tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69719652113101070602024-03-09T00:59:50.106-08:00traceyh415Stories of parenting, insanity and addictiontraceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.comBlogger702125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-65824630468763465922022-04-29T14:06:00.000-07:002022-04-29T14:06:11.749-07:00Jamie<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Being able to fall apart is a luxury many people don’t have. They carry their burdens until it breaks them. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-1c083c3b-7fff-faa4-136b-512561d2e6b1"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Miss Jamie was one of the most aesthetically pleasing women I had ever seen in my life. She simply glowed. When she entered a room, everyone had to stop to pay attention. She took that space over. Her smile was radiant. Her energy was infectious. She was a fireball of a human. Her petite frame was always draped with carefully selected skirts, dresses, and form fitting sweaters. She paired this with her signature plum lipstick and acrylics. She always came late in the day, usually when I had the lowest energy. Yet, I never refused her entrance. I was happy to see her. Happy to listen to her while she held court in my desk area. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On this day, Jamie was wheeled into the clinic by a person I had never seen before. Instead of scrubs, he looked as if he had woken up on the streets. He looked left like a caretaker, more like a person in need of our services. Our patients in poor health were frequently at the mercy of unscrupulous people who wanted to get close to them to use them for what little they had. The “friend” would try to tap into whatever limited resources. Try to move in their subsidized housing, eat the delivered meals, frequently steal their checks. It was a scenario that played out each and every month. In this case, this person sought to exploit a system set up to help those who needed extra in home healthcare support (IHHS). IHHS is a program that pays for caregivers, usually LVNs or care aides, who will come into the patient’s home to help with basic needs such as cooking, cleaning, laundry, help in and out of bed, etc. Most patients chose to interview caregivers picked from a pool of qualified applicants. Other times, the patient could opt for a caregiver of their choosing. In theory, this was wonderful. A partner might be able to earn extra income they already do. A trusted friend might take the place of a stranger. A family member that lives outside the home could pick up a few dollars for helping perform tasks that the patient might be too embarrassed to have done such as bathing. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Unfortunately, our clients frequently got sweet talked by an associate in search of a quick check,not a vocation. They would sign up, get screened, do a few things, then disappear. Embarrassed that they had been hustled, our clients took months to request a new aide. This man pushed the wheelchair with the speed and delicacy of a bull in a china shop. Before Miss Jamie could even speak I overheard “How long are you going to be?” That told me everything I needed to know. I found out later this was Jamie’s neighbor. They had a symbiotic relationship with Jamie being the kind host and the neighbor fulfilling their role as the parasite. Jamie was always looking out for other people. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Tracey….” she called me over. “Have you met Chet?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wave hello, force a smile. Chet clearly has places to be. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Tracey, can you push me honey. Chet will be back later. Isn’t that right Chet?” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">By now, Chet is sweating like a motherfucker. The dosing window is on the third floor where the heat rises by the mid afternoon. Pushing the wheelchair up the ramp from the bus stop must have sucked out Chet’s last little bit of energy. He was wiry and could not have weighed more than 120 pounds soaking wet. He had on a shirt that was about two inches too short showing off his midriff flashdance style. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I am going out to smoke,” he told Jamie. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chet never came back. Not that day or any other day. At 2:00pm when the clinic closed, the staff had to get a paratransit voucher from the social worker. We had to make sure Jamie got home safely. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chet was the least of Jamie’s problems. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Girl, I can’t take any more of this radiation. I don’t have any more hair to lose!” In the time I had known her, Jamie had gone through a variety of hair styles. There was the blonde bob, the Whitney Houston “I want to dance with somebody”, the Sunday Church wig, and today’s snap on ponytail. There were bruises all over her neck and arms as if a person had shook her violently. “They can’t find a vein in me. They said I used them all up. Those damn phlebotomists don’t know what the hell they are doing. I said Let me have the needle. They told me Miss Jamie you are an expert of putting things in. Today we need to blood out. I hate them Tracey.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jamie loved to call me by my name. She really is the only one. In my mid thirties, I am a decade younger than most of the patients here. Many had been put on methadone because it was a safer alternative to shooting heroin while HIV positive. We had many holdovers from the days when HIV was considered a death sentence. Getting a spot here was considered the junkie equivalent of winning the lottery. One of the other local clinics was well known for involuntarily detoxing clients if their payment was one day late. There is a scene in Black Tar Heroin where I am shooting heroin with a woman who isn’t identified. She had been on the clinic for over 18 years. When there was an issue with her benefits, she was immediately “fee detoxed” turning her back to the needle to stave off sickness. As for the term “Junkie”, that is slowly going extinct. As a former junkie myself, I say this with love. There are a bunch of clinical terms for what we have “opioid use disorder” “substance use disorder” or “opioid dependency” to name a few. But to many in this older crowd, they want me as a counselor because they want another human that understands the struggle of being “hooked on that shit”. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Self disclosure is a funny thing. I call it the salt in the stew. When you tell clients too many things about yourself, the conversation becomes about ME and not about THEM. There is a time and a place for self disclosure. It can’t be the only tool in the toolbox. With new clients, I don’t tell them my history. I don’t find it to be particularly useful. Then the conversations become about how much dope did I do, did I know such and such person, and critiques of my transformation. But to many of the older clients, they recognize me. They saw me in those streets. Now they see me behind the desk. We don’t always rehash the past but theirs is a silent understanding that we all just know. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Miss Jamie and I did not know each other from my previous life but I came with letters of recommendation. Miss Jamie wasn’t even my client but she liked to hold court in my space. She has heard about me from a large network of Black Trans women in the city. There were some I had used drugs with and others that had been my mentees over the years. I would never claim to be an expert on these women, just their ally. In my early twenties, I listened while they told their stories. I helped them prepare for what they called “the illusion”. Things got plucked, tucked, and manicured until the butterfly emerged from her cocoon to flit from place to place in Tenderloin. Truthfully, I was in awe of these women. I had spent my time on the spectrum of gender non conformity but I always returned to the same familiar roles. I have no idea what kind of courage it takes to fight every fucking day just to get the right to be yourself. So I listen. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I started my transition in prison,” Miss Jamie reached into her bag to get an iced tea and a bag of candy. Other times there were ribs, pork rinds, chips, or soda. She knew and I knew she wasn’t supposed to be eating that shit. There was no point trying to argue. “I’m sixty two years old. Do you know the average Black Trans Woman is lucky if she makes it to 40? Just let me live.” It wasn’t long ago that Jamie brought me a paper bag that was overflowing with all of her pill bottles. “</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Can you tell me what all these medications are for?”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I had asked if we could arrange for one of the nurses to help her with this “</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t trust these people, Tracey.” </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why trust me then. This was completely out of my “scope of practice…” She stopped me “Don’t give me any of those</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> five dollar words</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. You think you are fancy now Miss Tracey? Just look them up for me.” How could I refuse? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> One of those bottles was for diabetes, there were HIV meds, one for high blood pressure, antibiotics and one was for “That’s my pain medicine. I don’t take those.” she told me. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You don’t take them?” I was confused. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She showed me a different bottle of pain meds. “Those are too strong. I take these. And the methadone helps.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The other bottle was clearly empty so I had questions.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I am old and I am dying Tracey. They give me anything I want.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I try to reassure her. “You aren’t dying Miss Jamie. You will outlive all of us.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She looks me in the face. “Cancer is not about fighting. AIDS is not about fighting. I know people who clung on to life. You can fight and lose. No one is brave here. We are doing our best. I’ve seen young people get hit by a car and the worst of people live to be an old age. If only the good die young, I am living forever. ”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I handed her back the bottle. She continues “I sell those to the police anyway. That lady sheriff pays me $500 for the bottle. She calls me </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">FIRST thing </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">on my refill day. You would think I wouldn’t want anything to do with the police with my history but I like their money. I took one of them things morning so they will be in the piss I give the dr.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am still fixated on how she has all these pills with not much information on why she is taking them. I hand back the paper bag with all the bottles. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s why Chet is here. He’s hoping to get his bit when I go to the pharmacy. He is not.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I didn’t ask about her life. I didn’t have to. She wanted to tell me. An oral history of the Tenderloin. Of the john who had tried to murder her when he found out she had parts he did not like. Of the prison riots. Of the perils of dating men from the Church. I felt as if I was witnessing something important week after week. Maybe I provided a comfortable place to sit for an hour or so or maybe I was a friendly face. Either way, I looked forward to these visits. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Well, I killed him- the neighbor. My girlfriend had asked me to watch her baby when she went to work. I guess it wasn’t really a baby baby but I said I would. We lived in these tiny apartments where everyone would leave their front doors open so the kids could play out in the hallways. There’s no places to play around there. You know the type of place I’m talking about. Well one day the baby went out and didn’t come back right away. She had got into a neighbor's place. When I pushed open the door, I knew.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “I grabbed that baby and stepped out. You can’t have no black man coming into a white man’s place. Right? . I got so angry, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">thinking about what he did</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I went upstairs, gave the baby to a neighbor lady. She watched the little boy all the time. I knew he was okay. I got my gun and shot him. That dirty old motherfucker was touching little kids because he knew he could. Like they’d touched me. And I could never say a thing. Well they wanted to give me the death penalty. Said he was an upstanding member of society. Who was I? Nobody. A gang member. Said I took his money. Living there, he didn’t have any.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She gave me a look to see if I was placing judgement. I was not. Nor could I fully comprehend what she was saying. Did it shock me, no. I had a friend from high school that killed his abuser- shot him in the back. He was 14 at the time. I saw it on the news. The big difference was he was white and he got acquitted. Even he was surprised by the outcome. “Please don’t ask me why I didn’t call the police. Do you think the police care about black kids? Maybe I’m asking the wrong person” she told a labored drink of her ice tea “they would’ve beat me and put that child in foster care. So the state tried to kill me. Wanted to give me the </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">death penalty</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">!” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You want one of these?” She pulled out a bag full of candy. My teeth hurt just looking at it. Plus, we aren’t supposed to accept anything from clients. This was especially relevant since a client recently gave brownies to the dosing nurse that turned out to be “medicated” with cannabis. He said he didn’t eat it but then I have questions about how he found it out. “No, I’m not big on sweets. Thank you.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So I don’t know if I found myself in prison or if I was allowed to be myself. It wasn’t an easy thing but it was natural. Hard to explain to my kids though. They were young.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I didn’t realize you had kids Miss Jamie.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She smiled “Girl-I got three of them. Kids and grandkids. They don’t all call me grandma. They call me Jamie. Kids and animals. They will always clock your tea. You can think you look as fishy as possible and they point to a whisker you didn’t know you had. Luckily I didn’t have to change my name.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I didn’t get to say goodbye to Jamie before she died. The cancer didn’t kill her. She died of old age nearly a decade later. She moved, I moved, I switched jobs, she got a new boyfriend. She’s come to see me every Friday until one day, she didn’t. In those years, I never did get a word in edgewise and she never stopped offering me candy.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><div><br /></div></span>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-71935349121929386712021-08-26T17:56:00.002-07:002021-08-26T18:45:16.915-07:00Thirty One Years of Overdoses<p> Hi Readers, </p><p><span> I wish I worked on my writing more but the state of the world can make it hard to string a sentence together. I will keep at it though. I started this blog 8-9 years ago. I know everyone has switched to substack or their own website. Well, the person who designed my website died of an overdose. I have not had the heart to get a new one since his passing. