Showing posts from March, 2013

What lies fall from your lips?

What lies fall from your lips? I touch your skin, the bruises just begin to form. I feel your breath on my neck. Two skeletons embrace. Your skin, your trade, your body used by those who do not know you. I touch your face. The dimness sets into your eyes. Oh, those lies. Those lies. I have no one. I am no one. I am on my knees crying into your stained jeans. Where will we go? What will we do? Will it still be me with you? I need money and we have no time. Can I hold you just a minute more? The warmth of all your lies. I know what you do for money. I do the same things too. Bring me pain or bring me joy. I live under your heel. To me, you are real. I taste you, I touch you, I leave you, I love you. I listen to all your lies.

Chewed at by rats

All of this writing has brought up a ton of emotions for me. Many days I am on the verge of tears. I am recalling people who have not walked the Earth in many years. I am thinking about goodbyes I never delivered. I am seeing horror scenes in my mind. I also remember a group of kids that were so curious about life. Half of my teenage friends ended up being junkies. Unfortunately, I was one of the first to succumb to temptation. I cleaned up nicely though. However, the scars are there. Some are literal, some are figurative. People have asked me about my scars. I had an infection that went in between the bones in my leg. I covered it with a tattoo of a butterfly caught in a web- symbolic of my addiction. Where the lines are broken is where the hole goes in. I am posting pictures of my scars. My son is partially in the picture contrasting my life today with my past. This blog is my art and I am complete exposed here - arm scar, leg scar, other leg and track marks. We are off to littl


I took pics today for you readers. Frank Norris was the hustler alley. Fern alley is one alley I used to sleep in. I also threw in pictures of a doorwell I used to sleep in. This space was much coveted because you could stay dry in there during rainstorms. It used to have A loves T carved in the side for Aaron loves Tracey. One night the rodent brought me roses after hitting me and I threw them on the ground. This is also the spot where I first met Ben. Lots of ghosts here in this unremarkable spot. This whole area has been gentrified. I was horrified and disappointed by what the neighborhood has become- hipster paradise. The history of the place has been erased as if the hundreds of list souls had never been there. I can name at least thirty dead people who sat here within me. All traces of us are erased.


Ben was heroin addled fantasy from the time. I had just been released from jail after six long months. I had spent most my time of planning for things that would never happen. My first week in jail was spent recovering from surgery. When I was arrested, I had four large abcesses. An abcess is a place where bacteria gets under the skin and the flesh starts to rot. I had to have surgery on my arm. When I took of the bandage, I cried. Not because I was in the hospital, not because I was in jail. I cried because they had sliced open my tattoo! The horror of it all. I used to take a sterile needle and cut them open myself. Needless to say, my nickname was the abcess queen. When I was back on the streets, I felt alone. I gave up my homeless encampment living for a hotel either the help of my parents. They believed I could stay clean but I did not. Ben was another resident of the hotel at the intersection of addiction and sorrow. His hoodie and cut off Ben Davis caught my eye. First we wer

Who are you?

Who are you my readers? I would really love to know more about you. I have had over 10,000 page views in two months. I know the countries that are visting but not the readers. Please feel free to leave anonymous commnets here, ask me questions or email me privately at 1992 My history and my work I live up on the hill. Little boxes on the hillside all around me.

The Rodent

This is a rework of some of the blog entries. It is a rough chapter from my book. Uneditted so give me some leway. I am going to take a writing day next. week. I am cranking out 10 pages or so a week. Enjoy. The Rodent One man in particular kicked the door into my life. I was a loner in my addiction. I was living in Austin alleyway. I used to live in an alleyway right off the hustler alley. For the most part the businesses wouldn't complain about the homeless residents. Either that or the police didn't really care. They knew most of us by name. The chevron gas station was nice enough to let us use the bathroom there so I had some shred of humanity left. I never stayed one night in a homeless shelter. I felt safer outside. Enclosed places made me paranoid after years of doing crystal meth.               I am not sure what was going on that summer. The police rarely made our encampment more to a new spot. They would rile us every few days. In general though, that summer


            There was a woman in my life. She was my muse. He used her for his amusement. It hurt me to see her in pain. She was everything I was not. I was not strong. I was not able. I was capable of doing only the minor while she was a major part of my life. My admiration made her slightly uneasy. It never had a word. we were friends then and that had to be enough.               She was a single mother in her twenties. I was a teenager trying to navigate adulthood with a broken moral compass. I used to sit in her apartment and think of her as my muse. If I could only reach her level of perfection! She was able to keep the patchwork quilt of her life sewn together with dental floss. It was slightly waterproof, able to resist her tears. “WHY do you let him treat you like this? You deserve so much better.” I told her this because she was my muse. I was headed into the spoon. I did not know it then but the rush of instability was on the way. She knew about the unstable. She found a

