Saturday, June 30, 2018

When You Only Have One Syringe

From 1990-1991, I had one syringe. One.

What do you do when you only have one syringe?

I started using opioids IV in 1990. The first thing ever put in my veins was some kind of vicodin or perc shit show my friend had cold water extracted. He had one syringe. That he had inherited after a cocaine binge involving three other people. This was now mine/ours/the community syringe. He bleached it, a process that frequently dries out the runner plunger. That instrument was suspect from the day it first went in my arm. I used that same syringe for the next YEAR, unable to obtain a new one.

There was my first time trying heroin, a three day binge on morphine sulphate (involving friends), a few coke binges, more heroin. Same syringe. We would sharpen in on a match book. We would use lube from a condom. There were times we would bleach it. There were times we just cleaned it with water. It was essentially a fish hook that left me bruised and damaged. Yet it was so valuable, years later when I went home to visit, I found that same syringe hidden inside my belongings. I was THAT SURE I might never get another one. It was precious. It probably passed along the Hep C to me but I loved you gal.

It's 2018 now. In Cincinnati Ohio, where I am from, there is a very small syringe exchange program that began in the last few years. The rest of the state has limited access. BUT ISN'T IT LEGAL IN MY STATE? It might be but that doesn't mean the pharmacist is required to sell them. Hep C rates are rising all over the country. There are clusters of new HIV cases. I've been contacted by people paying $5 for a new one or more.

There is more work to do.

In the meantime, I strongly suggest buying a prepaid credit card and ordering a box online then dividing among friends if nothing else is available.

I love you. XOXO Tracey

I'm teaming up with Remio to do an overdose prevention event July 13 at Art Primo in SF





Tuesday, June 19, 2018

This Week In Harm Reduction: Self Care or Self Harm

Hello Readers:
I am trying a new format for a few months. I hope you will enjoy it.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of activity. Being on the Today Show completely blew up my spot. Thank you to Jamie from Next Distro and Matt from Rebel Recovery Florida for helping me keep up with requests. More and More, my work is focusing on expanding a network of folks who want to do what I do- a mail based system to get harm reduction supplies to those who have no access. In the past few weeks, I answered thousands of messages and comments to the point I have some kind of stress related shoulder injury. I am excited that so many people wanted to weigh in on their love for people who use drugs and the need to expand services that help them. There were minimal shitty comments which is pretty unheard of when it comes to these topics. THAT gives me hope.

I love the fact that so many of you are just doing the damn thing. Passing on naloxone. Handing out syringes. You don't need a program and I love you for it. Take a box of syringes down to a homeless encampment. They will get to the right place. We are in this lifeboat together, fighting for our lives and the lives of people we love.

In the personal news, I'm trying to get my program of self care back on line. I'm a person with a long history of self harm as a coping mechanism. Cutting, eating disorders, and dysfunctional relationships have always been my go to when I am stressed. I am working away from my natural instincts and sitting with my feelings. I am not sure if I have mentioned it here but I started going back to 12 step meetings last year. It seems to be helping some. I am making a few new friends, which was desperately needed. I ignore any kind of cultish elements to focus on the positives, I also make sure to advocate for MAT and being accepting of those who are not abstinent at meetings I attend. Next year, I might not be interested but for now, I am trying this out again.

I have an event coming up at art primo in SF on July 13th. I'll be doing overdose education in cooperation with Remio's art show.

I'll be in West Chester Ohio July 5th at 7pm at the Mid Pointe Library

I also have a book reading next week outside of Monterey on the 28th of June.

Got all my health screenings today: HIV test, cholesterol, weight, iron, pap smear. 



Please excuse typos because I'm a hot mess.

Saturday, June 9, 2018

My Love for You is Endless

In the five years I have written this blog, I have written down a long series of depressing entries about my heroin addiction, my mental health, and the long uphill battle to stay off drugs. This isn't one of those posts.

Overall, my life is pretty fucking good. Let me explain. 

Every single goal I wrote on a piece of paper in rehab has been achieved. All of them. I have a cool relationship. I reunited with my family. I got my credit straight. I discharged probation. I got a good place to live. I finished school. I did all those things. 

I spent seven years on and off in therapy. Despite intermittent bouts of depression, my mental health is better than ever.

I have three great kids that love me. 

I woke up today in my bed. The blanket was clean. I was safe. 

I don't need a bunch of fancy things. I just need to appreciate the things I have. 
To be quite honest, heroin was probably the first real love of my life. I wasn't sure if I could live without it. It consumed me. I was fine with that, as long as we could be together. I truly never believed I could be without drugs. Now, I can't understand how I revolved my whole life around them. 

My love for you is endless. I may not always chose the right words, type the right things. I am not a great speller. I am not a masterful narrator. I keep this blog alive to let you know that this too will pass. That someone out there loves you. That people want you around. That you are needed.

You are fucking rad. The world needs you. 




Thursday, May 31, 2018

Thank you to my supporters (and my haters too)

We did it people! We got Harm Reduction on national television. There was a combination of non threatening sweaters, my cute kids, and life saving medication splashed across television sets while people ate their cereal. This, combined with hundreds of birthday messages, has made it a busy few days for me.

First of all, I want to thank all of the people who have trusted me to provide you with this service.

Secondly, I want to thank my friends and family who have put up with my obsession with saving lives for the past two decades.

Finally, I want to thank all of the strangers who have become friends by embracing this cause.

My main partner agencies are:
The National Harm Reduction Coalition
The DOPE Project
NEXT Distro
Rebel Recovery Florida
The Missouri Network for Opiate Reform In Recovery
Rebel Recovery Missouri
The North Carolina Harm Reduction Coalition

If you come in contact with any of these agencies, you are in good hands. There are additional agencies I work with but all of these agencies have assisted me in securing naloxone for local residents.

I am going to rest up and spend time with my kids this weekend then get ready for the next challenge.

XOXO Tracey

The Today Video



Wednesday, May 23, 2018

In Defense of Harm Reduction

This isn't a short story post or anything creative. This is about my morning.

I was invited to appear in a panel presentation this morning for an audience of approximately 200 folks. This was a criminal justice summit where the panelist were to be provided with questions around the current state of San Francisco's treatment landscape. I knew going in, it would be a tough crowd. I expected an audience of mostly probation officers and a few service providers. Instead, the place was packed to the walls with mainly service providers paid through local and state programs to work with people who use drugs and have criminal justice involvement. I expected a tough crowd. I was shocked by what I heard.