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> I met him through r/opiates on reddit. This was back in the wild west days of the sub. There was lots of people finding ways to meet up in their state. This person lived in Georgia. There was a core group of people who used drugs based in and around Atlanta. The glue that held that scene together was a middleman. Folks would drive from states over to meet with him. I also struck up a friendship with him because I was looking for unique ways to prevent overdoses. So S and I formed an alliance of sorts. I would send him multi vial bottles up naloxone. These held up to ten doses depending on how they were drawn up into an intramuscular syringe. I provided all the supplies. He provided a place for people to do their wares. In total, S reversed over 50 overdoses in his shitty apartments in both GA and NC. He eventually died of an overdose himself. I cannot speak to his bag size, whether or not he was a "good" conduit to the high people sought. I can say he was a down mfer who didn't let people die on his watch. And my other friend was one of these people. </span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> As time when on, my friend had decided he did not want to continue will the rollercoaster that is active addiction. He had been in and out of rehab a few times on his parents dime. He had briefly moved back in with them on the East Coast to try and get his bearings. He eventually settled in a city, found a job as he always did. The calls and emails became less frequent as he got a girlfriend. The thing I remember most before he death is that he was going to send me pickles they had made from things they had grown in their garden. He had contacted me AND she had contacted me to tell me that he had relapsed. At one point, his mother contacted me. This was all in rapid succession. I am sure his mother believed in her heart that this was just another bump in the road. When she asked me what I advised, I did something I never do reader. I told her very bluntly that she should go see her son. I never say that kind of thing. In fact, I almost never interact with parents. But she asked and I just knew. I felt it. My friend was found dead within the week. This was a few years ago but summertime pickles will always remind me of him.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> So there will not be a substack for me. No new website. No media upgrades at this time. It has been a few years. I just don't have it in me. I have been dealing with losses from overdoses for thirty one years. It never gets easier. It just gets more frequent. My circle has shriveled to a very few as I buffer myself from the pain of heartache. I would like to let more people in but I am simply exhausted. I have lots of love to give though, still and always. I love you. T. </span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrbodtEgzmubS8xsJXfxp3k8GBmWIEYNz2N-ceNo_6GQLsxBfFcB_c7NNUpZPNi278EirPTmcUXvL5FpKI20uijxHfBn1LkCSOC6QOymd9v5OE3OE3qPZuhkvvqIduo1A8aqV1QmDDdg/s640/IMG_5142.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="359" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrbodtEgzmubS8xsJXfxp3k8GBmWIEYNz2N-ceNo_6GQLsxBfFcB_c7NNUpZPNi278EirPTmcUXvL5FpKI20uijxHfBn1LkCSOC6QOymd9v5OE3OE3qPZuhkvvqIduo1A8aqV1QmDDdg/s320/IMG_5142.PNG" width="180" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span><p></p>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-70869697407257111302021-07-16T19:51:00.002-07:002021-07-16T19:55:32.456-07:00Sensory Pleasures<p><i><b>this is a new piece I am working on. not finished, just printing for a vibe check</b></i></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ede9d4ca-7fff-4434-f0c6-44334b37a30f"><span id="docs-internal-guid-35d76659-7fff-7b1e-960f-d594dd6329f0"><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Returning to college at the University of Cincinnati was part of my “redemption” tour. When I finished high school, it was with a bang more than a whimper, which had been the sound my life had made up until that point. Forged out of a family history of both alcoholism and mental illness, I was lucky I had only scraped by with just an eating disorder up until this point. There had been no teen pregnancies, no vandalism (that my parents knew of), there had been only a teensy weensy issue where I had stolen my parents car to check on my suicidal boyfriend. This was actual foreshadowing as he later had to cut down from an attempt that led to serious long term effects. My life was full with both gifted and talented classes AND bullying. Yay. But I had lost a bunch of weight (as I did and I always do) just in time to snag an abusive boyfriend who would essentially ruin my life for years to come. </span></p></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hit the gate to adulthood running. I had come home to my parents with my tail tucked between my legs. It had been a “failure to launch” into adulthood. Teens from my generation were told that the portal to their new life would magically transport them into the land of responsible adults around the time that diploma was being printed. There were a few different options at the time. Start trade school at 16 where you would graduate into a career. There was “homemaking”, the idea of what high school sweethearts would start to breed. As soon as they had the opportunity to legally go off to their own place, women would hunker down into domestic servitude of a voluntary nature. There was the military. The US had not gotten into a war since we were kids so it seemed a safe vocation. There was college with a major of your parents choosing. Or- there was “get a job or get the fuck out our because you are grown” now. Nuclear families revolved around an antiquated idea of self sufficiency that valued “making it on your own”. Parents would instill this value by casting their children into the lake to see if they could swim. In my case, I was slowly drowning. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My father drove to the greyhound bus station to pick me up on one of the hottest days of the year. I had walked two miles in the heat with all of my belongings strapped into a tiny suitcase, I occasionally thrust on my head to make it easier to carry. I was wearing a cut up T-shirt, a black skirt with unexplainable rainbow ribbons, leather thong sandals, and a shaved head. I was an amalgam of all the subcultures I had breezed through in the past few years. Not sure if this was the outfit that convinced my father that I was secretly a lesbian but I was quizzed about it more than once after that date. To add insult to injury, my father pissed himself on the ride home. His once contained problem drinking had escalated into a new realm of health problems, DUIs, and failure to hold a job for any consistent period of time. I not only felt sad, I felt </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">sorry </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for myself. Wallowing in my own self pity would be my new perfume, as I wore that scent everywhere I went. It was the first thing anyone picked up on. That hint of desperation in the air. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the time that I had been away from that house, I had made nothing of myself. I kicked around jobs from babysitting to telemarketing to food service. I had lived in four different states, shared a few different beds and made unremarkable grades when I did go to school. I thought the first man who made me cum was the love of my life. Really, I was just a place for him to stay. That relationship met an unnatural end when he took it upon himself to hook up with my best friend at the time. Being friendless and hopeless was not enough in this cosmic shitshow. I became homeless as well. I found solace in drunken hookups with straight men I met hanging out at the gay bar. I seriously considered marrying an army man I barely knew. I still remember the mixtape he sent me after I got an address again. I think about him from time to time, his kindness in one of a series of bottoms that wouldn’t end until I stopped digging. I imagine they shipped him off to the first Gulf War while I was smothering my emotions in cocaine and Vicodin. I suppose we both liked playing with broken toys. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A steady escalation from introductory alcoholism to recreational pharmaceuticals culminated in the puncture of my skin. The well worn bee stinger was unable to hold the necessary volume of fluids that would create a proper high from opioids. Instead of a scream, it rang in my head like a dull thud. In any type of transformative drug experience, there are a multitude of sensations. You might need to shit, like you are about to cum, hear bells, and smell sulfur all while your eyes briefly cannot focus. My first foray into drugs wasn’t even worthy of a warning label on late night television commercials for prescription drugs. A bit of dry mouth with a restless desire for more. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was enraptured by a life that focused one hundred percent on sensory pleasures. Smoking weed, eating processed food, staying up all night, fucking people who wanted to explore sex for the sake of a good time, injecting drugs periodically to remind myself I was alive. . I was a newcomer to nihilism. The salty kiss of a sweaty person who softly scratched me when I was too high. Waking up with bruises that are attached to no memory. There was no time, no future, no fragment of hope. Only the bitter taste of a coating sucked off a morphine sulphate. I felt unloved and unbothered by the newly acquired risks of my double life. </span></p><br /></span>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-73491225110766167232021-06-14T12:36:00.003-07:002021-06-14T12:39:45.097-07:00The squat on Market<p> Hi readers-</p><p><span> </span>I have had this blog space for 8 or so years now. We have done a lot together. Two books of collected stories, one of which was published, hundreds of thousands of words, and almost two million views. I have not been that active here because honestly I have been in an artistic slum for a few years. I have a collection of 4 stories- ten thousand words- I am releasing in pieces. You can backread the last two entries if you want to catch up. </p><p><span> Fentanyl and Fent analogues are currently ravaging the US. Having lived through the AIDS crisis of the 1980s and 1990s as a person who was using drugs, it has been traumatizing to have waves of friends die when I thought the worst was over. I assumed, as a middle aged woman, that the next round of losses in my life would be related to natural causes. I was wrong. Instead, I was blindsided by the current state of the poisoned drug supply plus a pandemic. So the word get stuck in my mind, never to reach the virtual page. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> When I was young, I truly believed that using drugs was a release from a type of prison. My body was a prison. My thoughts were a prison. The social and societal expectations of me were a type of prison. Until I actually went to prison. Then I realized I had been free the entire time. I wasn't broken, I was sick. Not the disease model of addiction sick. I don't believe addiction is a disease. A condition, yes, but not a disease. Addiction is adaptation to deal with a fucked up world that ends up being more painful that the place you were trying to escape. Not everyone that uses drugs becomes addicted. A big fuck you to those people (half kidding). I did cross that line into addiction. I languished in a state halfway between reality and the outskirts of sanity. The drugs, the violence, the laughs, the tears, the freedom to make my own poor decisions was tantamount to my existence. I felt alive in those moments of chaos. It felt safe to be nodded out, exposed, at risk. And poof- one day I felt closer to death. I needed to change- but how? </span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> There were exposed bricks in the building. It made the place look like the interior of a medieval castle. The guts of the old retail space had been torn out. Instead of drywall, there was big open spaces with a few old display cases pushed to the side. I imagine this as an old department store. Instead of a service elevator, there was a conveyor belt system that would've been used to be deployed to move items from floor to floor. I imagined women in fur trimmed coats coming in here to buy gloves and fill their purses with the newest form of "diet pills" to help them stay trim after pushing out ungrateful children. They would be chain smoking underneath their fancy hats while the merchant seamen from the docks sized them up and down them as they passed by on their way to seedier parts of town. A few blocks from here is the remnants of an "opium den". It was a windowless basement that was covered in red paint. Faded dragons decorated the poles in the center of where cushions would've been strewn about the floor. The upstanding citizens of the city breeze through this part of downtown without knowing what is going on right under there nose.</span></span></span> Despite being on Market Street and in the center of the city, the building had been abandoned for years.</p><p><span> </span> My friend had a set of bolt cutters- the keys to any building. A new lock was put on the slide gate at the entrance so no one would be tipped off to the new inhabitants inside. I couldn't go out and I couldn't stay in, for long anyway. My habits would pull me away from any time of nesting space. I was generally propped by against a vertical surface or layed out with my backpack as a pillow. I saw graffiti on one of the walls here. I was dated 1967. There had been dirty hippies and maybe earlier hobos in this spot. A resting place for travelers who needed shelter from the world that existed on the other side of these bricks. </p><p><span> He brought enough heroin for both of us. This was a happy accident. I had not been part of the purchasing equation. But if I am here and you are here, I am getting in the bag. I had planned it this way. The solitude of the warehouse was a backdrop to my thoughts. I wanted to hear no one, to see no one. I did not want to engage in the chi chat that goes on when one user is trying to communicate with another. We see you. He just wanted to get fucked up. Heroin wasn't his drug. It was mine, I just did not know it yet. We were still in the first quarter of a long long game. </span><br /></p><p><span><span><span><span> It was hot. The kind of hot where you can instantly smell yourself. Two weeks of sleeping outside and pissing between two cars had made me extra fragrant. No shower- just a whore's bath with baby wipes and the occasional dab of deodordant. My tights are solidy stuck to my leg. A scab has formed where I got drunk and tore up my knee. I fell upwards on the stairs of the train station. I had done a tiny bit of dope that day. I was qutting, I told myself. I was quitting until the next time. It is easy to quit if you have no money. But that "quit" was over because here he was. I knew there would be zero fucking because he couldn't fight. That's how I picked him. He cried when he drank so no one wanted to be around him when the bottle was almost gone. I did not mind. </span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> When he overdosed, that was a shock to me. How much did you drink? I said as i pounded on his chest. I barely gave him any. We were using each other. He needed me to inject him, to assist him, to keep him from the wolves that would've ran through his pockets and MAYBE called 911. I had not even done by piece yet. I began pounding on his chest. I flashed by to high school CPR lesssons. I had seen the older fiends do this before. I knew but I had not tried it. One last breath when I felt movement, he turned to his side and puked. A sigh of relief, really. </span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span> </span><i>You feel more high after you puke</i>, I told him. I was on an adrenaline high from panic. Would I have left him? No of course not. But really? I don't think so. But <i>really? </i>We were both locked in there so I just kept thinking motherfucker, you gotta live. </span></span></p><p><i><span> </span>Why are you on top of me</i>, he asked. Oh! It must seem awkward to have a hear stranger straddling you in an empty warehouse, in a strange city, in the middle of the day, whose last name you do not know. Like, are we dating now? Are we in love? Do you love me? Are we besties now that I pulled you from the jaws of death?