"Man of constant sorrow"

It is approaching the anniversary of the death of my father. My father died the day my son was born. I had a complicated relationship with my father. As a child, I idolized him. It seemed as if he do anything. He took me fishing. He could play cards and pool. He had friends who had horses. He knew all about sports. It seemed as if he could answer any question. As I got older, I noticed many of our interactions revolved around the ebbs and tides of his drinking. I started to see this man through a different lense. I did learn some important skills from him. I learned how to hide my feelings. I used to take my fingers and put them in candle wax. The burning sensation mirrored my feelings. At first I felt the pain but eventually I was numb to everything around me. In my entire life, I have only had a few open discussions with my father. One was when he was in rehab. My parents used everything I said in group therapy against me at one point or another. They were so focused on their rel

Good morning friends

I am taking today off. My wrist has been hurting from typing so much lately. I need to spend some family time. The weather is sunny and warm. I enjoy my life. I enjoy the freedom of a life without drugs. You will notice that we have bars on the windows. I actually like them for some reason. I wanted to keep them. Besides, it is not the first time I have been behind bars or in them. Not sure if this joke will make it through google translator. Have a good day.

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Nailing a Corpse

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


You are having a baby. You are close to thirty seven years old. Children are meant for planners and young people. They callously have sex to produce genetically perfect offspring. That will not be you. You are a sinner. What kind of punishment does God provide to those who dare to cross all boundaries of morality yet claim to want a family? After losing one child to miscarriage I knew I was being punished for having sucked too many dicks for money. There was not even that many but even one makes you a target for cosmic retribution. The death of my hero- my first attempt at a child. I was a failure as a woman and it stung like a missed hit. It was my fault, I knew it somehow. I had to mourn. The amniotic test. Will you allow them to stick a needle in your old stomach to suck out proof that you can not produce any thing that is good or healthy? Please please please spare my child the mark of the mother. I feel the cramping, the needle the waiting. What will I do now? What if someth

An addict alone is in bad company

This is my favorite line from any type of recovery literature. I discharged from the treatment facility August 26 1998. I had obtained a small job, a little bit of clean time. I had no clue how to live in society. I applied to move into a transitional house run by the Salvation Army. The place was exactly where I did not want to live. It was on the same street where I used drugs. It was in the same area. The difference- I had changed. I was willing to do anything necessary to stop using drugs. The problem was that I was scared of everything. Waves of dread would pour over me when I would stand near the door of my tiny room. The walls were bare. My shoes were lined in perfect order. My bed was made. Every item in the room was tidy but I was a mess inside. Some days I would stand at my door and hold there. My heart was beating so fast the blood rose over me. I was weak with thought. I was never afraid to stick a needle in my arm but I was afraid to have a conversation. Frozen. I had

The DOPE Project (Drug Overdose Prevention and Education)

Please check out the DOPE Project on facebook for more information on innovative programs to prevent overdose. I worked there for three years providing drug overdose information and naloxone for drug users. These programs save lives. Naloxone is a drug that can be quickly administered to reverse an opiate overdose. I am attaching link to the dope project and an overdose prevention video I was a part of many years ago.       Overdose prevention video I participated in


What does clean mean? I went into rehab from the jail.I am a person whom is lucky enough to say my county paid for me to get clean. the rehabilitation center I entered was not known for having a good sucess rate. It was a program that was paid for by Criminal Justice. I was to be one of ten females in a facility with eighty men. The numbers fluctuated but the pressure to maintain self-esteem was on from day one. How can I get recovery in this place? The day I went to the treatment facility I had a few months clean. I had attended a few 12 step meetings. There was this thing called recovery. I wanted this thing so badly despite having any understanding of the substance. I was put back into my own clothes, which barely fit, and transported into this place. recovery, the process of regaining ones self was already starting for me. It was as if I was starting at the starts and did not notice the Earth was moving when I turned down drugs in the jail. At what they called the "main meet

Michelle and the Speed Years

this is a few pages from a chapter in the book I am working on: Michelle I would love to be able to tell you that Michelle looked like the Southern belle you heard on the telephone. Tall, scarred, and black – black – black. That was definitely the first things I noticed about Michelle. Her ID said her name was Darryl but no one ever called her that (unless she was in prison). I had heard from the other Queens that was how she got that scar on her face. They say in all those National Geographic prison shows that a huge scar down the side of you face marks you as a snitch. I found her story more believable. Her lover at the time, a well known bank robber, told her that if he couldn’t have her, he would fuck up her looks for life. I find this a much more plausible excuse. Why would a 6’4” queen be afraid of a little time anyway when all she would get is the love, attention, and affection that no one with clear vision would give her as long they saw her in the light of day. That was