The official policy of San Francisco is HARM REDUCTION. It has been for close to two decades. Yet, I heard one provider say "we can't work with people until they are allllll the way clean" and another say extremely disparaging things about MAT while referring to the population as "dope fiends". Methadone apparently doesn't work because it didn't work for him. Insert eye roll here. Then, the idea that clients are taken advantage of sexually by treatment staff was dismissed. Readers, I was horrified. I am not exaggerating when I say, it took everything in my soul not to throw a chair across the fucking room. Everyone thinks I'm nice but trust me when I say, I was THIS close from saying some things that could have risked my job. Oh, I did mention they invited ME to this shit show.

I held my own. My colleague held his own. We got in facts over opinions under extremely challenging circumstances yet this is 2018- why are we having this conversation? Personal opinions should not dictate how clients are treated. I am tried and I am frustrated. Most of all, I am disappointment so much work needs to be done on my home court.

Excuse typos.

Friday, May 18, 2018

The Voices Start Creeping In

My background music- My Solitude Billie Holiday

Mental Health issues are a pain in the ass.

Things have been going pretty well for me for a few weeks. I traveled a lot in March and April so I have been happy to park my ass in lawn chair to watch the kids play sports. I started going to a weekly meditation meeting. I reached out to some friends. I even got new phone numbers. Then, out of the blue, the dark cloud of mental health bullshit has been rearing it's ugly head. You know the drill.

Hi Anxiety.
No one wants to hear from you.
I'm so tired.
Why aren't they returning my text.
I want to stay in bed.
Obsess. Spin. Rinse. Repeat.
You are just a ______, why bother.

Yeah fuck this voice in my head. This is the same voice that told me I was never going to be anything besides a dope fiend, that I would die with a needle hanging out of my arm. It is hard when deep in the guts of addiction or in early recovery to tune that out. It gets even harder when I cut myself off from others. I don't even have to be alone. I can cut everyone off while surrounded by people. Isolation is a state of mind for me more than it is about any kind of geographic location.

I read forums. I see people in all stages with their relationships with drugs. For me, mental health issues was the piece I had been ignoring, suppressing, and medicating. That and a fear of people hurting me. The trap house isn't a good place to discuss my overall lack of coping mechanisms but I swear I remember having long conversations with people I consider friends about what I needed to do with my life. It was another person who used drugs that initially introduced the idea that *maybe* stopping everything would be helpful to me. And it was.

I am feeling like I can't depression nap my way out of this. I am going to have to spend some time really telling my brain to shut the fuck up and push forward. I am thinking positive things for you. Tell your voices to shut the fuck up. I give you permission and invite you to take care of yourself. You deserve it.

In case you didn't see the NBC Naloxone piece.




Wednesday, May 9, 2018

Recovery and Relapse (and recovery)

As of late, many of my emails have been questions about the nature of my recovery. Firstly, I would like to say that my recovery is relevant but ultimately you have to decide what works for you. There are a few contributing factors to my discontinuation of drug use. 1. No Veins 2. Poor overall physical health especially heart palpitations from stimulant use 3. My mental health was very poor 4. I was extremely socially isolated 5. DRUGS WERE NOT FUN ANYMORE. I was just using because that had become my life. I spent from 1990-1992 deep in hardcore drug use and alcohol abuse. I got to the place I really didn't know anything else besides the lifestyle. It seemed a huge stretch that I would ever go back into any semblance of a "normal life". But I feel like that is that negative self talk that permeates late stage addiction- the lack of hope.

Recovery as a concept is not just about abstinence. Abstinence is just one in many forms of recovery. The goal is to progress to the point where you have things you enjoy doing on a daily basis and your are a slave to the next fix. Trust me, if I thought I could smoke weed I would but that shit makes me paranoid and I'm already paranoid enough from low level PTSD. If you want to try abstinence, there is going to be some pain. Withdrawal is a physical and mental mind fuck. It takes a solid week to feel better in most cases. But/and it starts to get better fairly rapidly. MAT is a softer landing, especially if you intend to stay on it but if you ever taper, just know that physical bill comes due and you will get some shitty feeling and days. PAWS fucks us all unfortunately. The depression is real and it can be deadly.

It is should be known that relapses are pretty par for the course with opioid users. We are risk takers and like to test the waters a few times. This is pretty much the norm. Unfortunately, our treatment systems are still catching on and behind the times. Tossing mfers out over one relapse is still the standard. Now, that person feels guilt/shame AND is homeless. Also, at high risk of OD death.

Whatever you decide to do, be safe.


Saturday, May 5, 2018

What Do We Do With Our Dead?

What do we do with our dead?
And what do we do with the living?

We celebrate their lives when they have died from an overdose. Grieving families and friends produce pictures from high school. There are jackets that were rarely worn in images that were quickly taken in places that person would never go again. We celebrate the spirit of the person who was taken far too soon. Oh if only we could see them again.

What of the person who is addicted who is still living? A mile, or a block, or a city from your door. A text message that is not sent. A voice you are afraid to hear. Will they ask me for a thing or tell me a story that I am not able to take in? They would really like to see you. They would like for you to touch their shoulder blade as you assure them you will always love them.

What do we do with our dead?
And what do we do with the living?

Addiction can be the living death.
Addiction can be the cause of death.
Why- if it feels like no one loves you.

People who use drugs are people first.
Love us and love them and learn to love ourselves.
Amen.





Wednesday, May 2, 2018

The Opinions of Sheep

I've been robbed at knifepoint before over dope by a person I thought was a friend. I have been burned a few times. I certainly have degraded myself on a few hundred occasions. I've stolen from the til once or twice. I have even convinced myself that my lies were true, one of the biggest crimes of them all. This post isn't about what I did or did not do. It is about the life that I lead and the pain that it eventually caused me.

Women on the streets get abused. That isn't speculation. That isn't an observation. That is a fact. I was told that my pussy was a gold mine, a treasure chest that could supply a lifetime of drugs and money. IF ONLY, I had the right management. I certainly had to pass on that bargain basement line but I did get hooked up with a stranger who said we would be running partners. He wanted to "protect me". I have been alone so long, a momentary lapse, a "why not", has turned into decades of headaches on and off. It isn't just about the drugs. It can be about the choices you make or the passive way life overtakes you.

Men get abused. Fighting for a rung on the ladder of Chaos. The expectation is that you will provide a way. No one stopped to ask you how you got here. Just don't fall asleep without your shoes tucked firmly under your head.

Trans people get abused by the world that loves to hate them. Trans women taught me how to hold down a corner, flag down a date, and cry without smearing my eyeliner. A trans man taught me how to tape up my chest so no one could tell we actually had parts that inspire sexual violence at three am when you are sleeping all alone. We are all gender neutral when we have no periods, no orgasms, no food, and no will to live unless you want me to baby. That will be $20 extra.

