traceyh415

Hi Friends, 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.  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 wea...

I have a whole series of stories entitled Necrophilia about the relationship between a sober person and an addict. Having a relationship or having relations with me must have been a challenge. For many years, I was dead on the inside. I had filled my life to make myself completely inaccessible to any type of romantic interest. I was working fourth to fifty hours a week, going to school at night,and avoided any type of eye contact. I had a few one night stands in early recovery that had taught me I was still a very sick person. I let myself be caught in useless sex traps when I easily could have given myself more credit. Or at least I could have selected better partners. Any brush of a whisker, the smell of cologne, any hand upon my wrist made me think of stabbing someone. Go numb or kill them. Really. My brain was hard wired to animalistic strategies for survival. In my solitude, my little room, I slept with a sweat shirt or blindfold over my eyes and a knife near my bed. I was nev...

Ian is dead. He was another in a long string of dead friends. The list goes on and on. He was homeless, essentially couch surfing in Cincinnati when I met him. He was around 5'9". He had short hair, a peach fuzz semi mustache. I have doubts he ever needed to shave. Ian would get fucked up and cry. Not cry like a little bitch like woe is me but cry a guttural cry like a wounded animal. My apartment was full of a string of misfits but he held a special place in my heart. He was one of those street kids who never expected anything but never had anything either. He had no real hustle. His piercing blue eyes would stop any self respecting punk rock girl dead in their tracks. At the time I was falling into the abyss of my own addiction. I still barely had a job and an apartment so I had a little something to share. I hated getting loaded with him. Why are you crying? Fuck! You are messing up my high. I came home one day. I had a stand up mirror that someone had shattered. Ian had...