</p><p><i><span> </span>Bro- you died. </i></p><p><span> No romance. There were no bright lights, no flashes, no colors. The only thing that man saw was my sweaty face hanging over him. "You owe me one," I let him know. So I took even more of his dope than I had planned while we sat in silence. The only noise was the screeching of the streetcar out front. We put our backs against each other and nodded out despite having six floors of real estate on which to spread out. I think we just wanted assurance that another person would always be there. </span><br /></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i>Follow me on twitter, tik tok, and instagram @traceyh415</i></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></p>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-253384635696572612021-05-07T16:14:00.000-07:002021-05-07T16:14:14.492-07:00The Cardinal<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Scars are a gift. They allow us to show the world that not only have we been hurt, we have healed. The deepest wounds are the ones that fester inside our minds. They are allowed no healing light. No escape. There is no salve that can relieve that suffering. Temporary respite can found with the addition of a distraction. A drink, a drug, an obessive behavior can turn the pain down to an almost manageable level. Yet, It is always present. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-1309c87c-7fff-454b-ebfb-477cb7b41002"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I enjoyed working with clients that other providers in the community found difficult. Why? I am not entirely sure. I think more than anything, I believed everyone deserved to be healthy and perhaps even happy. Not a new concept. The people who come here have had lives before addiction that I found to be quite fascinating. I didn’t see my goal as trying to fix them. I saw my role as being a mirror to the solutions inside of them. For one brief moment in time, we build a connection. Then life moves on. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was a growing pool of individuals that would get what society deems as “clean and sober”, taper off their medications. Others would be what were commonly called “lifers”. They experienced a tremendous amount of stigma for staying on the clinic when really how was this medication different from heart medication, insulin, or any other life saving drug? I found the rules related to methadone to be limiting to the grow of patients to the point I felt like I did my best to work around them. A new competitor in opioid treatment has entered the ring- bupephrenorphine. This medication was given at a doctors office. There was no constantly demeaning lines. Meds could be picked up at a drug store. Within a short period, many of those (mostly white, mostly well off) patients were getting two weeks of take homes at a time. Our clients, in a best case scenario, had to wait two years for the same schedule. It did not provide much hope of normalcy. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> There were also big changes in my life over the past year. In terms of the job, my work site and duties had changed. I had moved into an experimental program run in cooperation with the clinic and the city called the mobile methadone van. The van allowed for a dosing nurse to give out medication in a community setting five days a week. The other two days, that site would be closed allowing the majority of the clients to receive automatic two weekend take home doses, a luxury of epic proportions. It also made it easier for folks with limited mobility that lived in the area. The little victory of having found an exception to stifling federal rules boosted the spirits of both the patients and myself. I had to smile when I saw those little brown lunchbags head out into the world on a Friday morning. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> In other news, I had a miscarriage at ten weeks. I felt sick one morning when I held my calls to walk a block to the drug store for a pregancy test. I went into the shared client bathroom to get the results. I felt so self conscious, I took the stick with me in the backpack. I didn’t want the person who came after to find in in the tiny trash can. I waited all day to show it to my boyfriend. But that happiness was short lived. In true circle of life fashion, I started bleeding a month later in that same bathroom. A trip to the hospital followed. My faith in the universe was broken. I didn’t realize how much I had wanted this pregnancy until it was taken away. For months after, it was hard to walk through the door knowing that this event that had made me so profoundly sad had started in this place. I would sit in my office in the darkness and wonder why the fuck I even bothered to come here. I was walking in a haze where my life seemed to have lost its purpose. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Whenever I took a few days off, the clients liked to grill me about what I had been doing. I had just gotten back from my four day Honeymoon in Hawaii. It was a shotgun wedding of sorts, we agreed to get married when I was pregnant. We dedicated to go ahead with the wedding after the miscarriage. It was an exorcism of sorts. A chance to shake off the bad spirits that circled around our relationship since that horrible day. I was sunburned more than any kind of tan, exhausted from days of hiking. I had poured myself into an adventure hoping to clear my head for a few minutes. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “You look like a bloated lobster…” only the happiest of mornings with this crew. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Good morning to you my friend! So glad to be home again.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> As I walked over to open up my office, one of my older clients called to me from across the street “Are you open yet?” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I shook my head and gave him the hand sign for five minutes. In the time it took for me to lock up my purse, turn on the lights, and open up doors the client had taken a dump next to the garbage can. He was in the process of scooping up the cardboard he did his business on and throwing it in the trash when I walking back out to get him. While this sounds disgusting 1. This client had a medical condition that made his waste a biohazard. The level of consideration on his part was remarkable. 2. It was my fault. An absolute rookie mistake on my part. If a client asks if I am open, from that day forward I always ask them if they needed to use the bathroom. There are medications and medical conditions that made it immpossible to wait. So, when I say this started out to be a shitty day, I meant it. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> As an absolute workaholic, sliding back into work was natural to me. Instead of drugs, these days I buried my discomfort in staying busy. I knew this could be at my own peril. The person that was hired the same day as me had already relapsed and requested to come back as a client. He was referred to another clinic to avoid an awkwardness. I completely understood. A few weeks prior, I had found a full syringe of heroin. I am not going to lie, I was tempted more that I was disgusted. Squirting that into the toilet felt like a waste. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Before I turned to my other work for the day, I did my morning wake up call for The Cardinal. The Cardinal had been a thorn in the side of the clinic for years. He was on the no show leaderboard each and every month. A client would get discharged if they did not show up for their medication for fourteen days. After missing five days in a row, they would have to see a medical professional to assess if they could receive their full dose. Month after month, The Cardinal would float in at closing time slowing up the gears of progress. Having to wait would anger The Cardinal. He would start yelling at whoever got in his way. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Why are you making me wait! You know I am sick!” By this point The Cardinal would be frothing at the mouth. He had part of his jaw removed after a bought with cancer. When I part beggged/part dragged him into get his follow up, there were quite a few shocked looks. Not at his appearance. They were used to comple cases. The fact that he was still alive and kicking. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Cardinal had been a farm boy that enjoyed traveling over to the wrong side of the tracks. While he enjoyed the occasional snowstorm, opioids were not a big part of his life until his late twenties. According to him, the back breaking work and stress of raising a child born when he was only 18 pushed him farther and farther into opioids. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Wait wait- The Cardinal has children?” Brandice stopped me mid sentence. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “That’s what he said. And a grandchild too. He said he wants to go visit them.” He talked in a way where he frequently had to repeat himself which would work him up even more. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I promised him a take home to go visit if he could write up a letter.” (I wrote the letter). He did go. He always swore the family just wanted him for “His money.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What money?” I laughed with him a bit. I had not forgotten the time he had brought me a plastic bag with $512 in it. He had a habit of wandering into places where he was not supposed to be. Apparently, this was hidden under the carpet in an apartment remodel. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Cardinal asked me “Will you hold this for me? In your desk?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">First of all, no. Second of all, hell no. I could picture this man banging on the door at all hours of the night saying I “took” his money. Plus “I am not a well person.” Not to say I didn’t trust myself. There was a tiny piece of me that made me wonder. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hung up the phone. The Cardinal was leaving his nest. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Batt was back with a vengeance after a brief stint in rehab.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Trace,” he reached across my desk to grab his bottle for his urine test. “That place was just not for me. They told me every single day that I was not clean because I was on methadone. I fell asleep for two seconds in a group. The counselor shook my shoulders. He pointed to me saying look he is high. Motherfucker have you ever considered that these groups are boring? I’ve been listening to the same thing all day long. So I went to smoke and never went back in. By the way, I think we might have a winner. I think I can finally hit all of ‘em” He darted off in the direction of the bathroom. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The clinic tested for a little bit of everything. Heroin, cocaine, benzos, methamphetamine, other opioids, and we tested for the presence of both methadone and methadone metabolites. Clients occasionally tried to “cheek” or hold part their dose back in their mouths to share with a friend outside. The nurses were on to this and made small talk at the dosing window. Still, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t bought a dose of mouthadone outside of this place when I was using drugs. Desperate times call for desperate measures. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He dropped his sample into my collection box. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Where are you staying now?” I spun my chair around to follow Mr. Batt. He had now parked himself on my couch. When I switched office locations, it came with a few upgrades including occasional moments of silence and a sofa that magically appeared. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He kicked his shoes off. He must of changed his socks before he left the rehab because they didn’t have that familiar smell of corn chips that come from stinky feet</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m staying right here until you kick me out.” And there went another hour of my morning. How do I record that in the case notes? I had to eventually evict Mr. Batt when a scheduled client arrived. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Mr. Slaughter would like to see you,” I get a call over the walkie talkie. My new office is located in the belly of a building owned by a corporate rehab facility. The front of the building is a mixture of people coming in for intake to the program and day treatment. I rarely see those people because I leave this location at 9:00am. The back section is a payee program for folks on disability benefits. The patrons get money either once a week or even small increments once per day. While I am here to open at 6am, that office doesn’t open for a few more hours. Yet many mornings, I get anxious individuals ringing the bell over and over and over. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Is Mary here?” It’s dark as hell outside. I’m not opening the door to anyone I don’t know. This person, Mr. Williams, he’s a regular. He is here for his daily $10. “Not yet Mr. Williams. You have to turn your clock back. It’s daylight savings time. It’s only 7:45 am.” Mr. Williams shuffles off but I know he is just going around the block and will be back again in ten minutes. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I am here alone or with one other counselor many mornings. The Methadone Van with it’s armed security guard is parked in the lot behind the building. The initial thought was that only “highly functioning” stable folks would be assigned to this location since there is only a brief period per day when the van is open before the rehab people arrive. The rehab thought it would be great to create a system where a handful of their clients could get on the van site and detox off methadone while in their center. Quickly, that fallacy was revealed. As the saying goes, life finds a way. Clients are smart. They began to sign up just to get those coveted slots then drop out of treatment. In addition, the clients that stayed would decide they did not want to taper off. I received many angry phone calls. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Hi I’d like to speak to you about Brenda Morris. I’m from Fairmont Treatment” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I’d ask if they had a release of information, a form that provides consent for the two health organizations to talk. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “No but…”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Okay well call back when you get that. Click. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Later it would be “Listen Tracey Helton. This is Jack Wright. I know you from NA. I want to talk to you about Brenda and her methadone dose. I know you know who I am.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Sir, I thought it was an anonymous program. Click, bye. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Mr. Slaughter was inherited from another counselor. He had requested to transfer to the van because he did “security” for a construction site which meant he was up all night, slept most of the day. I don’t think it was a formal agreement of any sort. He was an easy person to get along with, quite personable, when he wasn’t drinking. He swore he had stopped. “My kidneys can’t take it…” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was him and his two rescue pit bulls. The first dog Baby was a notorious pigeon killer. I am not sure what it was about pigeons that set her off. Maybe it took its job as a protector a bit too seriously. Or maybe pigeons looked like squeaky toys it always carried around in her mouth. I’m not entirely sure but I believe it was up to pigeon number four. The other dog, a male named Prince, had been a bait dog. Mr. Slaughter had found the dog bloodied with injuries one morning where it had been dumped. He successfully nursed him back to health. The two were now inseparable. Timmy Slaughter was not going anywhere his dog could not go, which meant showers were extremely rare. There weren't many places that allowed a 6’4” man with scraggly hair, broken teeth, and dirt from head to toe with two scarred up dogs in their establishment. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Prince was easily one of my favorite dogs, so much so that Timmy brought me a picture to hang on my shelf. Soon, there was a competition among the clients to fill my space with cute pics of their own animals. These sat next to the Teddy Bear Mr. Batts had given me, a sharps container that mysteriously would get filled and replaced, and a laminated card the staff had made for me when I got married. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Congrats on getting married. I was married once.” Mr. Slaughter threw a toy to Prince. Baby was chugging water I had put out for her. They had to walk a few miles to get here. “I was married. I had a child too- a daughter. I spent all my time working out in the oil fields in Texas. I worked 70-80 hours a week. One day they pulled me out. They say there had been an accident. Both of them were killed. Asked me when I was going to come back to work. I started drinking then. Never went back. Heroin was later. Hell I used to go to church. I spent all that time believing in the dreams of other people when everything I needed was right there at home.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The loud SQUEAK of the toy broke the tension. The dog rammed itself against Timmy’s leg searching for a pet. I searched for the right words. They never came. There were mornings when I hugged the clients or cried with them. This morning, it seemed more appropriate to sit in silence. There was no comfort I could provide. There was no lemon tree. No performative words of condolences would be adequate. Just silence. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-29490540476631279692021-04-07T13:29:00.004-07:002021-04-07T13:45:29.020-07:00Don't Let the Door Hit Ya<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>There comes a day in the life of any place of employment when you come to a crossroads. You ask yourself a fundamental question-Is this job and the paycheck that it provides worth what I have to deal with on a daily basis. There may be a point at which you have a dark fantasy about revenge but those thoughts rarely come to fruition. </i></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-5e474439-7fff-74c0-84d0-81a4f3d7ba36"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This job afforded has me many opportunities. First and foremost, benefits. A union. A chance to not eat cat food when I am old. Time off when I am sick. Holidays. Educational time. Stability. At my last job, we were told on more than one occasion to not cash our paychecks because they might bounce. I was encouraged to be on call 24/7. I was seeing clients through my non-existent lunch period. There were things here known as boundaries. I appreciated that. I appreciated feeling like if a client was about to assault me, a team of people would respond. And in my short time here, they had. Many times. If a person so much as farted loudly here, everyone knew. It was that intimate. In my last job, I was told if a client assaulted me, I should curl up in a ball. Yeah. Reason number 10247 why I quit. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In addition, I learned new things here. We had inservices, we could attend grand rounds, there was science. Secondly, I got the opportunity to network with other professionals in the field. Finally, I got to work on my grad school homework during lunch and breaks, even getting to interview the Deputy Director of Psychiatry for one of my projects. But I had reached a breaking point. Every time I heard the clip, clip, clip of those heels, I wanted to throw something across the room. It reminded me of when I used to hide in my room from my alcoholic father. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“She’s going to keep going in on you until you stand up to her,” Brandice told me. Have you stood up to her? No. “But she ignores me because I’m a lesbian. She’s afraid that she might catch what I have.” We both laughed uncomfortably. The truth was often stranger than fiction. Women like Helen didn’t mind gay men as long as their sexuality wasn’t “in their face.” But a lesbian- that was an against her beliefs. So was using drugs if it got right down to it. While she was polite in a fake way, she never wasted an opportunity to let them know who was in charge. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mr. Charles,” she leaned down, “You cannot sit here. You need to dose and go.” It did not matter if the client was tired, hot, homeless, or just needing to rest. She wanted “to keep the patient area clear.” That politely meant get the fuck out. Many times, we had multiple clients resting in chairs in our offices. This one was waiting to dose, that one was drinking water because they were too dehydrated to submit a pee test, another wanted to use the phone, the seat was filled by a man finally getting a bit of rest after a four day speed run. It was a community of sorts. Dysfunctional to the outside world perhaps, but driven by a desire to be well, whatever that meant for the person. I had a box of tissues on hand at all times for the young woman that was turning tricks all night long. I had a bag of new syringes on my shelf for anyone to take if they needed them. “I have that Hep C shit already. I don’t want to give it to my girl,” Totally reasonable and appropriate, I thought. But I was used to bending the rules. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Helen was chipping away at my self esteem but more than that, she simply enjoyed being a bully. On hot days like today when all the staff had their doors open, She would vocally scold you as if you were a child that had run into the road. Like the drill sergeant that yells at new recruits, at first I thought she was breaking me down to build me up. There had also been a persistent rumor that she had grabbed one of the admin staff by her shoulders in a fit of rage and had pulled her by her sweater to “show you your mistake.” It sounded plausible. I didn’t know if this was truth or institutional fiction. I can say that it was rather telling that this person came in when they wanted, left when they wanted, and frequently was asleep leaned back in a chair in the middle of the files. So you tell me. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A bureaucratic nightmare, a place like this fostered raging authoritarians. Methadone doses required paperwork from federal, state, and local authorities. There were generally four sets of signatures on any given document. If one thing was off, one of two things could happen. One- the client would be unable to get a change to their medication. So that meant, no extra take homes to see their child graduate. No ability to go to work early one day. No medication to save time on a day when an important medical appointment was taking place. It meant up to an hour each way on a crowded bus, fighting to get a space in line, waiting for up to another thirty minutes while holding on to canes or crutches. Clients rarely utilized available seating as they were worried a younger, stronger person would somehow cut them in line despite the watchful eyes of three nurses dispensing medication. The other disaster scenario was the state would come in, demanding repayment for services that had been rendered. Helen did not care much about the needs of the clients. But she cares about the upcoming audit from the state. And because she was good at making sure all the tiny details were there, the administration seemed to turn a blind eye to her tactics. Periodically, she would buy all of us fancy lunches like the batterer that brings you flowers after they give you a black eye. How could we refuse?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Look at this Tracey. This is all wrong. Can you fix this while I’m here? I want to make sure it is done the right way.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I saw heads all the way down the hallway tuck their heads back into their office like turtles. They did not want to be next to face her wrath. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The fix was easy yet time consuming. I had signed my name on the wrong line. Instead of being able to cross or white things out like normal humans, I had to recopy the whole thing as it required a wet signature in black pen. I told her “I can’t right now. I have a client sitting in my office. I just came out to get some crackers.” Helen was furious. She began to rant about my abiilites, about how she was always forced in to fix my fuck ups. The criticism veered from the professional into the personal. Why did I “always” late to the afternoon meeting? She knew it was because I preferred the company of the people we were there to serve. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For now, I’d take this abuse. My priority was getting back to my client. She was alone in my office.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meredith had just found out that she was pregnant. I was bringing her crackers from the snack drawer. I had already gone into the refrigerator to give her the two yogurts I had brought in for my breakfast. It wasn’t unusual for the staff here to pick up premium snacks when they were on sale then give them out privately. There were also socks, a few toothbrushes left over from dental visits, a bar of soap, and new panties of various sizes in a container next to my desk. Women would start the clinic without having had a period in months, even years. After seeing a woman covered in blood in the lobby, a few of us started stocking up on supplies. The hospital had a charity program that had clothing which we could access when it was open. Oftentimes, we got sweat pants or stockpiled scrub pants we would pass to clients as they were leaving. We counselors did want to be seen as soft yet we all were slowly dying inside at the amount of need. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meredith was one of the un/lucky ones who got her cycle back as a result of better health and decreased drug use. She just wasn’t aware it had happened. Clients were tested for pregnancy when they started treatment here so this pregnancy caught everyone by surprise. The nurse estimated that Meredith was four months along, too far for a simple abortion procedure. Meredith kept saying she wasn't sure how this could happen but she knew- a brief reconciliation with her on and off boyfriend Steve. Steve was tall, handsome, and dare I say a tad bit useless. The only thing he had to offer was a ride on his skateboard and a smile. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So here she sits. Homeless and pregnant. Still using heroin and pregnant. Strangely, the client was calmer than I was. I was nervous for her. It also was a bit close to home as I was hoping to get pregnant. At almost 36 years old, I was about to stop taking birth control pills. There had never been a right time to get pregnant. First there had been the drugs. Then, there was school. Being sober was great but it was not the end all be all of my life. I wanted more- a family. Meredith told me that is what she wanted too. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Meredith had gotten on methadone because she sincerely had wanted to stop using heroin. It just had not happened yet. This baby could be a “new start for her.” Meredith had given her first child up for an open adoption after getting pregnant in her late teens. This time, Meredith told me, things could be “different.” Meredith could get “clean”. Meredith Could keep </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">THIS </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">baby.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sara, the nurse, stuck her head in. She needed to whisk the client away to her prenatal appointment. One of the perks of being on the hospital grounds is that we could sometimes fast track appointments. A pregnancy this far along with no prenatal care would initially be considered high risk. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Have you seen the tree we got for James?” Sara asked. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I shook my head. “You mean the miniature lemon one we chipped in for when his mother died?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes!” Sara responded “it’s missing from the staff lounge”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In all my years of working with people with addiction issues, I can assure you no one stole a tree to sell for drugs. This was 100% an inside job. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“These dirty motherfuckers,” I whispered to myself. “Who would have the absolute gall to steal a Goddamned tree! A Memorial one at that.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Tracey, I need to see you,” Helen was on the warpath. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the middle of the pregnant client, the lemon tree heist, and the clinic about to close for lunch my phone rings “Hey Tracey, you better come out here. Your client Batt is going off in the waiting room.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I push past Helen, I sprint down the hall, and up multiple flights of stairs. There is a crowd building in the hallways as the last minute dosers lineup before those two heavy double doors close. I see John Batt, in all his glory, in the waiting room. John, at a year younger than me, was no stranger to controversy. In a normal world, he could’ve been the captain of the football team or class president. He was always reading, always wanting to learn new things. He credited his time spent in youth authority with his thirst for knowledge. He was in and out of institutions from the age of ten after his mother died from a drug overdose. “I raised myself” he frequently told me. His crystal blue eyes that changed colors according to the drugs he had in his bloodstream. There were sober moments. There had been many drug treatment programs. Nothing seemed to stick. Today must be a refill day- the day he got his script for his anxiety medication. I am quite sure the medication worked perfectly fine when taken as prescribed. Unfortunately, there might have been a few too many valium on this particular morning. His pants were halfway down his legs. He was holding both a stuffed teddy bear and a child size BMX bicycle. I whisper to the person handing out the dosing cards “Can you tell me what the fuck is going on here?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She shook her head. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I take a risk. I decide to head over.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hi John. What’s going on here?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He aimlessly reaches to pull up his pants a few times before quitting in disgust. In his defense, it is hard to do with your hands full. “I’ll tell you what is going on </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">HERE.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” Here was pronounced for extra emphasis. “These people are saying I have to leave my bicycle downstairs. They want my bike to get </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">STOLEN.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” This was an ongoing issue with clients. It was true that bikes frequently got stolen from the bike rack downstairs. It was also true that it was against clinic policy to bring them upstairs. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Crazy loves an audience. So does angry. He was a bit of both. “Oh, here we go. You had to go snitching to my </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">COUNSELOR. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You couldn’t talk to me like a human being. I thought we were friends!” He tried to pull up his pants again. Again, he was unsuccessful. “Here Trace, I brought you something.” He hands me the Teddy Bear. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I heard it was your birthday.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Your anniversary?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Also no. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It’s close to Valentine’s day!”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s a month from now. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well it is someone, somewhere’s birthday. Help me with this bike.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I now have the Teddy Bear in one hand. A child size bike held up in the other. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Batt, John Batt.” He tells the woman handing out the cards.