I felt as if I was going to have a seizure. My legs were twitching so hard, they felt as if they were going to rip off my body. Speed will help, he said. Just try this, he said. Complete and utter misery was what I was calling it.

My friend and camp mate had given me an ultimatum. I needed to kick heroin or else. Everyone was "sick of my shit" or whatever that meant. We camped in a perfect spot between an empty lot and a restaraunt that was closed. The only cars that were parked up here were the occassional guy jacking off before he went home to the wife. You would see the bundle of tissues stuck to the sidewalk after he left. He had pulled them out of the tissue dispenser shaped like a chihahau his old lady had mounted to the dashboard. I felt sorry for these guys. Their women had them so pussy whipped they couldn't even keep their dirty magazines at home. They would dump them next to their pile of dna and occassionaly we would find a half used bottle of vaseline.

Sick of MY shit, I thought to myself. It was so hot out, I was sticking to my blankets. It was day two now. I wasn't able to go anywhere, do anything. If the cops came to ask us to move, I would be unable to pack up my gear. My friend and I had an agreement. He would give me a hit of speed every eight hours until I was done kicking. There was one, small, painful catch. Fuck speed. Seriously. Fuck this shit. Plus, he wanted me to smoke it with him. This means I had to sit and listen to him talk and talk and talk and talk. My friend had been to rehab before so he was the fucking expert on being clean.

"What you need to do," he told me as he puffed on the glass dick "is go to some meetings after you quit."

I laughed to myself. "Meeeetings. yeah right," I told him "I went to a meeting when I was 17. My friend and I went to a meeting. Then we got the beers out of the trunk and drank in the parking lot. Fuck meetings."

I was laying here with fucking leg cramps that felt like I was kicking myself in circle. I was twitching like a fish out of water. I leaned over and dry heaved into the street. I didn't have the energy to get up. My eyes were starting to water when I heard a voice. It was the voice of HOPE. Not a person named hope. This was the voice of an angel. I heard the voice of someone who I know does heroin. He was asking for a syringe a few shopping carts down.

"TOM!" I screamed. I didn't hear any movement.

"TOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!" I screamed even louder. That made him move.

I heard footsteps then I heard someone moving my tarp. I saw him there. In the hot morning sun, he looked like the angel of mercy. There was a light behind him. He was illuminated like the patron saint of junkies. He was delivered here to save me.
I rolled over to my side.
"Tom," pleading with him "Please help me. Dude, I am so sick."
"Buttt," he stuttered "You are supposed to be kicking."

I gave him the stink eye. I curled myself in a ball. "Tom," I told him "please fucking help me."

He plopped himself down. "Okay, Okay." he assured me. "I don't have much." He was fucking lying of course. I knew him. Plus, he owed me one. When he got out of prison, I fucked him, just because. It was a welcome home present of sorts. He owed me and I was collecting.

He ripped the plastic off the top of a ten pack and started getting busy. Tom was a fucking tight ass with his drugs. Seriously. He irritated the fuck out of me but I needed him. We were both in deep shit if my friend came back. I needed someone to blame. It would be all Tom's fault. He tempted me.

Tom gave me the medicine which I took in record haste. I felt human again for a split second. Tom was fiddling around next to me. I could see he had lost most of the muscle tone he had gained in his 16 months in prison. He still had the semi skater boy six pack and a tan. He wasn't even old enough to grow a real moustache but he was old enough to go to prison for breaking into too many cars. Isn't that a bitch?

"TOOOOOOMMMMMM," I heard a voice call "What the fuck dude?!"

There goes the neighborhood. My camp mate ripped off the sheets. Tom was exposed mid-register for God and everyone to see. There it was. That look of fucking disappointment. My camp mate was pissed.

"Fuck you Tracey. Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU!" he yelled.

"It was only a rinse," Tom told him as he threw the dirty needle over the adjacent fence. "I'm out of here."

That cheap bastard had only given me a rinse. Dick. My camp mate started throwing some of my shit over the fence. It wasn't long before he started crying and yelling at the same time.

"Fuck y,y,.." he couldn't get the words out. He flopped down next to me with two tall cans wrapped in a brown paper bag.

"Is that for me?" I asked. I perked up immediately. Saint Ides. My favorite. A nice cold beer on a hot fucking day. Yes!

My camp mate wiped the tears and sweat from his face. He smelled like a combination of nail polish remover crossed with stale beer. He had been up a few days. The heat was getting to him. He was too tired to watch over me. He was too tired to worry about my drug problem. He had one of his own to feed. He cracked open the beer. He put it against his forehead. He smiled at me.