I never meant to get hooked up with a sociopath. Who does? Also/and who had already been in prison for manslaughter (I found out later). I did believe him when he said he would kill me though. I absolutely knew it inside the little bit of intuition a heavy nod didn't take away from me. "It was the drugs", he told me as he handed a bunch of faded roses. I am not sure where he stole them but they won't reduce the swelling on my black eye. I toss them on the sidewalk. Why not? You are going to certain going to "make me pay" one way or the other.

This hostage situation was brief. The scars are lasting. A few broken noses, a chipped tooth, three years of restraining order lasting. The chorus of white men who wrote the big book didn't explain what to do when your abuser want to make you feel powerless again. Recovery is a journey and I'm walking home. Walking to a meeting one night, I encounter him again. "It was the drugs..." he tells me. I was walking home alone to my SLE. Sober living and torn up from trauma. When the past creeps up on the present, it may not come in the form of a broken needle or a baggie. It might just walk right up to you and introduce itself as a sheep among the wolves.

You may stop using. You might not.
You may die from an overdose. You may survive.
You may look back on this time, wondering "why".
Plan on living.
Plan on sticking around,

I have been traveling so much, I have been slacking. I am back writing again.

Friday, April 27, 2018

The Southern Convening On Harm Reduction

This past week, I was deep in the heart of the Smokey Mountains for the Southern Conference on Harm Reduction. While I did everything humanly possible to talk the organizers out of having me, I was brought in to discuss the negative and positive realities of sharing stories about drug use and abuse as a woman. I was excited to attend but the trip was LONG- two flights and a forty minute car ride. The day I arrived, nothing at the hotel was open so I had to walk into the town. This involved walking along the grassy side of a busy rural highway. I channeled my inner Eileen Wuornos and hiked down to the breakfast place. The after church crowd was filing in, discussing the sermon. What was pretty clear from this trip was that Harm Reduction or pretty much anything cannot take place with some level of cooperation from the religious community. Coming from the "godless" Bay Area, this was a culture shock but not wholly surprising. 

These types of events energize me as I see there are hundreds of rational folks out there pushing for common sense drug policies. North Carolina, a red state, has over twenty syringe exchange sites including one located at a pawn shop. You have no idea how much I love this. There is no more "any door is the right door" that giving out supplies at the mfing pawn shop. There was also a wrestling show/fundraiser held at a brewery that also had a two step dance class going on. It was kind of other worldly. I have lived in GA, TN, and KY but I had forgot a lot of the flavor of the different areas. 

The Southern Harm Reduction is plugging along despite some of the worst drug laws in the nation. Poverty, race, and the stigma of being a person who uses drugs were hot topics. I was especially surprised to learn about repressive child protective service practises where parents can be separated from their children over weed. Most importantly, I think the conference highlighted that change IS happening. We ARE mobilizing. There are people that care about you. 

I also had a young person approach me and tell me I had provided the correct contacts to their friend to enable them to start the only naloxone program in the state of Arkansas. That was pretty rad. I also loaded up on shrimp and grits AND biscuits and gravy with greens. Lord help my digestive tract. It still has not recovered from the copious amounts of butter. 

I love you and want for you to be safe. 

Here is a dose of the new puppy, Buster Pimms. 


Friday, April 20, 2018

Abscesses

I want to talk briefly about my love/hate relationship with abscesses. I've had like 34 of them :(. First of all, if you inject drugs and you have never had one, congrats. I feel like the key to avoiding them is really keeping a sterile field at the injection site, using sterile water, and new syringes. Being a homeless junkie, it get REALLY hard to keep a sterile injection area. Even in the best case scenario using alcohol wipes, just the environment all around me was fucking filthy. Syringes were kept in my sock, my gross pockets, or in some kind of bag with god knows what swirling around in there. Also, as a person who injected tar, god knows what kinds of bacteria and folgers coffee I injected over the years.

Secondly, I would get super excited to pop one. So gross. So wrong. So true though. They get red, painful, and your skin gets swollen and tight. It is as if mother nature compels you to do something. They gush out gross green stuff. The human body is truly amazing. The fact that we can walk around with a part of the body rotting is crazy to me. I am in no means dismissing this as a dangerous situation- it absolutely is- unfortunately people who use drugs are put in so many dangerous situation there is a certain amount of system overload prioritizing what to deal with first.

Anyway, as I'm sitting with the new puppy in my lap I was looking at one of my scars thinking about how I used to always have some infection brewing on one limb or another, walking around like an extra from a zombie movie.

The sun is slowly creeping in to the house. I hope you are having a good day.

Reason # 1001 to get naloxone This is a message from reddit. The naloxone was used the same day it arrived:

Hey Tracey! First off thank you so much so sending that, I received it this morning and it saved my cousin's life this evening. We ( his mom and I) can't thank you enough. His mom found him unresponsive and was able to administer two shots before the ems arrived on site. My cousin is a big boy @ 6'3 & 310lbs. And there is no way my aunt (has COPD on permanent oxygen in her 60s) could have got him out of the bathroom to start any form of resuscitation. Thank you for all the selfless work you for the community, you're an angel.





Thursday, April 12, 2018

My Dog Died and Other Unexpected Life Events

Well readers this has been kind of a shit week for me. My dog Sadie, who has been my baby for the past 12 1/2 years had to put sleep Monday morning. She was 14 so it wasn't wholly unexpected but is was extremely sad. I was grateful I could be there with her to the very end. Of course, I wanted to know what drugs they were using to put her to sleep to make sure she would be feeling no pain. 

In addition to this, I threw my back out. It isn't even a cool story like "oh I was lifting at the gym" or "I was carrying this pack on a ten mile hike". I pulled a muscle in my back angrily cleaning up kid toys. It was super humbling to have to lay my old ass down. SIGH. Oh well. 

In other news, I am leading a writing workshop for women who has histories of drug use and abuse in North Carolina this month. That is pretty exciting. It's a volunteer gig which are generally the best ones. Plus, I will get to see lots of my Harm Reduction friends. 

A news crew is meeting me this week to talk about care packages. That is always nerve wracking and exciting. There is also a project starting in New York State called next distribution. They are in the early stages of doing care packs there. The seeds are slowly growing. WE are going to get the message out there. Every life is worth saving. 

Big shout to the DOPE Project here. I am loosely associated with them and have been since 2000. 

Love you friends XOXO tracey 


Monday, April 2, 2018

This is Us (Dope Fiend Edition)

Well family, another day is coming to a close. I am sitting on my bed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts figuring out how to inspire the world. In today's edition, I really want to discuss how the media portrays us. Pretty much on a daily basis, a journalist of one type of another want to get the "inside story" by interviewing current and former opioid "addicts". While some may be kind hearted and many are sympathetic, they aren't us. I look at the books coming out about the "epidemic". They aren't US either. I want to hear stories written by us.