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The truth was I liked the John Batts of the world. They kept life interesting. For whatever reason, he saw me as a role model. We bonded over shitty tattoos and our love of vegetarian food. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But do you like it with Cilantro? It tastes like soap to me…”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> John turns to get in line. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And just like that, there is another crisis averted. With the exception of Helen on line two. I think I’d rather carry around this funky bicycle for the rest of the day than deal with her. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“MR. BATT,” that voice cut right through the both of us. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Here we goooooooooo,” he says under his breath. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mr. Batt, this is the third time this week we have had to talk to you about holding up the line…” She looks me up and down. I am sure I looked like a mutineer on the USS Crazy Train. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’ll need to see you both tomorrow in my office. For now, I have to go to a meeting at the main hospital. And just like that, the wicked witch of the west clicked her little heels together and she was gone. She pulled the double doors closed on her way out signaling that it was officially lunch time. I waited as Mr. Batt got his dose. I carefully talked him through the belt adjustment that was required to raise his pants to an acceptable level of exposed ass. I took the elevator down with my nondescript holiday bear in hand. Mr. Batt smiled as he rode off on his tiny bicycle like a bear from the circus. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It wasn’t even noon yet. What would the rest of the day be like? </span></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-61167463441982413902021-03-31T12:01:00.001-07:002021-03-31T12:07:27.564-07:00A year inside<p> The global pandemic has been a year without parallel in my life. First of all, to those who have lost someone to covid, my deepest condolences. To those with long covid, I hope you get relief soon. And to those who have lost someone to an overdose in the past year, I see you. It has been a long road to a place where I even see a glimmer of hope. That does not mean we should look past the pain the last year has caused. </p><p>I started having panic attacks in Jan of 2020. I can clearly see now that this was related to two items: One was the lack of adequate treatment for a hormone balance. Two was fear of coronavirus. The type of anxiety that I have makes any kind of medical fears related to death or disease spiral into a monster that is unmanageable. I remember the Lyft ride home from the ER when they pumped me up with benzos because I was shivering alternating with having trouble breathing. I was so fucked up, I really should not have traveled alone. As I was riding, I realized I was not in control of myself. I was barely able to keep my eyes open. When I went into the house, I made a pledge to myself that I was going to find the root cause of what was ailing me. The attacks were just a symptom. I had let myself completely go into a state where I was not performing the daily maintanence to keep this machine running. I agreed to get on buspar, sought the help of a therapist. And I made a commitment to myself to see what was happening with the pandemic before relinquishing control of my present mind. It sort of worked. Then I got sick. </p><p><br /></p><p>In late Feb into March, I got sick for two weeks straight with an undiagnosed illness. Maybe the flu, maybe corona. I will never know. That illness snapped me back to reality. I, in fact, wanted to live. I wanted to protect my health. So I did. I spent March and April and May hiking and walking with a mask on. I sat outside to listen to the birds. I had a friend spiral into active addiction where he died in a firey car accident. I started going to online meeting. I maintained. I started to overeat like a motherfucker. I refused to acknowledge my sadness. I started to thrive in my solitude. I took up the hobby of whale watching. I learned a bit about the stars. </p><p>My children have alternately had issues this past year. One in particular started saying the same troubled things I sad when I was just launching into my journey of self harm. I started praying to any God that might listen to please let my child be free of the mental illness that has plagued my family line for generations. I started reading articles. I started building in quality time. I binge watched and I floundered. I occassionally asked for help from friends. I would sometimes text a therapist. I went kayaking twice. My fat ass did things I never imagined were possible. Because I was alive. Life is painful and beautiful at the same time.</p><p><br /></p><p>Please excuse typos because right now IDGAF. Thanks</p><p><br /></p>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-43093840416236341292020-07-02T09:53:00.002-07:002020-07-02T09:54:10.021-07:00Staying safe during the PandemicHi Friends,<div><br /></div><div>It has been awhile since I've written anything. With the specter of coronavirus hanging over all of our heads, there are days when I find it challenging to put together a complete sentence. I have gone through all of the various stages of guilt. I have now settled on a sort of acceptance. I cannot change this broader situation. I can only focus on my little part of it. These include: Trying to get an adequate amount of sleep, taking my psychiatric medication twice a day, checking in with a therapist periodically, texting friends that care about my well being, taking at least 30 minutes a day outdoors, and collecting cuddles from the pets. I have had to implement various changes to adjust my routine. Meditation is also helping. Also- drinking water. </div><div><br /></div><div>As a person with a life long history of depression, I fully assumed I would be curled in a ball in bed for the duration but strangely, I can good at adapting to a crisis. As a person who likes graffiti, I have no problem wearing a mask outdoors. The social isolation gets bit trying. I have had three outdoor nature playdates with a friend. This really boosted my mental health. The using dreams have been-whew. It would be nice if I actually got to use the fucking heroin in one of them. Just saying. My health is meh. I need to eat better. Food helped quell the anxiety at first but now I am more concerned about my weight. </div><div><br /></div><div>Overdoses are on the rise. Suicides as well. I hope you know that naloxone is available to you through me or NEXT naloxone. Using is tricky right now. The drug markets are fucked and your pills most certainly have fentanyl. I would love to hear what you are doing to keep yourself safe. I've included a hiking pic here. I never thought a person who cared for nothing but drugs would get into nature as much as I have bit here we are. </div><div><br /></div><div>Love you, Tracey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRndzX1bypSqNXQIZcUQ2M-3Fv4BScvoXIkDCiUh7F7lxNye65Ibiw8uf5IBqLRu3mH8tpXGHl07-UapcRYJtAUVJFTSYx269ix12iaOTJ0ZMrGhClMGQjVtGycWfCIl5w1cUS8H3iKFk/s1334/IMG_1427.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRndzX1bypSqNXQIZcUQ2M-3Fv4BScvoXIkDCiUh7F7lxNye65Ibiw8uf5IBqLRu3mH8tpXGHl07-UapcRYJtAUVJFTSYx269ix12iaOTJ0ZMrGhClMGQjVtGycWfCIl5w1cUS8H3iKFk/s320/IMG_1427.PNG" /></a></div></div>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-85096622783099260102020-05-06T18:33:00.002-07:002020-05-06T18:34:40.917-07:00A Heart That is Open <span id="docs-internal-guid-e3614b8a-7fff-d52f-4312-aa06285ed565"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I slowly vibrate with a feeling of anxiety as my eyes involuntarily pop open. I don’t even need to grab my phone to tell me it is in the neighborhood of 4:00 am. Every night without exception, I am forced awake with the feeling of dread that a terrible thing is about to happen. No amount of CBDs or chamomile teas or Buspar are going to convince my overactive mind that everything is going to be okay. It is not. Or so my body believes. I stick my head under the faucet in a kitchen filled with moonlight to get a drink of cool water. The words are stuck inside my throat. I cannot talk about how I am feeling. I am ruminating without my conscious mind. I have no idea how to turn off the snake brain, the brain that is screaming DANGER while I drift off under the fluffy white comforter of my dreams. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the shelter in place is over, when I can finally give people hugs again. I want to embrace people I don’t even like. There is no amount of self reflection that can convince me this time in my life is anything but emotionally draining. Yet, I hope I can emerge a slightly better version of myself. The truth is, my life has needed a hard reset for just short of a decade. It started with the death of both my parents in 2009. I can only assume it ends when I finally exit this world. I just don’t want to go gasping for air. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The “pink cloud” or “attitude of gratitude” or whatever people chose to call recovery slow slipped away when I had a miscarriage eight years into my life without the daily use of drugs. Until that point, I had maintained a fairly charmed existence where I was blissfully ignorant to how painful it can be to feel the full range of feelings that comes with sobriety. Those feelings were amplified when my mother died suddenly from cancer. She was ten days away from visiting me and the kids in my new house. These paired events combined with a healthy dose of postpartum depression made me question why love existed, was God real, and what does it mean to get your life together when the end result is dull emotional agony. I couldn’t completely lose my shit at that time. I had a four month old and an almost two year old that depended on me to hold it together. The final wheel fell off the emotional wagon a few months ago. The compounded years of suppressing my emotions poured out as both panic attacks and waves of depression. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am not sure why I became unraveled. In a way, I am glad it happened. This was an opportunity to deeply clean out old wounds- to learn news ways to cope. The parallels between this time and that time are unmistakable. The illusion of control shattered by the disillusionment of life on life’s terms. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I am a fear based person. I have come to accept this fact. It began when I’d hide in the closet when my parents would argue. Is daddy going to leave again? Is he drunk? When will my parents stop fighting? Seeing my father go into violent rages when I was 5,6,7 years old created this sense that no place was safe, not even home. I didn’t have “anxiety” then. It was stomach aches, headaches- somatic responses to trauma. I liked to stay home from school, to be “sick” so I could be alone. I liked to wander off into my own thoughts. Having grown up with no one really to confide in, I realize that I’ve been struggling to connect with people on a basic human level. I want to hear what you have to say but when I am wounded, I don’t want you to see me. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Drugs fit into this mindset like a hand inside a glove. Drugs create an internal fantasy world where there are no boundaries. Whatever the chemical reactions occur as a result of what I put inside of my body will dictate the moods of the day. I am driven by the unquenchable thirst, the insatiable desire to be anyone but my authentic self. Mostly because I have no idea who that person really is. I change to satisfy those around me. I move like the fog. I stick to structures but dissipate when you try to reach out to me. I slowly disappear or I envelope those around me with a cloudy vision of the substance of who I really am. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My personality was forged in the daily struggle for survival. In the last chapter of my storied existence, I am working towards a measured amount of happiness. I caught myself looking at roses wondering who the fuck I really am. The warm fur of my dog against my bare leg makes me feel supported. A facetime call from my friend brought tears to my eyes. I am loved. I may not feel safe. I may never feel that way. I can, however, feel the love around me. If nothing else, the pandemic is reminding me to enjoy the little things and move through the world with a heart that is open. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-17306070084770897722020-04-10T09:48:00.003-07:002020-04-10T09:48:54.708-07:00QuarantinaI found a bag of meth yesterday. I've found broken syringes, tiny bottle of cheap vodka, and a few wrappers have blown in the spring breeze when I've taken the dog out for a walk. What day of the week is it again? Oh, it is another generic day in my house. I generally don't CRAVE drugs. I get little "c" craving. Things like seeing a person pull the needle out as we make eye contact as we walk by. I might think to myself "damn that looks good". But mostly, I can maintain a sense of distance between me and my sketchy past. Until this pandemic. <div>
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I wake up from using dreams 3-4 nights a week now. All kinds of crazy shit, mostly where I am stuck in abandoned building on a filthy mattress or I am dopesick and freezing in the rain. This now month long waking nightmare of sorts has stirred up repressed memories of days gone by. I never really cared that much about dying. I mean I was cautious but that is different about caring. I could not visualize what the next day would be like so it was hard to embrace the potential consequences of my life ending. But the covid 19 shit, that makes me afraid in a new way. </div>
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What do you do when you have no control? Let go? Hold on until you are exhausted in the struggle? Eat myself into a coma? Day drink? Shoot dope? Exercise (lollollol)? This time has really revealed the vulnerabilities in my own personal safety net. I did not realize I needed people this much. I miss people I don't even like. But I am moving from the depths of despair into finding the little joys in daily living. If I'm alive, I might as well enjoy the time I have, right? </div>
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Hit me back people. I love you. </div>
traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-23061212292653463982020-03-07T08:21:00.000-08:002020-03-07T08:21:19.398-08:00Reflecting on the past 22 yearsI quit heroin 22 years ago. That sentence is a lot to take in,<br />
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I never, ever thought I'd live a day without heroin. It's weird how when people get sober they seem almost afraid to admit that they enjoyed getting high. It's disingenuous to me- like you are trying to put one over on yourself. You got high for that long and you DIDN'T like it? That's weird to me. I liked getting high but truly that is such a small part in the average day of a person using drugs. It was all that other bullshit that I hated.<br />
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In the last few months of my drug use, my life had evolved into a pattern. On Saturdays, my mom would western union me $175. I had lied to her a million times by this. I told her I was sober since I had gotten out of jail. If I was smart on that day, I would use that money to pay for my hotel room by the week. Many times, I would go straight to the dopeman then pay $30 for a room for the night. By this point in the game, the young low level drug sellers that had brought up to the Bay Area by the cartels had recruited me to sell their drugs. They knew that I was good for the money and exactly where to find me if I was not. By this point, I was either sleeping in the Fern street alley or renting by the day at the Kinney hotel, a hotel known for it's large variety of rats.<br />
