Friday, January 15, 2016

Low bottom User

Over the years I have written this blog, I have told numerous unflattering stories about myself. This is one that still makes me cringe.

I fell in love with with a beautiful junkie boy. It isn't hard to see why. He gave me these looks, his blue eyes pinned in such a way that I could see the gold flecks that peppered them. I wasn't thinking about any kind of relationship when I met him. The only thing I was concerned with was dope. Period.

A little over seven months ago, I was arrested trying to mix up a half gram of tar in an alley. It wasn't one of my brighter moves. Of course, when you live outside and look like a dirty junkie, that lives you with imited options in terms of places to shoot up. In a case of even worse luck, I was unable to inject in my hands, arms or feet. This made a speedy process impossible. Despite being outdoors in front of God and everyone, I would shoot up in my legs. Legs which did indeed look like I had fallen asleep and been chewed on by rats. The dope I got had a vague smell of instant coffee and reacted as such once it was placed inside my body. I was ravaged by holes. Like some kind of junkie abscess golf course, the purple and black bruises roped across my pale flesh like a the scar landscape of the moon. I had multiple infections going the day they arrested me, one so bad it stank. I was decaying inside and out. Jail, it seemed, my actually save me from myself.

 I had just done a six months stretch in jail. The fifty pounds I had stacked along my stomach and thighs were melting away with my ample titties. I was wearing a 2xl in those polyester blend orange pants and sweater the jail had so graciously given to me. They gave you two sets and some used panties, some with the prior female's period stains still on them. If you got a good set, you would wash them out in the sink and let them air dry at the end of your bunk. I had zero interest in recovery during those six months. In fact, my mother had tried to arrange my transfer to a rehab. I refused. I knew I was going to get high. I was dedicated to this losing game. I did drugs in the jail. In fact, I had bought some methadone straight from the mouth of a woman who backwashed it for me into a cup after she dosed in front of the nurse. I had some dirty syringes in my locker for a few months. I had made pruno in there, alcohol made from bread orange juice and sugar among other things. I had smoked crack that had been extracted from a young girls pussy. I did draw the line on doing dope someone had dug out of their own shit. Yeah, it was wrapped but really, how much shingella got through the plastic? Fuck that noise.

I met him and he would be my whole world for a brief time. He loved me. That was what mattered. I needed to be needed. I wanted to be told that I was something more than the fucked up soul I hated in myself. We would sit next to each other and read books. We cuddled together, we shared every bag. Well not EVERY bag. You know how it is...right?

There was this one night. He had gotten some money from somewhere, probably his mom. He always had to do MORE. More as in "I need 50 units, you do 30 cause you need less" or MORE as in "I am going to do it all." In other words, a greedy fucking dope hog. They top it off with klonopin. Then I would have to watch him to make sure he didn't die of an overdose. He eventually did. Years later. But that night, he passed out with some dope in his pants because he did not trust me. He wanted to ratio it out in the morning. Then, as he slumbered in his black out, I got sick, sick, sicker. I kept looking at the bloody hit he couldn't get earlier because he was cross eyed from benzos. I took that shot out of the medicine cabinet. I gently reheated it. I strained out the blood clot. Then I drew it up and injected it. Love is blind and dope will make you stupid. It did that day.

The next morning, it was as if nothing happened because in reality, nothing really had. It was just another day in the life of a low bottom user- that user being me.


  1. Tracey... Shooting a guys coagulated old shot... That's the most insane thing I've ever heard. It makes not wanted the dope from shit seem silly. That's healthy in comparison to using someone's old blood. Even a healthy non-diseased person's blood, once old and coagulated quickly becomes a petri-dish of bacteria. You epitomized the low-down addict that's actually lurking inside every person. It's in me. I know it is. I never succumbed to anything that reckless, but if I didn't have the money, who knows. It's always easy to say, "I'd never do that!" That's a big lie to oneself. We never really know how low we'd sink, but the addict knows more than anyone. And you know more than most addicts.
    I'm happy to hear you've escaped the insanity of heroin and addiction in general. Your stories are AWESOME! And can read them all day long. I read all junkie stories. I'm one, too.

  2. Yea..
    BTW.. I take h in all ways. But really avoiding withdrawals is the name of the game for me. Getting a rush never happens anyway, or just for a very fleeting 2-minute period. Then it's the same old high. How come you didn't just smoke the tar before trying to cook it, at which point then you're committed. But to give your veins a break or to limit shooting to just a couple times a day... Why didn't you smoke it... and reserve slamming to just once or twice a day? Why don't more of you just smoke the tar here and there to spare the 2-hour ritual of looking for a vein? I only iv once a day maybe twice. I do have to have that rush. But usually I snort most bags per day. We get powder here in NYC, tar is just not an east coast thing. And yes, snorting wastes a bit. But.. not much. And also.. if you guys took better care or attempted to try to be remotely sanitary about IV, you'd cut down on 95% of the issues you guys have with IV. I NEVER once shared a needle and actually very few people have seen me shoot because I slink off to be alone. I rarely shoot in public. But yea, sure, sometimes you're too sick and sanitary rules go out the window. But I carried a tiny bottle of alcohol and only used new needles and never shared them and was always sure I was clean... Your body would still have scars, but much less so. They'd have healed much faster if bacteria wasn't in them.
    Nevermind. I know the answers to all these questions. You were a far worse addict than most addicts. And that's why your stories are amazing. Sorry, but aside from murdering for dope money, you were on about the bottom step of the junkie ladder. I mean that with high respect, I swear. Because you're far ahead of me now. You cleaned up. But I just can't imagine being so sloppy about being sanitary. I see in the HBO thing you guys all shooting and touching your skin with these utterly filthy unwashed hands. And THAT part, is avoidable. But I know, I know, it's not so easy if you're homeless.
    Anyway, I don't mean to sound like a douche. Sorry. Because I love the HBO doc. And I'm sure I could easily sink just as low as you, or lower. That's within us all. Only naïve people think they 'never do that', so to speak. And you've risen to be a normal person again. And coming from where you were, that, to me, is more impressive than if you jogged up Mt Everest. Congrats, Tracey!

    1. I don't feel like you are judging me because this isn't my life anymore 😀

  3. One of the things that I took away from your post was that you are at least coming to terms with the fact you are a user. Too many people simply deny the fact and blame others for their situation. I see that you identify the trouble, realize you need to make a change, and at least you have an outlet now.

    Eliseo Weinstein @ JR's Bail Bonds

  4. I sent you an email, hope it reaches you well. I feel the same about this post as I have all your others... resonated. I have lived all of it yet in a very different way, perhaps I was luckier than you in some ways, perhaps not. None of that matters, because we were/are on the same ride and the longer you ride it, it all just blurs together unifying us, always together in a big beautiful, and ugly mass. Suboxone is all that I know to turn to now, and your blog. Well, and of course the occasional comfort of speaking with others afflicted as I have become, which sadly does not happen enough