What constitutes US:
- Have you used toilet water to fix?
- Have you gone to work dopesick?
- Have you had to drive you kid to school holding your cheeks sick?
- Have you traded a family heirloom for some pills?
- Have you washed the dope man's dishes? Watched their kids?
- Have you cried over a lost bag?
- Have you burned out all forms of credit?
- Are you on house arrest? Do you have to pee in a cup
- Have you thought subs taste like defeat at least once?
- Have you had to put your legs against the wall and pushed to poop?
- Have you nodded out on top of food?
- Have you used a syringe with the numbers worn off?
- Have you been called in on a pill count?
- Do you know what "BLOW, BLOW!!!" means
- Has anyone ever walked off with your last money?
- Do you know what squat and cough means? Or spread your cheeks?
- Have you had your dose held for a UA?
- Have you been narcaned?

I want to hear THOSE stories from US. We don't need all those to qualify. That is just a start. I want to hear about your first day at the sub clinic. I want to hear about the time you bought baking soda. I want to hear about your first week back at college. Our stories are being taken away. We need our voices heard. I am not sure how I am doing this yet. I am on the case. Nothing about US with out US.

I love you all. Fentanyl is in pretty much every part of the US drug supply. Please get naloxone.

I have had folks inquire about my day job. I run peer based mental health programs. I use my day job to help fund the care package program. There is no way I could do my advocacy without the support of my full time job. They are very understanding and I enjoy my work. 


Wednesday, March 28, 2018

"'it's so insane how this drug has taken hold over me."

"'it's so insane how this drug has taken hold over me."

Another person lost to drugs. Another person lost to the world. I have corresponded with thousands of people over the years- a few messages from time to time. This person was different. I had been corresponding with them off and on since 10/2013. That's a long fucking time. I had recently looked at their pictures, remarking to myself they must be doing well if I haven't heard from them.

Things start as they do- sniffing some pills. Then more pills. Then more pills. We started with some questions about if you could OD from snorting oxy.

"I usually do, at a minimum, 120mg of oxy a day. the average I do is about 200mg. the max is about 300mg. I haven't moved onto the needle, and I really don't have plans to"

There were some times when the using stopped. Smoking weed with friends. Taking classes. Playing xbox and paintball.

"you truly bring me hope that there are still good people left in this world"

Then a few more frantic messages. Some pictures of a swollen arm. I've started doing H. I have started shooting up.


"I fucking shot up. Fucked my arms all up.. I don't think I missed, but I had to stick myself a shit ton, and they feel bruised."

Then months of no contact.


"Hey tracey.. I don't know who else to go to right now.. but I am completely in over my head. Somehow I have managed to get up to doing 1.5g a day IV. Binged out for the last week so hard its not funny. But i've been doing at least a half g a day for at least 3 months now. I want to stop so badly "

Two trips to the sub doctor. Some benzos in the mix. A final last hope was a trip to the methadone clinic. They were doing SO well. A message about getting down to 1mg on a taper..

Then a few more words and that was that. I don't know all the details. I just know I could have written this story. This was my story. Except I did not die at 25. I didn't need to worry about fentanyl. I got off everything at 27. I consider myself lucky.

Working as an advocate, I get the bitter and periodically I get some sweet. There is more work to be done. No one should ever have to die alone like this.

I love you.
Tracey.










Saturday, March 24, 2018

Guest Post Justin M "Animal House"