"You are such a fucking bitch Tracey," he told me. "I love you but you are a total bitch." He crushed his beer in one long gulp then curled up next to me. It was going to be a long ass day. I cracked open my beer. I leaned back against him. I was fiending now. I needed more drugs. I needed to fill this empty tank. There would be other times for me to quit heroin. Not this time. Not today.




Sunday, May 17, 2015

The Morning After

I noticed him from a 1/2 a block away. I was in my own world, to say the least, but he caught my attention. I noticed a small figure rocking back and forth. I wasn't sure who it was at first. These alleys drew a cast of characters. Because they were a few streets away from both the male hustler bars and the corners were females sold there services, anyone could turn up near my encampment. These people were transient. They came and went. Or I should say they came, they got paid, and they left. People like myself, we were the ones who were left holding the world on our shoulders.

I lived here. I didn't not live in San Francisco. I did not live in the Tenderloin. I did not live- I existed. I was here on the fringe of human activity. I could scurry away like a rat when I was approached. I wasn't good enough to exist in the world of normal people. I found a place in Fern alley. It was close to a liquor store, a gas station where I could use the bathroom and a movie theater. It was within 100 yards of where I laid my head, if I actually decided to sleep. There was a constant trickle of dates moving past me on their way to lose themselves in a dark room. My life played out with the ferocity beyond anything they could see up on the screen.

As I got closer, I noticed the familiar face. He was small for a male. I couldn't really call him a man. It seems out of place. We were so young then. He was 5'8" and slight in build. Heroin didn't help his appearance. his skin looked almost translucent in the noon sun. He was rocking back and forth on my blankets. This wasn't unusual. As a resourceful junkie, I would charge people who did not have the time to make it back to their apartments to fix. For a healthy cotton, you could use my space. For $5, you could get a few syringes. If you got me high, all of this could be yours AND I would watch for the police. Before judging- Like hey didn't you get all that shit for free- I would stop people dead in their dope sick tracks.

"If that is the way you feel bro" I told them "go find another place."

"But...But...But..." they would stutter.

I would sit my ass right in the middle of my blankets and not budge. A shopping cart make for an A-MA-ZING cover most of the the type. It was a mobile shooting gallery on wheels. Just pay my price of admission.

My little friend was rocking back and forth on my blankets.

"I couldn't find the outfits", he told me. His hands were shaking.

I knew something was wrong then. I always kept a bundle of new syringes in a black lunchbox under my sweatshirt at the bottom part of my shopping cart. I would sleep with them under my head. People were sick here. They would use your syringe and put the cap back on like nothing had happened. More than once, I had been sold a dirty syringe when I was told it was a new one. The person would use a match head to burn the cap back on. The only way to tell would be the fact that there would be some condensation in the section where the plunger hid under the needle. Dirty skank ass dope fiends selling used syringes. Was nothing fucking sacred?

I grabbed my kit "Let me help you Ricky," I told him. Ricky had come here from the East Coast. He was forced out of his house because he was gay. I am not sure how he ended up here. I only knew he was one of the only trustworthy junkies I ever came across in this world.

Ricky rocked back and forth as he tried to get out the dope. The amount of drugs I have seen him do was completely insane. His habit was only matched by his ability to pull in money. For some reason, the dates loved him. That fresh face must have done it. He said he was 19 but he looked 14. The men who came to this world loved someone like that. They liked to find someone young to violate.

As I watched him prep his wares, I noticed something different. "Where did you go last night?" I asked.

He started rocking even harder. "I went to L.A.'s house last night," he told me. He pulled the lace out of his boot. "He told me he was going to give me some money for dope if I did some speed with him."

I assume he got his shot. I was busy looking for cops. He tapped my leg.

"That was the last thing I remember", he told me in a gravely voice. He pointed towards the cooker.

"There," he told me "I left you something."

I was grateful. I was sick. He left me just what I needed.

"Can I sit here with you for a little while Trace?" he asked me. He was in no condition to go anywhere. I saw him curl up inside of himself. He went to a place where things were safe. He went to a place where he was surrounded by the world yet he was totally alone. He was in a place where there was no pain.

I wanted to join him. I waited a few minutes. I sat down next to him. We didn't have to talk. I already knew what happened to him. Someone got a 16th of speed for finding Ricky. L.A. was a speed dealer who liked to rape "boys" as he called them. They started out willing. He would give them so much speed the "boys" would be out of their minds with the legs and everything else in the air. L.A. was HIV positive with not a condom in sight. I had never been to his place but I knew what happened there. At the end of the night, he had handed Ricky $100 to make it seem like it had never happened. It wasn't rape if he paid them. If he paid them, they were to blame.