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The teens were recruited specifically because they would be deported versus put in the immigration prison. The boys had a quota to fill. They earned above those sales, frantically sending every last dollar home. I would be fronted a package just like they were. The dope was stomped on, but not enough to scare away people like myself. A real connection would not come out for sales smaller than $50. These street level dealers dealt in everything down to $5 bag. So I'd inject whatever (that's if I could even get a hit with no veins left) and a few days later, i'd get a raging infection.<br />
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When I look back on it, I mightve spent 20-30 minutes high every few days. The rest was chasing my tail to avoid being sick. So sure I liked being high but the bullshit that encapsulated active addiction was not worth the limited experience. But- I wasn't ready to let it go until I was. Stubborn is my love language.<br />
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A lot of yall are in your twenties wondering what it will take to get you to change. Change is incremental. It is so slow, you can't even see it. So one day, it seems like you woke up strung out. Just like one day you will wake up and want to do different things. The main thing I can advise is that you need to take care of your body the best you can. I did many many risky things- sharing syringes, reusing bloody syringes, waiting to go to the dr, mixing too many drugs, etc- that impact me today. If I would've known I wasn't going to die, I probably wouldve spent more time trying to live.<br />
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There's a kitten sitting on my bed looking SUPER cute. It is really distracting me. These cats can't be bothered with me until I am trying to do something, then they want to come around.<br />
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My love to you.traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-19978976144158372932020-02-17T10:14:00.000-08:002020-02-17T10:14:04.518-08:00The Whys <div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-bfde86af-7fff-af2b-3802-d2bf90d1f5a1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every morning, I wake up with an existential crisis of sorts, wondering why am I here. But there are a few levels to this why. There is the why of how did I survive an addiction that killed so many others. Why did I make it through ten years of hard living when my friend relapsed and could barely make it through a month without tapping out/ nearly losing his leg. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why am I here as in what is my purpose. Growing up firmly entrenched in codependency, I like to have a reason for my being. I am uncomfortable when I am choosing my own path, my own way. I like to have that decided for me because I’m needed. The kids aren’t little, my work life is fairly stable. The years of crisis management have settled into a place where my free time is nearly exclusively my me time. I fucking hate it. I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s hard to admit this but it’s a deep dark truth that I’ve lost faith in my own ability to navigate this ship. Anxiety manifests itself in “what am I going to do next?!” There is no clear path, no project. I am learning to sit with myself. It’s like when I first stopped using drugs. Everything is new again. I am learning how to adapt to endless possibilities. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why am I nearly 50? What the actual fuck? That’s probably the least of my worries. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I also am lacking a spiritual center at the moment. I enjoy meditation. I like being out in nature. I need to revitalize my belief that my obsessive thoughts are actually not the center of this universe. I feel this medication slowly activating in my stomach. I want it gone. I want to be like my perception of “everyone else”. I got lulled into a false sense of security where I thought I was “normal” again but it talking with other humans, there is no normal. There is only what we do to get by. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I relax when there is a crisis, a goal, a fire to be put out. Merely existing without these has spun my world into a different kind of crisis. One where new drama must be created. Excessive worry over my health. Examining every ache and pain. Recounting every conversation and pointing out my every error. Anxiety is the constant examination versus allowing things to just be without my assistance. I need that. I need to turn things over to the universe or the process or whatever order exists outside myself. This constant reexamination is painful. I want to have the freedom that comes with connection outside my own mind. </span></div>
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traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-11331685023439879432020-02-08T12:19:00.000-08:002020-02-08T12:19:30.869-08:00Uphill <div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-fb82078f-7fff-07a3-76a8-a5c73aea4207" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the depression season slowly comes to an unceremonial end, I can’t help but reflect on what a long January it truly was for me. I tend to have ebbs and tides with my mental health. Things will hum away like a well oiled machine one moment. Then, a sputter then things grind to a halt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I spent the better part of ten years of my life homeless in three different states. That isn’t me feeling sorry for myself. It just is stating the facts. In those years, my drug addiction wore me down to the point that I was willing to part ways with the great love of my life. Not a man. Not a woman. Just heroin. Heroin was there for me when no one else could reach me. It kept me alive on many a lonely night. Learning to live a fairly productive, happy life without heroin has challenged me beyond measure. I had put all my faith into this thing and that thing stopped working for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The last bit of surgical tape is still stuck to my arm from my last trip to the ER three weeks ago. I’ve had panic attacks, sure, but not the kind where I actually think I am dying. Maybe it’s the fact that I am firmly rooted in middle age now that escalated the severity of my obsessive thinking. Whatever the reasoning, I just wanted help. I wanted the feelings to stop. I wanted a practitioner to confirm that I was well. It was humiliating to hear that a condition in my mind could do this to my body. To think that a bear was chasing me when I was in the middle of my living room clutching my chest. But/and maybe this is what needed to happen to tear it all down. To remove that facade that I have been carrying around saying that I am okay when in many ways, I was not. How much secondary trauma can a person absorb and still remain upright? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am mildly happy the past few days. It’s a relief.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have been thinking a lot about my ex Daniel. The seasons, the lack of light, makes me think about the grimy alleys where we tried to make a home. I would push myself against the wall, gently laying out the dirty blankets for he and I to sit on. There is a special bond between a couple when both are heavily addicted to drugs. There is a beauty in the simplicity of not having to explain anything. There is no “why are you doing this to yourself” because that person is doing the same thing. There is a certainty in knowing that they are going to fuck you over but it won’t be because they didn’t care for me. It will be because they need the drugs more. It isn’t personal- just the business of getting high.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I miss Daniel this time of year because it is approaching my 22 years sober. Part of the reason I am sober today is because we broke up. Not “we broke up” as in there was any real form of communication. We broke up as in one day we were no longer pooling our money together. By this point, I was the dopeman. Selling heroin for low level Mexican cartel guys who would front me a ½ ounce of heroin at a time. Sell that package once ot twice a day. Spend an hour or more trying to find a vein. Because that’s what happened. I couldn’t stop myself. I HAD to get that drug in my vein and I would not let anything get in the way. So that was that. So much for love. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sober- I become obsessed with other things, Staying busy, listening to the pain of others. Dragging myself into drama. Stuffing my face with carbohydrates. Anything and nothing at the same time. Mindlessly scrolling the internet for hours at a time. Looking for any type of attention, any boost of serotonin, I don’t know how to sit with myself. I don’t know how to be alone. I just know how to be whatever helps me survive the moment. I am tired though. I am tired of barely getting by. Of needing validation. Of having trouble sitting down without my phone and the tv on at the same time. I’m meditating. Learning to sit still. It sucks at first but it is getting easier.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I started on psych meds for the first time in my life. It’s weird that I’d let some other person with dirty hands hit me in the neck but I was afraid to start on meds. I’m not sure if it works or it’s a placebo. Either way, it’s almost a month since I had a panic attack. I don’t know why I had such internal stigma around medication. Having a mental health condition is no different than high blood pressure or asthma or any other chronic illness. Taking a medication can be part of feeling better. So, I pep talk myself each day into swallowing that pill. It’s been getting easier. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve been working in overdose prevention for 21 years now. A good tune up was long overdue. Fortunately, I am on the uphill climb. I can see the bright side just ahead. </span></div>
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<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-77226386879474962892020-01-27T17:53:00.003-08:002020-01-27T17:53:48.896-08:00Losing Control <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Losing control of myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a survivor of sexual abuse, I have a rigid system in place for myself mentally and physically. I like to know where I am going at all times. I like the details, I like to know my escape routes. I like to know everything that might happen so I can work out contingencies in my mind. It is nearly impossible for me to relax unless I feel like I have gone through a complete mental list of the details. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the past month, for whatever reason, my brain decided to short circuit. The mental load of having to be in control of everything 24/7 was just too damn much. The end result of this was a series of panic attacks. The perceived threat in daily situations is everything and anything. I have come to the fork in the road where I am just too afraid of daily living to the point my mind said ZAP! This is not easy for me to both admit and to deal with. It is a lot to manage. The rigid system can only exist holding things together for so long before it starts to crack. Like a rubber band that has aged in the sun and frays. So here I am. Patching things back together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This means challenging myself in ways I have not for years. I made my life very gray and very comfortable. That kept me safe- the repetitive nature where very little happened. I’m not going to return to shooting heroin in my neck but I do need to find other ways to bring meaning. As I said years ago- if I knew what to do, I would’ve done it. It’s 2020 now. I need to create a new vision for my life. </span></div>
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<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-35047055399198747562020-01-01T13:05:00.001-08:002020-01-01T13:05:38.338-08:00Enjoying my Ninth LifeI was laying in my bunk bed cuddling one of my fat rolls last week when it dawned on me that it has been over two decades since the last time I was starving. I have gotten used to this sturdier frame. This is quite a contrast from the years when I was so thin I had to wear multiple pairs of pants just to get up to any type of a normal frame. There was an expression I heard in rehab "I was so sucked up, my two back pockets were touching." This was a painfully accurate representation. It's a humbling thing to have to decide between spending a dollar on a little debbie snack cake and paying full price for a small bag of shitty dope. Yet, I'd rather eat food I'd find on the top of a trashcan then part with my hard hustled money. <div>
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I am going to be fifty this year. I have outlived my shelf life many times over. I used up many of my nine lives, squandered a few. I enjoyed a few others. I will never forget the three weeks I spent tripping my ass off in Colorado at the Rainbow Gathering. Or the weeks I squatted in the MDC music studio. Or the first few months of my IV drug use, when I still really enjoyed heroin. Or a few of the moments in between. My life path has been more of a an uphill loop that took a turn at the garbage dump then off towards the beach. It has been an interesting ride. </div>
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I am at the age now where I have to start thinking about "what if my kids want to try drugs?" and "what am I going to tell them about heroin use" and how can I explain that most of my friends are dead. I ran into a person I used to get high with just yesterday My kids wanted to know how I knew him. "We met through a friend of mine that died of an overdose." There was nothing else I could think of to tell them except the truth. The truth is my default. I no longer spin webs of deceit to protect me. The truth is disarming. </div>
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I know many of you that read these entries are dealing with addiction, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, and pain. I see you. It does get better. It will get worse at times though. I am not going to lie. Life has lots of bumps in the road. Overall though., I am glad I didn't kill myself to put it bluntly. I am glad I've gotten to know you. </div>
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Carry naloxone, test your drugs, pet all the animals, get hugs, come see me. I love you. </div>
traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-71742381711264762682019-12-17T08:43:00.000-08:002019-12-17T08:43:10.961-08:00On pauseI enjoyed shooting heroin as much as one can enjoy it. It served it’s purpose- filling the void of non existent relationships, happiness, and self esteem. I didn’t need love. Heroin WAS love. Mix that with the ego boost that was amphetamines. My path to daily maintenance was settled. I saw the consequences but I cared very little about them. If only I had an endless supply, I told myself. In reality, I should’ve been more focused on having usable veins. I abused the vessel that held my future endeavors to the point the machine turned against me. It was time to try abstinence, possibly and probably against my better judgment. There was simply no evidence it would work.<br />
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Twenty something years later, I’m a functioning human. There are days when I’m less functioning than others. I hold no illusions about that time of my life. I am both lucky to have survived and angry that drugs don’t work for me anymore. I can hold both opinions. I was fortunate to survived before fentanyl but I’m sad I didn’t get in a few more Oxys. Just saying.<br />
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My forties are rolling to an end. I’ve enjoyed most of my life. If you’d asked me at 22 what I’d be doing at this age, I would’ve said “decomposing” with no irony. But I’ve outlived my shelf life. I’ve come to accept this fleshy prison as tolerable. I even feel happy from time to time.<br />
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I haven’t been writing to you much because honestly I’ve been eating like shit and binging tv. I’ve fallen into intellectual apathy. It happens. I’m in a slump that is wrapped in fleecy sweatpants. It is what it is I guess. Mentally, I’m on pause. But I’ll emerge with new ideas. I always do. In the meantime, pass the chips. We got resting to do.<br />