I put the car in park and peered around at my surroundings. I’d driven to a brick and wood panel house, one of those houses that was obviously designed and built in the 70s. It lay under an ancient oak tree, it’s long and twisted branches reaching out over the house and front yard with their shadows giving a false sense of comfort in the midday heat. One fallen branch would easily destroy the house. A rough looking dog house was nestled at the base of the tree housing an equally rough looking mangy Siberian husky.
The husky was not the only animal I saw. In fact, the yard was infested with pets and strays alike. The house sat down the road from a low income trailer park, where parents would gift puppies to their children, not understanding how much dedication and money raising a dog truly takes. Some of these neglected and forgotten pets inevitably migrated to this house, where the owner set out food every day for all of the unwanted dogs as well as her pets.
I turned off the ignition and opened my door, stepping out into the sweltering Mississippi summer heat. The smell of dog feces immediately met my nostrils. I stared at my feet as I cautiously made my way to the front door, stepping carefully to avoid the numerous mounds of shit. The smell of extreme neglect joined the smell of feces once I reached the front door. A pungent potpourri of waste and decay.
Knock knock, shuffling inside, then an open door. The smell of urine joining the fecal rot. Standing before me was a nice enough older lady. She was extremely sweet, to the point it sometimes felt disingenuous. She wore a purple sweatsuit despite the heat, stained with sweat and food and dirt (I hoped it was dirt, at least.). Slightly overweight, her jowls had a habit of jiggling violently when she spoke. I always found myself focusing on it while listening to her speak and there was no change to this routine as she said “hello.”
“Hey Miss Paula, how are you doing? Hiding from this heat?” I asked.
“Oh ya know, I’m just makin’ it. Scrappy, hush!” A small dog was yapping at me from between her feet. I never found out the breed, probably a mutt, but it was a dog I classified as an “ankle biter.” The words of Ron Swanson snuck into my thoughts...”any dog under 50 pounds is a cat and cats are pointless.” My mind had a habit of drifting to some pop culture reference that few people ever got when I’d speak them aloud. “Why don’t ya come on inside with the AC. You look like you’re burnin’ up.” Her southern accent was as thick as the humidity.
She stepped to the side and held open the door as I passed the threshold. The aroma outside was undeniably bad but it simply did not compare to the wall of stink that crashed into my face as I entered. The house was a mess in every sense of the word. Hell, “mess” was an extreme understatement. The living room furniture, if the room even actually contained any furniture, was piled with laundry and trash to the point of invisibility. I could see in some spots that the floor was originally white, but most of it now was piss yellow. More dogs began barking at me as Scrappy nipped at my heels. The inside of the house told a tale of a lonely woman, one whose children no longer came around and a husband long gone. A tale of a woman who cared more for the stray dogs she took care of more than she cared for herself. A tale of a woman that hoarded useless things to try and fill a hole left in her life after raising her family. Not caring about ourselves was one of the few things Miss Paula and I had in common. “Sorry about the mess, she apologized.”
“Oh it’s fine, I hardly noticed,” I lied as I searched for a decent place to lean my aching body against.
“So...how’s your momma?” The beginning of a barrage of questions I couldn’t care less to answer. A pointless formality to maintain the facade of southern hospitality. I answered each one respectfully, patiently waiting for us to arrive to the point of my visit. “...and those damned doctors have found more junk supposedly wrong with me. Sometimes I feel like they’re just yankin’ my chain for insurance money, I swear.” Miss Paula was riddled with medical issues. Thinking about how little time she had remaining would give me an existential crisis.
“Yeah I can’t imagine what you’re going through. It’s obviously tough,” I replied, wondering if she ever noticed how captivated I was by her chubby, rippling cheeks. Maybe I focused on them so as not to become overwhelmed by the putrid stink of this house and thoughts of death.
“Yeah it’s tough, but The Lord will guide me through it. I have no doubt about that.” I couldn’t help but wonder why a loving god would put his creation through such pain. “Anyway, how many did you say you wanted again?”
Finally, to the fucking point. “Well, I have like $120 so I guess 12? If you can spare them.” Pointless politeness. Of course this unemployable lady living in squalor would sell me her morphine pills. My habit bought her groceries every week.
“The doctor gave me some new ones this last time. These are 60 milligrams instead of 30. I don’t know how much these usually go for...”
“Well I guess it makes sense to double the price for double the milligram, you think?” I asked. The price was fair. (Some of you will doubt this, but heroin was non existent in my area so pain pills were relatively cheap. No ‘dollar a mg’ bullshit, here) I was a junkie with a serious habit, but I couldn’t bring myself to be dishonest to this poor lady. The least I could do was pay her right.
“You sure that ain’t too much? That’s an awful lot...are these really worth $20? I don’t think I’d pay that but I sure am thankful you know people that do.” She punctuated her statement with a hearty laugh. “So it’ll be 6 then, right?”
“Yup, 6.” I replied anxiously. I was giddy with the anticipation of getting back to my car with the pills. I was on the third day of withdrawal and had been waiting on “refill day” all week. Miss Paula poured 8 little white ovals into my outstretched palm.
“Here’s two extra for you sellin’ ‘em for me. I know you wouldn’t tell me but I bet it’s a lotta trouble findin’ people to pay $10 or $20 a pill.” Miss Paula believed that I was an innocent college kid just helping a poor old lady make some money. She had no idea I’d be cooking two of these pills in her driveway five minutes from now, shielded from her view by a large holly bush.
“Thank you, it’s not a big deal. They’re easy to sell, especially at school, ya know. Those kids would rather buy drugs than food.” I joked, Miss Paula unaware of that jab I was making at myself. I’d chose to buy her groceries instead of my own.
“Well, I sure do appreciate it. You be safe now, ya hear? You want a coke or somethin’?” I said sure and she moseyed over to her filthy fridge, stepping barefoot into puddles of lukewarm dog piss. She came back with a Dr. Pepper... Southerners called any soda “coke.” I thanked her and walked outside, trying not to sprint to my car door and thankful for the shit-smelling air in comparison to the pungent mess that was the inside of Paula’s house.
I sat in my driver’s seat, shut the door, and reversed down the driveway past the holly bush near the old country road, stopping once I was sure the nose of my car wasn’t visible from Miss Paula’s front door. I was acutely feeling every symptom of my withdrawals... it always seems to get worse when you know you’re just a few steps from getting better. My AC was off despite the sweltering heat, amplified by my closed car windows. An ant trapped under the magnified beam of sunlight aimed by an uncaring bully of a god. I opened my center console, gathered my supplies, and began to work.
First, you had to wipe the coating off the pills. Sometimes I would skip this step out of impatience, but that day I methodically smeared every bit of white off both of the pills I selected. With both pills free of their coating, I dropped them in my spoon. The amount of water one needs to successfully make a solution of morphine from a pill depends on a few things... the brand of the pill (different brands require different steps to break down), the depth of the spoon (a deep spoon wouldn’t evaporate water as quickly as a shallow one), the strength of your source of heat (the weak flame of a Bic, the red hot heat of an oven eye). I had a fairly deep spoon that I’d shoplifted (how pathetic is it to shoplift a .99 cent spoon?) and one of those small torches sold at convenience stores, so I didn’t require much water. Torches have the added benefit of not leaving behind any smut. A “good rule of thumb” (a phrase with extremely fucked origins, by the way) I used was “one syringe cap (the cap protecting the plunger on diabetic needles) per pill.” I dumped the water in the spoon and put the torch to its bottom.
Breaking down pills isn’t like fixing a shot of heroin. It takes a bit of time. I sat there for about a minute, waiting for the water to boil and trying to ignore the school bus coming up the street. The pills swelled and I smashed them into the water as the bus dropped my niece off a few houses down, oblivious to her uncle preparing a shot within eyesight. With each smash, a white cloud spread out from the round edge of the plunger until nothing was left of the pills but two oval husks with a faint “60” imprint. I dropped a piece of balled up cotton into the water and drew up exactly 100 units of solution. I’d done this so often that I filled the syringe completely the first try, using just the right amount of water. My deviant chemistry lab experiment was complete. If only I did that well in my actual chemistry class. Oh well, time to get well.
I was drenched in sweat and my veins were popping. I didn’t even need to tie off. The needle tore a hole through the top of my hand and I began to dig under my flesh in search of a vein. After a few seconds, I felt the familiar “pop” as the vein gave up its flight from the needle, bouncing back into place as I pushed the needle deeper into the vein, insuring it didn’t pop back out. I pulled the plunger back, mesmerized by the majestic swirl of blood shooting into the morphine solution...I always appreciated that part of the ritual the most. I pushed the plunger all the way in until it expelled a sucking sound as the last bit of solution entered my circulatory system. I pulled the needle out, placed a thumb on the wound to mitigate bruising, sat back, and waited.
Morphine sneaks up on you just like heroin (I feel like I need to explain because I know most people here shoot heroin). In my experience, just as I become disappointed in how “good” my shot was, it creeps up on me. That day was no different. Being 3 days into withdrawal, the shot showed me no mercy. It started with a sensation I can only describe as “needles in your teeth.” It was so strong that it felt like my head would shatter, each tooth exploding like a kernel of popcorn in response to the heat swelling in my chest. The familiar sinking feeling reached my legs and stomach, as if a force were pulling me by an invisible rope through the bottom of my car. It felt like I gained 200 pounds in seconds. The pins and needles spread to the rest of my body, pricking and prodding in an unexpectedly pleasant way. Twenty seconds in, the rush continued to become more intense. My head drooped as a black shadow formed around my vision. The thought of me overdosing crossed my mind, though I wasn’t sure if it was actually happening. I imagined my innocent niece seeing my car from her house, walking over excitedly and discovering her selfish uncle cold and blue and covered in vomit. Her innocence ruined, the image of my corpse forever seared into her memory. I fought the shadows back...huddles of demonic beings retreating from the light. I couldn’t let myself overdose there.
The rush finally let up. My heart was pounding into my skull, skin beat read and hot as if I had an extreme fever. I felt a mild headache forming in my temples. The lingering memory of the pins and needles creating an unbearable itch in my feet. Yet I was alive and I was well, the beast of opiate withdrawal temporarily placated yet again. I sat there for a moment, trying to erase the image of my imagined death and discovery. Eventually I started the ignition and drove to my sisters house.
My niece greeted me at the back door of my sister’s house. It opened into their kitchen and she was preparing an after school snack. A pang of guilt shot through my body.
“Hey, how was school? I was just driving by and figured I’d come say ‘hey’. Do you wanna go play Minecraft?” Like any elementary aged child at the time, she was absolutely obsessed with the game. She said yes and I followed her to the living room, waving to my sister as I walked. My niece sat cross legged in the floor and I joined her in front of the TV, picking up a controller.
“Hey Uncle, what’s that? Did you get hurt?” My niece asked as I crossed my legs. She was pointing to my hand.
I looked down and saw a streak of blood left over from my shot, another pang of guilt shooting throughout my body. “Oh, I don’t know what that is. I must have gotten bit by a mosquito.”
At least I wouldn’t have to live with such guilt if I had overdosed, I selfishly thought.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