I wasn't sure I wanted to take his drugs. He would need them later, to try to forget. Unfortunately, we lived in a city full of people like L.A. I needed this drugs to forget my own rapes.

I did my shot and sat next to Ricky. We both nodded out in the sun. I sat there next to him. We didn't need to talk. We had heroin. In the end, that was all that mattered.


This is based on a real person and a real incident, not a composite of different people. 


Thursday, May 14, 2015

I can pretend

He tossed the uncapped syringe at me, narrowly missing the side table. I eagerly grabbed my share of the drugs. I made a mental note to myself- yell at him later- as I started to wrap the rubber tie around my thigh. I was already naked from the waist down. Sometimes, I could find a vein right next to my snatch. My skin tight boxer shorts got in the way. I wore leggings under boxer shorts because I felt like it made me less rapeable. In this lifestyle, any female was seen as a whore with little ability to say no. I figured if I passed out, the perpetrator would have to make some serious effort to cut off my underclothes.

"I took 50 and I gave you 30", he told me. As if this was okay somehow, because he told me. Offense number two.

I wiped off my vein with an alcohol swab. I am not sure why I bother anymore. It seems like every month I am getting another fucking abscess. This shitty tar heroin. Cut with shoe polish, baby laxatives, and coffee. It smells like Folgers instant coffee in my cooker "the best part of waking up...is chivah with this cuuuuttt." I would sing this like the Folgers jingle from the commercial. I had to have a sense of humor about my shitty circumstances.

I finally stab the barbed rig into my skin. I haven't gotten to the exchange in a few days. I am using up 10 to 20 syringes every single day trying to find one usable spot. I hate this fucking guy. I hate how it takes him two fucking seconds. I hate the fact that he thinks he needs more than me. He is so full of shit. He doesn't realize I already got hooked up by the people I copped for earlier. That is what took so long. If he wasn't so busy smoking a rock, he would have noticed I wasn't sick. If you are down to $10 and you are dopesick, WHY BUY CRACK? This makes zero sense. ZERO.

I feel the warmth come over me for a moment then the moment is gone. I look over at him. He is starting to suck his own dick. Not literally. he wouldn't bother to suck it anyway. It never gets hard. He might let someone else suck it if he needed the money. He says no but he gay dude upstairs tells me otherwise. Whatever. The difference between a straight guy and a gay one is a half gram.

"Honeyyyyyyyyy....." he tells me with that gravely voice "Come cuddle with me."

This fucking guy. We were up all night fighting over what we were going to do with "our" money in the morning. He meant my fucking money but to him, it is ours. Fighting over drugs we didn't have. I got tired of waiting so I scoured the open air market for people who were too scared to approach the dealers. Some out of towners got me high plus the dealer gave me a bag for the customers. I got that bag shoved in the last place he would look- next to my tits. God knows the last time he grabbed them.

I am tired. Tired of this fucking life. Tired of this "relationship". Is this the best I can do? I curl up next to him. I put my head on his skeletal shoulder blades. For a second, I can lay on the bed. I can pretend he really loves me. I can pretend we will kick dope some day. I can pretend I will leave this life behind one day.

What is that smell? He burnt my hair with his cigarette. Ugh. Fuck my life.





Thursday, May 7, 2015

This was my life

"Shhhhh. Shhhhhhh!!!" he tells me. "You hear that? They are out there."
Oh my, I think to myself. This is why you should never EVER get a date some crack.
"There is nothing out there" I tell him.
I see the sweat start beading up on his forehead. He starts to unbutton his shirt as he moves towards the window.
He hisses "turn out the lights!"
I am not turning out the fucking lights. I know this for a fact. This is my room. I am not turning of the lights and getting stuck with this dude. He is pretty big but I can take him if necessary. I keep a knife under my pillow. There is also a broken pool cue under my bed. In reality, I just need to holler out the window. My room is just below my homey. He is up there selling speed. He would run down in an instant if he isn't up there tweaking and freaking with some delicate flower that hit her prime about ten years back.

This dude, Ali, he is full on paranoid now. He starts stroking his dick through his pants as he looks through the window. My friend suggested I hang out with this man. He works at some kind of important job during the week. Then, on the weekends, he likes to spend hundreds of dollars on drugs and company. The last time I hung out with him was equally fucked up.

"First, I eat your pussy," he told me. "Then I smoke the crack." Ha. that didn't happen. He never got off the floor in the bathroom. He just handed me money to leave. I think he wanted someone to keep him from digging at the carpet or tearing up his face. I just wanted him to buy me some heroin. I was willing to hang out. This was getting ridiculous.