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traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-49319332082126450162019-12-07T12:21:00.002-08:002019-12-08T14:20:21.028-08:00Put Lemon Juice on itPut Lemon Juice on my regrets,<br />
Inject them directly into my neck.<br />
Heroin swirled in a snowdrift<br />
Helicopters drown out hunger pangs.<br />
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My circle is very small. It consists of kids, cats, and depression naps. I don't go out much- though I enjoy myself when I do. I spent a lot of time mindlessly scrolling my phone wondering if anyone is truly happy. Things have changed for me recently. Watching people I love return to active drug use has made me question a lot of things in my life.<br />
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<br />traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-32492267006041554162019-11-16T06:48:00.001-08:002019-11-16T06:48:37.235-08:00Crispy Bacon When the seasons change, when the days get dark early, my mind turns to heroin. Maybe there isn’t even heroin left in the US but I can’t say even at 21 years sober, I don’t occasionally get an itch. It’s more of missing numbness- numbness with flashes of euphoria. The Holiday Season reminds me of all the things I don’t have. Both my parents are dead. I have debts. My mental health goes through various stages of instability. I’m no longer in that blind faith phase of 12 step where I am fully invested in the idea that if I do x,y,z- I’ll be fine. So here I am.<br />
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Being active in a drug habit was fucking awful, don’t get me wrong. It’s cold now. A good vein is not easy to find when you are searching between two cars while your “friend” watches out for the police. There’s no joy in trying to figure out which limbs are the least infected. I often couldn’t feel my own legs because of the swelling from cellulitis mixed with dull nerves from constantly poking myself with a syringe. I’d lay under a uhaul blanket on a cold sidewalk, my nose running until I could get up at 5am to search for the dopeman. I don’t miss these particulars. I miss the instant gratification of knowing for a brief moment I will feel whatever is in that syringe.<br />
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The kids are going to be up soon. I’ll be cooking up bacon and eggs, forgetting all about this brief stint into morose sadness. I prefer my soccer mom thing. I try to identify my own feelings to articulate them to anyone who might be struggling. I think six pieces of crispy bacon might cure what ails me. I got a fridge full of food, warm blankets, and people who truly love me.<br />
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<br />traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-35173500539643069572019-09-24T18:45:00.000-07:002019-09-24T18:45:30.621-07:00Two consenting adults I went to pull my pants off. The customer was anxious to get to the goods. Around the world in thirty minutes or hopefully less. The abscess on my upper thigh had busted this morning. The puss had dried into a crust that sealed my tights onto my body. I didn’t want to pull to hard. Not only would it create suspicions (“look no tracks”)- there were no visible marks on my arms. Those veins had exited long ago. Tugging too hard at the fabric of this Petri dish of a garment would be painful.<br />
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He took a long pull from his pipe. I guess crack was somehow different from heroin. I had broken my own rule here. Drugs and money didn’t mix. I liked my customers a little less rough around the edges. But today a girl has bills to pay. Find luck where you make it.<br />
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“Shhh. Shhh.” The John whizzes past me to hit the light switch “Shhhhhh.” He hushes me again as he gets down towards the floor. The FBI clearly has this room staked out for his twenty shot. I’m glad I got my money upfront but also he’s a big motherfucker. I begin to size up my options for weapons. Instead of pulling his dick out, he reaches in his pocket for his keys. Attached, it a tiny flashlight. Unless he wants to examine my pussy with this, I’m going to find a way to bounce.<br />
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We both sit in silence. Me, with one leg out of my pants. Him, with one eye to the peep hole of the hotel room door. We are at a stalemate. I hit the remote to turn the tv on. He quickly snatches it out of my hand. “Don’t you hear that?” No motherfucker I do not. This is why I do not mess with crack. I pull my pants leg back on. Maybe he still has that weed to calm his nerves. The time is slowly ticking away. Soon, my dealer won’t answer his phone. When dude starts taking apart the bed frame to push against the door, I unzip the deadbolt and run out into the hallway. If he catches me, I might get a black eye but I got his $50 tucked away for safe keeping.<br />
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No one got hurt that night.<br />
Two consenting adults wasting each other’s time.<br />
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Please excuse typos.<br />
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<br />traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-1574618522841292892019-09-14T06:44:00.000-07:002019-09-14T06:47:18.584-07:00“The Only Way”Dear Readers,<br />
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Folks that read this blog are all over the map with their drug use. Some of you are just starting out on this journey. I can only encourage you to get narcan, use safe technique, get advice from reputable sources, and take breaks. There are some that are midway through and have decided using drugs still works for you. And you know what- that is okay. You deserved to be treated with respect. Period. Humans have been using drugs for thousands of years. That isn’t going to stop because of prohibition. There are the vets of the drug war out there- I see you. You aren’t ready to stop but you don’t want to keep going either. That’s a tough place my friend. You don’t have to decide today but in the meantime, take better care of yourself baby. Finally, there are my pre and early recovery folk. Let me have a few words.<br />
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There is no one way to do recovery. 12 step is not the only way. Yes, it is the dominant treatment but that doesn’t make it the best treatment. Sanitariums used to also be the “best” treatment for mental health before meds and therapy came along. The best treatment is going to be what works for you. 12 step should be offered in an array of options. Meds, therapy, lifering, meditation, trauma informed care, SMART recovery, Harm Reduction therapy, etc. Any person who tells you 12 step is the only way is trying to provide advise based on their own limitations. It’s just not true. 12 step does work for some folks but you may not be one of them. It tends to work for folks who like lots and lots of schedules in their life and folks who like the social support model. I personally see 12 steps as social gatherings. I chose to ignore parts that irritate me. But a social gathering is ofcourse going to have some individuals in it that are not going to be of your liking. 12 step isn’t treatment. It has benefits. But it isn’t for everyone. And that’s 💯 okay.<br />
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There is no one way to recover. Do what works for you. Try things. Maybe reducing your use is a better solution for now. Maybe getting more rest. Thinking through options. We love you and want you to be happy and healthy.<br />
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Excuse typos. I’m on my phone.<br />
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To all your haters<br />
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traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-82359663562206910972019-09-07T09:00:00.002-07:002019-09-07T09:00:53.902-07:00In My FeelingsOverdose Awareness Day is my least favorite day of the year. Let me explain.<br />
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In 1992, I came to San Francisco California in the middle of the AIDS crisis. Contrary to popular belief, I was already using drugs intravenously before the Greyhound bus touched down here. I had began using opioids (later Heroin) and the needle in 1990. There just wasn’t much access to them in Ohio. I knew about HIV but not much. Suburban Ohio was still struggling to understand it wasn’t a gay disease or Godly retribution for abhorrent behaviors. The empathy in the presentation was lacking. My eyes were about to open as I arrived in the city where sick and dying folks were out in the open. It was something to behold. </div>
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I cannot stress strongly enough how 21 year old me was not prepared for the city. I had no concept of how widespread HIV was in the population of people who used drugs here in the City. Standing next to gaunt human beings with lesions at the syringe exchange, it was my first exposure to an epidemic that had been long raging before my arrival. Prior to my relocation to the City, the only thing I feared was dying of an accidental overdose. As I slowly developed a circle of friends who were HIV +, a new contender for my greatest fear entered my imagination. Within six months of my arrival, two of my friends contracted HIV. They would not admit this until much later as the stigma was a huge barrier to gaining support.<br />
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From 1992-1998, I easily lost 200 friends, neighbors, and acquaintances to HIV. I had moved into a hotel that was part AIDS hospice, part functioning residential hotel for poor souls who had no where else to go. My best friend for most of my using years was a man named Mark Miller. Each month, I would watch the cycles of his meth use, his illnesses, and his week in bed as he would attempt to recover his strength. Mark died in 1996 while I was in jail. The letter I sent to his residence would be returned to me DECEASED. That death would certainly be the toughest to deal with as I was 100% sober and forced to deal with the consequences.<br />
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Fast forward to this past weekend- overdose awareness day. I attended two events. The first was focused toward people who used drugs and their friends The second one was focused towards parents who had lost children to overdoses. I would say the piece that stuck with me was the parent with the graduation photo of their son that had died of an overdose. For a decade, the only photo my mother had of me was my graduation photo that had hung in the hallway. If I had died as I had thought I was going to, that would've been the picture my mom would've presented at my funeral. Instead, August is the tenth anniversary of her death. August is a shitty month of reflection on my behavior and the people I have lost in my life.<br />
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In other words, fuck August. On with September- recovery month.<br />
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<i>pardon typos etc, a bitch is on her phone. </i><br />
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traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-30944351847929688592019-08-25T07:14:00.001-07:002019-08-25T07:14:30.481-07:00Huddled masses What do you tell a 15 year old boy in leopard print skinny jeans that has just sucked a lawyer’s dick for $100 when he asks you to help him find a vein. Do you take the moral high road telling him "I don't want to be responsible for your drug use." or do you tell him that you can explain what to do but you don't want to help. Or do you hold his arm and do the damn thing, perhaps asking that he provides you with a healthy rinse of his cooker in return for your service? Quite the quandary. I don't remember what I did on that foggy night underneath the street light in the parking lot by the breakfast spot where we both (separately) met the dope man. I'd like to think I did the first one but I truly can’t recall. I do remember reviving him from an overdose a few years later. Why don’t you let me die was his response. Unfortunately, I was put in this situation more than once by more than one person. Girls who ran away from foster care and boys who’s stepdads gave them a black eye for breathing.<br />
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There are folks that voluntarily went down a path that lead to the destination commonly known as Addiction. I believe there are other folks who seek respite there. The adults that surround them push them into a bottle of solace. And the street kids, we explain how to get in the youth centers. We tell them how to rent hotels with fake IDs, how to avoid being preyed upon. We give them blankets. We explain what a pimp is and who your is not your friend. Yet, they keep coming as the world keeps turning. Life circumstances keep churning them out.<br />
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When this friend of mine overdosed at in his early 20s, I can't say that any of us were really surprised. I think we were surprised that he lived that long. He no longer looked like a young boy so his monetary value in the currency provided by well resourced pedophiles dried up into a trickle. His teeth were turning slightly brown, his skin was vaguely yellow and scarred up. I hadn't seen him since I had gotten sober but I could only imagine what his memorial was like. Everyone saying how they loved him. Everyone wondering why he was gone so soon. Yet, many of the same people had spent years drawing away his youth to keep a bit for themselves. I won't mention his name here. I rarely think about him because there are things that occurred in my years of walking the streets as a broken human that are just too fucking painful to recall into conscious memory.<br />
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Addiction does mask all pain. In many cases, it just elevates the unthinkable to a level of what a small circle in the shadows deem tolerable. Resting with the angels these twenty years, his suffering ended but not our collective remorse for being unable to help in more ways than handing him an alcohol pad when he was finished, wiping his tears on the sleeve of my dirty hoodie.<br />
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<br />traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-87593581592690446702019-08-19T15:39:00.000-07:002019-08-19T15:39:05.753-07:00They Can’t get “Clean” if They are Dead <b>They can’t get clean if they are dead.</b><br />
<i> Tracey, you saved two of my best friends lives. You sent out Narcan kit to a friend who was there when they both overdosed on heroin that definitely cut with fentanyl/fentanyl analogues. Both friends collapsed after ten minutes when they dosed and thankfully the friend with the Narcan kit that you sent him had the kit in hit car.</i><br />
<i>After my friends collapsed; the sober friend ran to his car and retrieved the kit then he administered the Narcan to them. Within 2 minutes my two friends were brought out of the overdose and were fully conscious.</i><br />
<i>So thank you, thank you so so so very much for sending those kits. You've likely saved hundreds of lives, including my two friends. Two days after that very close call, both of those friends admitted themselves to inpatient rehab. </i><br />
<i>My friends have now been clean a little over a year now. You truly are an amazing individual for doing what you do. Again thank you fr</i>o<i>m the bottom of my heart. You're an ang</i>el.<br />
Harm Reduction did not come naturally to me. I truly believed it was enabling- supporting people to continue in their addiction. Despite the fact that harm reduction, had saved my life, I was not a true believer until the day I was one.<br />
The first time I heard the term “harm reduction”, was in January 2000. I was what could be described an avid “book thumper” in a twelve step program. If it wasn’t recommended in one of the texts of this program, it was not for me. I had a protective fear of drug use that had morphed into a potentially unhealthy fear of people who used drugs. This makes perfect sense in light of the fact that this was my first and only run of sobriety. I had started to adopt the program language of “addict” having a fatal “disease” and needing to remain vigilant to keep the important “time in the program”. My whole world view was shaped by what other folks told me I needed to do. Truthfully, I think I needed that in the beginning. If it was brainwashing, I needed my brain washed. I needed structure. I needed tools. Most of all, I needed some kind of hope that I could maintain my new way of life. I am very grateful for those early years and the people who were willing to help me.<br />