From the trap house to the White House- thoughts on my trip

Dear Readers:
I haven't been writing much lately. I sincerely apologize for that. I have a few stories in the queue. Don't worry.

I was just doing advocacy in Washington DC and in Boston. First of all, I need to sincerely thank the people who donate time and resources to help me with my work. I spoke to: a federal judge, a head of a correctional agency, at a DC correctional facility for women, to medical practitioners, and to a group of around 200 students. It was tiring. My legs are still swollen but my heart is full. I spoke with democrats, republicans, young people, older people, professionals, the homeless, anyone who would listen. The good news- we are more alike than we are different. The "opioid crisis" may be the thing that unifies all of us. We all want to find ways to stop the dying and get on with the business of living.

Second of all- I am extremely disturbed to hear the three pronged triumvirate of bullshit policies coming from our government. We are planning on diverting money that could be used for naloxone- something we KNOW saves lives- to law enforcement. Can I say- fuck that. I am a convicted felon. My original charge was sales/transport of a controlled substance. What these laws mean are people with the economic means to hire private attorneys will receive rehab or other alternative sentencing. Those who cannot will be locked up, disenfranchised, and possibly face the death penalty. The Trump plan throws common sense drug policy solutions out the window in favor of approaches we KNOW do not work and do NOTHING to save lives.

Third of all, I am looking into ways to fund a project to get out and speak more. I feel like we need hope, we need real advocacy. I feel like that effort should be national instead of a few key cities. When I go to these places, I see people crying in the audience because they are so desperate for some kind of information and some kind of good news. I try to provide at least a bit of that.

I hope to get more writing out soon after I rest up.

I love you.

From the trap house to the White House


Sunday, March 11, 2018

Taking Advocacy On The Road

This week, I will be taking the Harm Reduction show on the road. I am headed to Washington DC to meet with some policy makers and criminal justice folks. Then I have back to back presentations in Boston Mass. The first is to students in medical residency and the second is to students at a University. It will be a brutal couple of days for me travel wise but I have a few days of vacation on the backend. I am pretty burnt out, behind on care packages, the usual. A few days away will be good for me though I am going to really miss my kids. 

My presentations are really going to focus around YOU and what you need. Please feel free to send me comments etc. through my email or reddit. 

I realized the other day I have spent the past six years being the confidant for a group of people who use drugs. I know more about some of you than people I see in my daily life. I appreciate you and your level on honesty. 

Below is something I wrote recently about relapse which you may or may not have seen. I have been writing articles lately to earn some extra money. I am including it in case you didn't see it:

Recovery is a Marathon, Not a Sprint.
When I started my process of recovery, my life was focused around the absence of pain. If only I could stop feeling this way...but how? I knew I wanted to stop using drugs and alcohol, I had no idea how to make this happen. I tried ten other times until on time number eleven, things started to fall into place. That was nearly twenty years ago. There were many relapses that I turned into learning experiences. That accumulated knowledge of what worked and what did not work for me was eventually translated into a program of long lasting recovery. Recovery is a marathon not a sprint. While not welcomed, relapses shouldn’t be treated as a dead end. They are an opportunity for self examination and course correction.
Statistically, we are at highest risk for overdose death when we have had periods of abstinence. This includes periods of incarceration, trips to rehab, after an extended hospital stay, or voluntary attempts to curb use. When we have had a period where we have been “clean” or “sober”, the expectations around us reach new levels. Our loved ones embrace us tightly. The pressure slowly mounts to regain responsibilities. Suddenly, our fragile grasp seems to slip- we are ashamed to admit to cravings. It doesn’t matter if it is a good bad or a bad day. Our relationship to drugs has become so complicated, a simple memory can set our mental wheels turning. We are told we should be feeling “grateful” when,in fact, we may be feeling isolated. It is easy to fall back into that groove of self medication. Relapse can be a sole event or an extended incident. No matter what the circumstances of a relapse, the most important thing we can do is protect our health and safety by practicing harm reduction.
Leaving a relationship with drugs and alcohol is like leaving any abusive relationship- it may take multiple tries until we finally leave the. It is okay to admit that for awhile, these substances feel good. Until they don’t. When we finally decide to get into the process known as recovery, one of the most challenging hurdles may be rebounding after a relapse. If we have spent months, years, or even decades using drugs and alcohol to solve our problems, it is entirely rational that in times of emotional upheaval, we would return to our old solutions. We used when we were sad, happy, angry, lonely, and every place in between. Health behavior changes are hard. Like the diabetic who may have issues resisting sweets or the asthmatic who craves a cigarette, a person with addiction issues deals with significant temptation on a daily basis.
Your first thought after a relapse might be to think “I’ve thrown it all away!” Don’t get stuck in this trap. You still have retained all the accumulated knowledge, you just need to create a new situation in which to apply it.  Don’t let yourself get pulled into the cycle of guilt and shame. First of all, guilt and shame are useless emotions in this situation. Shame is fuel for the process of cutting off your support system. Guilt breeds the desire to keep drinking or using drugs. You had 98 days sober and relapsed? That means in 99 days, you used one day? You have 98 days worth of experience to draw on. You can start from today.Ask yourself- What can you do differently? What worked for you? What are my goals? What are the things that really make you want to change? Make a list. This is a time for action.Whatever your program of recovery, the tools are inside you. Tap into those.
A relapse does not have have to end the journey. This can be a new beginning. Learn from this experience and move forward.