"Ali," I told him "Don't start this shit again."

He grabbed for me in a way he thought was playful. I pulled his hand off my upper arm.

"Ali," told him again "I need some heroin. You can hang out here but I need heroin. I can get it downstairs."

He was now fully sweating  from his forehead to the back of his hairy hands. It was simply amazing. He was like a crackhead wookie in a polo shirt. I am not sure what was in that pipe but it was cold outside and this man was sweating like there was some fire in the devils dick.

"If I give you $20, will you get me some water?" he asked as he returned to his spot at the curtain. "And some cigarettes." Now he was asking for too much. I needed at least $18. I would get him some single cigarettes from the liquor store before they closed.

 He reached in his pocket. He handed me a wad of crumpled singles, a condom, some tokens from the dirty bookstore, matches, and two twenties stuck together. BINGO. Just what I needed.

I slipped on my flip flops. I bolted out the door to get my fix. That was the last time I saw Ali. By the time I got my dope, hit up at the dopeman's house, got his cigarettes, his water, and his change a few hours had passed. When I came back to my room, the door was wide open. The window was wide open as well. I guess that crack had made the walls close in on him. He must have wandered out among the other creatures of the night never to be seen again.

I always wondered what happened to people like him. the ones who came as visitors but never became residents of the hell that overtook my daily life. The truth was I needed Ali, or someone just like him every single day to support my habit. I needed to have a crack pipe, a speed pipe, syringes, and all the connections. I needed to know all the hookers, the hustlers, the protectors, and how to avoid the police when a person was driving their wife's car. I was a creature of opportunity. I was a parasite and a host at the same time. This was my life.





Sunday, May 3, 2015

May all my dirt stain you- guest post from France

May all my dirt stain you soon
A few lines of dope for you to know.... Does it worth It? I don’t think so.
But I need them to think,
Coz they make me speak...

And I want you to know Coz you make me sick.
I ve been a prostitute, my mistake an escort girl,
A precious classy type one but I’m still a whore
Made of your blood & sharing the same last name on our mail

 Also making true your dream of a five stars hotel lifestyle
I’ve been a drug dealer, a cocaïne Hustler,
Carrying my stuff around in Paris by Night in my underwear,
I didn’t know the cold, couldn’t remember the pain,
Filling up my fancy bra with Sir Money and Brothers Dollars
To buy myself the same designer bag as yours,
So, Auntie, I’ll never be ashamed of my non possessions again.

When I was daddy’s little girl, doing it all well,
For the sake of your love, I even didn’t get a phone call, I fought most of my life, penniless, studying hard
I ve cried each night out of 15 years. Noone cared. 

Praying for my dad to come back & take me home 
Rage & Despair fed me while you never came...
A few lines of dope for you to know.... 
Does it worth It? I don’t think so.
But I need them to think,
Coz they make me speak...

And I want you to know Coz you make me sick.
I’ve been a junkie, a real one, involving needles
Holes in the arms, scars all over the body, empty Eyes.
And at the end of my spoon, next to my last fix available,
I often feel the same while the flesh is pierced by the syringe, It all comes clear.

 I weep like a poor little thing,
So Daddy doesn’t love me, they all never did. They never will.

I’ve always been bisexual, For as long as I remember
My first crushes were for classmates, I was their hidden Lover Silencious as well... 

Then a boyfriend turned me into swapping
And I’ve tried to fuck as many women as did my father, cheating
On us. Sexually, I m into girls. My Love has no Gender,
At least I m all about Love, while your sons feel like they had no mother.

When I was the pride of mummy, & teachers,
They named me the queen of Competitive Exams.
I’ve also been a bit of a beauty pageant.

 I won prices & awards But none of my people never came to applause...
So what’s the point of a success
When around there’s none
To tell you well done.
It Made emptiness
So real I couldn’t bounce again.
I met my delusions so plain...
It was no option
To go on....

A few lines of dope for you to know.... Does it worth It? I don’t know.
But I need them to think,
Coz they make me speak...

And I want you to know Coz you make me sick.
Now I’m proud & I’m strong, I’m a waste & I am a mess & I’m all yours !
This is my revenge.

And I did all that shitty Money by my own, Since this is all that matters..
& If I’m out of cash tomorrow
I’ll carry on with one of these businesses

 But this will be my last dance
As you never let me a chance...
I ended up deciding to live in peace
And without hate nor rage I m pissed Destructing myself for a bit of cash
So it won’t be long before I turn into ashes...

I ll change a bit of my pain against your shame I wish all my dirt to stain
You soon so you’ll know
All the truth about So...`

So
E-S A-S