My first professional job was as a peer counselor. Many of the things I believed personally were slowly starting to come in conflict with what I was being told professionally. “Any door is the right door”, I was told. We want to support people in their own individual process. “But what about…” I bit my tongue. I decided to try to listen. The agency I was working for asked me if I would be willing to attend a conference in Seattle Washington related to the heroin epidemic of the late nineties. It was now January 2000. The program read: “Heroin overdoses and overdose fatalities are steadily increasing in North America and around the world. Many overdoses are preventable, often with simple and inexpensive interventions based upon scientific research, epidemiological and ethnographic insights, and common sense.” When I look back at this, who could have know that it would foreshadow what was to come with the American opioid crisis.<br />
Harm Reduction, I would learn were strategies and ideas aimed at reducing negative consequences associated with drug use. Harm Reduction is also based around the idea that people who use drugs are people first, people deserving of the highest quality of life possible. In the early moments, I felt my views were being called into question. I quickly learned that abstinence was in conflict with Harm Reduction. A person would never be able to “get clean if they are dead”. It made sense. Clean wasn’t even a term people used- it was stigmatizing- implying that drug use was “dirty”. Drug use was a medical issue, not a moral failing. It was a public health responsibility to care for those who were most vulnerable. In many cases, this was people who are using drugs. Prevention of overdose was the new hole in a leaky network of public and community programs attempting to save lives. This was the first time I heard about overdose prevention in terms that made sense to me.<br />
Overdose prevention was an area where I was told we could absolutely prevent deaths. In the drug counseling I was performing, it might take months or years to ever see results. I felt a building excitement in the room. There was strong sense that the people using drugs wanted to take action along side other types of first responders. The users themselves felt powerless- they wanted to save their fellows. With training, the conference was presenting tools that had an above average chance of saving a life from overdose. This would involve a combination of rescue breathing, putting the person in the rescue position and calling 911, and giving the population the opioid overdose medication naloxone to use.<br />
These practices based in evidence were a departure from what I had experienced in my years of active drug use. We followed a series of urban myths that included injecting the victim with speed, putting ice down their pants, throwing them in a cold shower, or trying to make them throw up. As a worse case scenario, friends might dump their comrade off in front of the Emergency Room, wasting valuable time in their travels. Calling the paramedics could bring swift retribution from authorities as I had experienced myself.<br />
In the winter of 1992, I enrolled in a methadone detox. Methadone, a long lasting opioid, was considered a “replacement” therapy. I would give up the damage of illicit heroin use in exchange for the stable effects of having a medication consistently in my system that filled those same receptors. Once stable for a few days, my dose would be reduced to zero over the course of three weeks. My boyfriend at the time and I enrolled together, tired of the hustle. We both reported a sense of feeling “normal” within a day or two. Without the shared drive of heroin driving the wheel, the relationship quickly evaporated into a quiet friendship that still exists today. Despite the fact that these types of quick detoxes are generally unsuccessful unless conducted in a controlled environment, we both wanted to stop so badly we gave the clinic both our money and our best effort. After using the first day, we stopped using heroin. That piece of the puzzle was briefly solved.<br />
There were other pressing issues. What would my life be like both without him and without heroin? For the past six months, my life had revolved completely around these two things. I was been financially supported by my seventy one year old sugar daddy who paid for my first few days of treatment. He was “an AAer”, probably a sex addict. Fortunately, viagra did not exist. The whole endeavor made me sick to my stomach. I was young, I was bored, I was damaged, and I was alone- awake for the first time in many years. This was kick number three.<br />
Despite my reservations, I had gone five weeks heroin free. That would soon change.<br />
I would lay in bed, reviewing how I could have possibly gotten involved in the sex trade, abandon college, and my family all in the pursuit of dope.I was trying to regain my strength and my health when the boredom slowly creeped down the hallway, as did the older lady down the hall in search of a partner to use with. A few days later, I stopped saying no to her requests.<br />
The first time I was hit with the Narcan as we only knew naloxone back then, it was at the scene of the overdose of a friend. I was on my third or fourth day back on heroin (hiding this of course) ashamed of myself. A neighbor had offered to give me a bit left over which was all I needed as my tolerance had been reduced to almost nothing. I was barely impacted by my dose when I heard a gurgling noise.<br />
<i>You overdosed and it took me 20 mins to revive you. Right when I was ready to give up, the police and the paramedics kicked in the door. You opened up your eyes like two seconds before they opened the door. Someone must have heard me gasping and called the paramedics. They took you and forced me to go with you to the hospital and get narcanned. Then, you told me the whole way to the hospital "why didn't you let me die? it was my time to go." I think you had taken some klonopins. You overdosed a few times I've seen where you had to be given mouth to mouth but that time you seriously almost died. In fact, I almost left you because you were so blue I didn't know how long you had been out. - my response to the Overdose Victim in 2014</i><br />
The police offered me an ultimatum- either I would agree to be “narcanned” and transported to the hospital or I would go to jail for drug possession. I was narcanned and trapped to a gurney for close to an hour until I was unstrapped. I then discharged myself “against medical advice”.<br />
Over the course of the next year, I would only use heroin a handful of times. The methadone was not perfect. It had helped me. I had reduced my use and achieved my goal of no longer being strung out on heroin. I wasn’t trying to quit all drugs at that time. <br />
In Seattle, it finally clicked in my mind that I wasn’t so different from the folks that were still using drugs. In many ways, our goals were the same. Looking back, I had wanted to save my friend and worked with the limited tools I had- a few CPR classes I had taken in high school. Despite what I knew could be consequences to me, I stayed. I reacted. I tried. I got involved.<br />
It should also be noted that forcing a clearly conscious opioid user to get a shot of naloxone is nothing short of physical abuse. I had argued “if I am overdosing- how could I possibly have saved her?” No one cared to hear my side of the story. Fortunately, procedures have changed in San Francisco in the winter of 1992. In the rest of the country, not so much. Good Samaritan Laws are still not a 100% guarantee against harassment. I saved many lives in my years of active drug use using rescue breathing and/or calling the paramedics. I was an advocate of harm reduction before I knew what it was.<br />
The woman who had overdosed is a married, co owning a business with her partner in my hometown. The boyfriend from the methadone story? Also many many years heroin free. Are we the one percent? No, we are one of the many.<br />
After I left that conference in 2000, I began to realize that it had been Harm Reduction that had saved my life time and time again. Prevention efforts are frequently devalued because their impacts are not always obvious. When I outlined my experiences with what is known as Harm Reduction, they were significant. I was provided clean syringes in the Era of AIDS when HIV was extremely prevalent in IV drug using communities. I was able to retain my status as HIV negative during a time when HIV was, in fact, a rapid death sentence for many. The antiretroviral medications that prolong lives today were not widely available very close to the time I stopped using drugs. I was given sterile water, alcohol wipes, and education on injection hygiene. This played a role in not contracting endocarditis, a condition that has caused no less than three of my friends to have to undergo heart surgery under the age of 35. I was given condoms to prevent both sexually transmitted infections and unintended pregnancies of which I have had neither.<br />
Harm reduction got me to a place where I could finally put active drug use behind me. In 2014, I started sending naloxone to opioid users, their friends, and families through the mail. I was inspired by the lack of available resources for large sections of the countries. The Conference on Heroin was in 2000. I was working at the first city sponsored naloxone program in 2003. Over a decade later, with overdoses rising at record levels, naloxone completely out of reach for the average individual. What started with two doses, became four, became a steady stream of trips to the post office.<br />
<i> hey, so, idk if it would have gotten to death status, but you definitely can add one to the number of people you helped. I never in a million years thought I'd use what you sent, but someone I know whos been away for a while went a little hard with some opana and I ended up using a vial when breathing got weird. Wasn't worth risking it and she was happy I did. Feel free to use this text without my name. Thanks for doing something really special - if God exists he has a special place for you <3. From reddit messages</i><br />
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While I am entirely certain I was not the first person to put some naloxone in the mail, I was the first person to make the choice to go public. Civil disobedience is the is the active, professed refusal of a citizen to obey certain laws of the state, and/or demands, orders, and commands of a government when those laws are incorrect or unjust. Sending out naloxone was an act of civil disobedience. I was certain that the majority public opinion would be on my side and the laws would follow. We Americans are sensible people. We are a caring people. We want to act. We want to do something. We want to save our loved ones from accidental overdose. We want, in fact we need, to have naloxone on hand.<br />
<i> I’m a former marine and was in college with a 4.0 GPA with every opportunity afforded to an American white male (hah) before I ruined it all after getting a Percocet script after a surgery. Like you said, people vilify junkies and think it could never happen to them or that poor parenting is to blame. I also live in the Bible Belt and I’d like to talk about how hypocritical southern baptist views can do more harm than good. But anyway I don’t have any ulterior motives in messaging you. I just admire you so muc</i>h. Thanks for humoring me Facebook message.<br />
How do we decide who will live? Currently, it appears to be a matter of luck and economics. If you happen to have insurance, if you live close to a major city, if advocates have had success pressing for a program in your area, or if you can afford to purchase it, you might have naloxone. If you are uninsured, live far from a syringe exchange site, live in an area that frowns on harm reduction, or cannot afford to purchase the drug for $100 at the drug store, you probably are reliant on the paramedics or other emergency responders to be the only source for naloxone. Things are changing. Incrementally, more and more places are responding to the idea that everyone deserves saving. In states like North Carolina, syringe exchanges are operating out of pawn shops, treatment centers, fire departments, churches, and any place willing to partner with them. There are currently 26 exchanges operating in the heart of the Bible Belt, showing that common sense public health policy is not exclusive to the more liberal Northern States. Syringe exchange and distribution of naloxone without a prescription is 100% legal in North Carolina demonstrating that what may seem impossible, with a ton of hard work and vocal advocates, is entirely possible.<br />
<i>First off, I want to reiterate a huge THANK YOU for everything you do!! I love that you do this, and want you to understand how grateful I am to you: I have never contacted you before, never even commented on one of the narcan kit posts, I bet when you saw my post you were like "who is this girl again? Do I know her?"; but I know you, one of your kits saved my husband's life.</i><br />
<i>We were at a friend's place, having some fun on a Friday night. He mixed it up, handed me my dose, and did his, just as we have done a hundred, no a thousand, times before; while I was distracted trying to get mine in, he fell out. Luckily, the friend we were with had gotten a kit from you "just on a whim", and it saved his life. He was a horrible shade of blue and so so cold by the time we got him dosed; I was certain he was gone...but he made it, and he's fine now. (speaking of, isn't it the creepiest thing how they're dead, you're so sooooo positive they're dead, and then they're suddenly alive again?? It's like watching a zombie movie.) So thank you via Reddit message</i><br />
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<br />traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-51822890130344220772019-08-12T06:18:00.002-07:002019-08-12T06:18:32.742-07:00New piece in the Fix <a href="https://www.thefix.com/aging-recovery">here </a>traceyh415http://www.blogger.com/profile/16828593445682777623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6971965211310107060.post-67649933705019040312019-08-03T16:18:00.001-07:002019-08-03T16:18:21.304-07:00Today’s reflection A person hooked on opioids is acutely aware of their situation. No outsider need warn them- they know. The first time you wake up with that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach or lack the energy to go to school/work/Outside, your plight is clearly outlined. We chose to deny this at first but the truth has a way of chopping at your conscious. You know what is going on. But does the benefits of the drug outweigh the consequences? No one else can decide this for you.<br />
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I stopped Heroin many times before I finally stopped. I would break my syringes. Go a few days without using. I’d do all the speed, take a benzo, smoke weed- whatever- to delay the inevitable return to the needle. Truly, I had no reason to stop besides for the fact I hated the bag chase. I had no job, no friends, no place to live, no will to live, no life. Heroin filled the chasm between myself and the world I saw others live in. It allowed me to function with suicidal depression- until it didn’t. I got to a place, a very discouraging place, of no veins and no prospects. I wish I had an illuminating tale of how I quit drugs 21 years ago because I really wanted to. That isn’t entirely true. In many ways, the choice was made for me by a failing body and no resources left to continue my use. Things just didn’t work. So I not only quit, I stayed “stopped”.<br />
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I don’t know what your situation is out there in the world. I surmise you are reading this piece because you want a little escape from the daily grind. I just want you to know that whatever your reasons, I understand them. I hope you are as safe as possible with your narcan, your clean supplies, and possibly next to a person who cares about your well being. Love to you- Tracey<br />
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