Friday, March 2, 2018

I Was Raised By the Television

I was raised by the television.
In 1976 my mother had to return to work when my father lost his business in the great recession. He got tired of selling furniture and pool tales and whatever other menial jobs he acquired when he left the Navy. He had joined to get out of poverty. He had no running water until he was 17. When his mother died, he was left nothing but two quilts and a Bible. He was a Hillbilly that crawled all the way into a bottle after his wife was forced out of the kitchen and into the office.
The TV raised me. Both my parents worked. I came home with a key on a chain around my neck. I stuck things in the microwave to heat them up while my brother listened to Led Zeppelin upstairs. I’d spin myself in circles trying to feel outside of myself. I’d sit on the stairs, listening to my parents argue, taking me and my footy pajamas back into my room. I saw my future in the bottom of the glass of whiskey one of my “uncles” asked me to hand him while he subtly grabbed my shoulder. Men are gross, I told myself without knowing it was just him.
I watched BET. I listened to Kool Moe Dee. I learned the way Big Daddy Kane went to work. I knew that Alexander O’Neil was innocent and want to ride the white horse. I watched “Lady Sings the Blues”. Diana Ross was my hero. I brought a tray of food to my grandmother in the basement. She is hearing those voices again. She’s speaking her Spanish while her husband sneaks me drinks of his beer. I like his tattoos. I don’t understand why there are times she calls me by another name or why she needs him to take care of her. I just know that she scares me. I lock her in the basement. She smacked my face when I let her out. That was the first time but wouldn’t be the last.
I saw Night Flight. There was punk rocks. I was from a rural place with a dead end street. The punk was rocks until I didn’t realize it was plural. I went to school with people that would eventually know each other their whole lives. I would find out on facebook that they all think I’m still a prostitute when I actually have been clean five years. I used to smoke weed all day long. I wished for a drug that was a bit stronger. My whole paycheck spent drinking shots at the bar. An eighth of weed lasting me one afternoon. Heroin, my heroin, where could you be? I am standing on my porch. I’m suicidal from two vicodins and two bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill.
Then I crawled into the television. I became my own show. Three days up on meth or cocaine. My hands are so swollen, I can’t put them down. I’m cross eyed trying to fix with a barbed syringe. Sticking myself over and over until I finally put the shit up my nose. I just wish you could love me. I just wish I could love myself. My socks haven’t dried out in a week. Part of my foot came off with my shoe. There are no holidays here. There are no special occasions. A boy gave me an ice cream bar. I guess that means we are in love. I give him my dirty needles to take to the exchange. We’ll share everything- including Hepatitis C.
The pimp Larry promises me that if I join him I will make no less than $100 a date, even if I have to stay out all night. I tell him I can do two dates for $50. I can be home in half the time. Why would I give you my money. Heroin is my pimp. It keeps me working 24/7. The crazy white boy with the blue eyes and the terrible prison tattoos wants me to come to his “place” tonight. His shopping cart is parked two alleys over. I can’t have sex anyway. I have a bladder infection right now. I’m crying in the lobby of my hotel because I spilled my antibiotics. The counselor from the program tells me fake it until you make it. I’ll try.


Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Twenty Years of Recovery

I took my last hit(s) over twenty years ago. It is strange typing this out because there are times when it seems like yesterday. There should be no question in your mind- I was 100% dedicated to getting high until I wasn't. From 1998-1990, I started my career as a blackout drunk. I spent from 1990-1998 deep in the grips of addiction. After a failed relationship, my self esteem and prospects in life were so low, I gave in to the spiral. I wanted to feel different. I wanted to be someone that wasn't me.

Using in the 1990s was risky. Needle exchanges were rare. HIV/AIDS was killing off IV drug users. We knew nothing about prevention of overdose. Hep C was known as non A, non B. We were giving each other shitty kitchen tattoos and sharing needles because we had no access to new ones. Heroin was expensive and not very potent. The cost of living was fairly cheap. Drug users built little communities. We had "shooting galleries" and dope houses were usually a room you paid $5 to smoke crack in at someones grandma's house.

If I would not run out of veins, maybe I'd still be using. I can't really say for sure. I wanted to stop. I had tried to stop. No place to put my beloved medicine made me despair over my life's choices. The bottom of my feet, my stomach, my tits. I hit in the jugs (jugular) a few times but I had actually had a friend die from an aneurysm from that so I avoided it as much as possible. I was alone in the world. I had isolated myself from everything and everyone I ever cared about. But whatever the reason, I made the choice to try recovery "for real". Luckily for me, it worked out.

I have made lots of friends, lost lots of friends. I have had career highs and emotional bottoms. I am still a work in progress. I just want to say don't give up on yourself. There are folks just like myself, caring humans, who want to see you get better (whatever that means for you). I believe everyone deserve a healthy happy life. I am flawed and I am a work in progress. I am grateful to be your advocate.

XOXO Tracey H 415.

This is me in my booking photo 2/27/1998


Sunday, February 18, 2018

When People Said I Should Have Died

As a junkie in active addiction, I was told more than once that the world would be better off if I died. I see these hurtful comments at the bottom of articles about naloxone but this was stated directly to my face. As a person who was under the grips of a full blown heroin addiction, I have to admit a part of me agreed with the statement. I was tired of living the life of an active user- wake up sick, look for a vein for an hour, hustle all day for a few bags- the cycle of life. There was no "bottom" for me- I could have easily leaned deeper into the spiral. How much lower could I go? Isolated from my family, having engaged in sex work, willing to absolutely beg for drugs, allowing my limbs to rot from unsafe injection technique. They call that suicide on the installment plan. I called that another day at the office.

If I would have died, there would not be three beautiful children in the world. There would not be the 300+ people saved through the little program I run. Some folks would surely have Hep C. There would be a voice missing for drug users. Most of all, I think I am a pretty rad person. I am relatively entertaining. I am a loyal friend. I am a decent cook. I also enjoy memes. This is starting to sound like a Tinder profile.

I don't want you to die. Don't give in to the stigma. I want you to be safe. There are so many things you have left to do! There are so many people that love you. Please take care of yourself. The world needs you.

Saturday, February 10, 2018

Harm Reduction Goes to DC

I am making an East Coast Trip next month to Washington DC and to Boston. I plan on meeting with policy makers and a judge. If there are any points you feel need to be covered, let me know here or via email.

I started a go fund me to cover the costs of my harm reduction and the travel expenses here. It costs anywhere from $3.50-$10 per care packages. I am putting money aside for the future.


Love Tracey

When you corner a dog

"I could lie my way out of anything..."

I sat on the steps in front of the coffee shop, eating half of a cheese sandwich. I washed it down with a chocolate beverage. It's lunch time. The business men and women stream by me. They are in search of instant gratification in the form of a quick bite. As the sun reaches the highest point in the sky, I adjust my fishnets so no passerby get a free look up my skirt. I haven't shaved my legs since winter time, if you can call what we have here winter. I see a man with a blanket running, breaking the glass from the drink he stole. Maybe he was thirsty.

My life has been one lie after the other. There are the lies I tell myself. These are desires enveloped in fiction. There are the lies I tell you. These are facts that simply aren't true. Then, there are the lies in live in. The lies that exist in daily living. The lies of comparison. I don't want to live in a space where everyone is superior to me. More money, thinner, prettier, smarter, they are just MORE which makes me much less. Yet these are lies too.

If my heart was scarred from the life I lived, you certainly pried away at it. There was a moment when I achieved the feeling that anything was possible. Nodding on a street corner is a fantasy. While my ice cream melts in my lap, the clock is ticking until I have to get up to make money again. The lies you tell me make perfect sense to me. They are everything I ever wanted: you are safe. You are loved. Everything is going to be okay as long as we are together. Six hours or eight hours later, I realize these things aren't possible. I come to my senses then realize I'd rather bask in my delusions.

When you corner a dog, you might get bitten. When you corner a junkie, you might not get the truth. We are on the defense, supporting the thing that makes us whole, even if that love is a lie.

As I walk back to my office, I carefully dodged the broken crack pipe but I almost stepped in the human poo. (THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED. SF is an interesting place).



As a side note, I saw a man in a wheelchair light a crack pipe with a magnifying glass this week. 




Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Body Issues

Last Monday was a self care day. On a recommendation of a friend, I decided to go a reasonably priced Spa. I should probably have done more investigation but I did not. It was a last minute decision to take some time to myself with no animals needing me to pick up their poo, no kids fighting on the couch, and no staff people asking my opinion on one issue or another.


When I arrived at the Spa, severely over caffeinated at that, the bells went off. AH- this is a nude Spa. The kind where the genders are divided. I was handed a robe and a towel that would barely cover one of my thighs. As I entered the locker room, I quickly saw what I have rarely seen- naked bodies. Not in a lecherous way or a scientific way. I was seeing naked bodies in their natural habitat. Women of all ages were inside the place.


I was very nervous at first. I was raised in an almost puritanical setting. My parents NEVER discussed sex with me. In fact, I rarely saw my parents kiss. If it wasn’t for the fact my sister and I accidentally found condoms searching for spare change, I would assume they never had sex after we were born. My father nor my mother commented on the looks of anyone. The few random celebrities my mother would describe as attractive all turned out to be gay. She seemed to be attracted to an asexuality in her screen men. If my father ever commented on women, it was out of my presence.


Nudity was an entirely private matter. Changing clothes was done behind closed doors in your room. Growing up fat meant I wore clothes under my clothes so I wouldn’t have to change in front of anyone in gym class. There was also the matter of my outdated underwear my mother would select. I also received no guidance in the finer elements of shaving my legs or lady bits. I learned about sex from R rated movies on cable TV.


The only time in my adult life I was ever a “normal” weight was when I was hitting the stimulants and the heroin hard. It is hard to explain how eating issues and drug use went hand in hand for me. I had tried sobering up before and the bottomless pit of hunger would freak me out. I enjoyed boys with exposed collar bones. I liked being completely flat chested and slim. It became a sickness really. Although I wore multiple layers of clothes to hide it, showing myself that I could resist food and get thinner and thinner was my jam.


Then came jail. Jail is a fucking marathon of weight gain. Food is one of the only hobbies. Food means status. Food is the only thing that can fill that void that drugs used to fill. I would eat and eat until I could enjoy a good depression nap on my bunk. By the time I went to rehab, I had already gotten quiet chunky.


At first, this weight gain was validated by others. I finally had some “ass” Eventually, that wears off. I am having trouble fitting in my clothes. I hate the way I look. I feel like crap. It is the tail eating the dog.


The rest of this time off drugs has been cycles of feast and famine. I have never been able to say I feel comfortable in my own skin. I’m trying. There is nothing wrong with my body. There is nothing wrong with me. All bodies are different. If I would have seen a few, I would have realized that mine was normal and entirely ok. Why have I been forced to be so insecure for so long? I am not sure. I am glad I finally got the chance to SEE that I’m just fucking fine.


I’m kind of rambling but y’all are used to it.






Sunday, January 21, 2018

Mood swings

Question of the Moment: How do I deal with the mood swings that come when you stop opioids.

Answer: I wish I knew.

Opioids act as a mild anti-depressant from most of us. I would also argue that a good chunk of us had mental health issues to start with: depression, anxiety, PTSD, and the like. Op
ioids feel fucking good. Why else would we take them, right? Well, I think the answer is more nuanced. Opioids have diminishing returns. At a certain point, the don't feel THAT good. Continuing to take them is more of a stop gap measure to avoid the mental (and physical) hell that comes from getting off of them. The higher the dosage ie the more you are taking, the less you are generally getting out of them. I strongly recommend any of my active user friends out there try remedies to reduce tolerance. It is a few days of bullshit but it will mentally benefit and financially benefit you. Baby rhino tolerance = baby rhino spending and the potentially criminal bullshit that comes with keeping that beast fed.

My mental state is a series of ups and downs. I notice recently that social media is making this worse. Everyone is younger, prettier, happier, and more social than me according to these pictures. Also- fuck your flat stomach. Just kidding, sort of. I was skinny once too, it just took starvation and a metric fuckton of stimulants to get there. I've been on a diet for 18 months so excuse my bitterness. I'll take another sip of coffee to wash that down. Black of course. Cream and sugar have delicious calories. Anyway, find some things you like. I have my support animals. I try to walk 3 to 5 miles 5 days a week. I have a few close friends that seem reasonably okay with my levels of sanity. I periodically have fits and block people. I don't know why I am an asshole at times. Isolation tells me I don't need people then reason slowly creeps in.

I personally have avoided psych meds. This is my own internal fears and stigma. Don't listen to me, do your own thing. Mostly, I have been terrified of the potential side effects. I can honestly say I will take them if my cycles of depression get much lower. I'm not afraid- I'm just cautious. Not that "I don't want to be dependent on anything" bullshit that anti medication people spew. That is not it. It is more- I am afraid of weight gain, sexual side effects, and not feeling myself. But, as I said, I'm open to anything that might help me in the future. If things change, you'll be the first person to know because I have no filter.

I went on a hike yesterday. I don't know how I went from a country girl to the Tenderloin to a suburban mom type but I did recognize how to find rabbits. Seven year old me was excited that I still recognize tracks that don't involve removing a syringe.