A reader asked a question the other day about the type of housing that is available here for addicts such as the rooms featured in Black Tar Heroin. The main type of housing is single room occupancy hotels or SROs . I am not sure of the going rate but one hotel I stayed in was $35 a rate plus a $5 fee to have anyone visit your room. The hotel was over run by rats and roaches. Cockroaches are curious and if you leave meth out, they come in droves to get a whiff. I had an albino rat in my room. We used to keep the balloons of heroin in our mouth. If the police stopped us, we would swall the drugs. Then we would have to throw them back up in the sink. I was always in debt to Flacco. I would use up more than my share of heroin so I would need to account for every single bag. We took the sink apart to find a missing balloon and mr rat appeared. Man people would use the bathroom in the sink because the bathrooms were so dangerous hence the term "piss in the sink" hotels. People

Ripping at the seams

This is the beginning of another holiday season. While some people favor Christmas, I prefer the Easter season. As a child in America, Easter can be horrifying. I cannot tell you how many times I screamed at the television. " why are they being so mean! Why hurt Jesus?" I cried and cried, shoving my face with peeps marshmallow candies. My mother insisted until the day she died that we went to church but I think that was what she WANTED to remember. As a parent, I enjoy the festive completion of children knocking each other over for plastic Easter eggs. I could swear one year we must have attended five hunts. I was crushing eggs as they were scattered from end to end in our tiny house. One of my fondest memories as a child was finding the golden egg. I won a Fisher Price little people A frame doll house. It was one of the greatest of miniature accomplishments. Today I sorted through old report cards, yearbooks, and pictures. How many happy years as a family did we have

Writing a book

Well you aren't "invited to my suicide". Or maybe you are. How much blood do you want to see splattered on the page. Doctor, I think the victim will live. Bitter, jealous, full of rage. Exercising thoughts I long fought gone, recalling days I long wished past, driving nails into my hands, a martyr to the very last. I type, I shiver, I quiver with fear.I write the words and you appear. I gave you passage through my heart. Again I suffer for my art. Oh woes are me. And so is joy. I will tell my story if you will hear me. This bag of tales has made me weary. I smear my past with invisible ink. It is there but not to be seen. A dream. a drama. Mother mama, wife friend and queen. Read.

Odd facts about homelessness

I was thinking about some random facts about being homeless that is learned from personal experience: 1. You can have more than one kind of lice. Ive had body lice and head lice at the same time. body lice get quite large. A few months before getting clean I remember pan handling in front of Macys. I counted 200 body lice before I lost count. You have to squish their heads to kill them. When I was living in abandoned buildings, my two friends and I had a lice fight. We put lice from each one of our bodies on a cup. Apparently the lice from the different hosts don't like each other. Who knew? 2. Not all homeless people stay in shelter. Personally, i felt like I would rather take my chances outside. i didn't like being in an enclosed space with people I did not know. To this day, I still take the sleeve from a sweatshirt and drape it over my eyes. it blocks out the kight and makes me feels safe 3. Places to use the bathroom are few and far between. Considering the average pe

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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

The candy colored clown

I have been home with a sick child for close to three days. It is amazing how the first thing a child wants when they are sick is their mother. I don't talk much about my children here. To me they are a gift so precious that to talk of them is to brag. I see myself in them at different ages. I see the person I am today. I wonder about the person I could have become if my childhood would have been different. One child is precocious and gifted. One child is emotional and sweet. The last child is a little athlete. It is hard to think of any of them struggling as I did as an adult. I want to lock them in a room and take care of them forever. Their new awareness surrounds my weight. They enjoy asking me about my fatness. Why are you fat? Why do you have a big tummy? I could just brush it off but I feel like I need to be honest with them. I ate too much junk food. I want to be honest with them so they make good choices. On the other hand, my daughter asked me today what happens when

Room to grow

Some days I am grateful just to have clean underwear. I have about 40 pairs. I have very few pairs of socks and one good pair of shoes. I don't need many material things to make me happy. I need projects like my garden. One of my favorite projects is to grow a tiny garden in the spring. I buy some organic non GMO heirloom seeds. I figure if they are the product of generations of hearty living, they are a perfect match for me. I grow tomatoes every year. Two years ago, the vines shot up eight or nine feet. Last year was different. It was too cold so the vines did not really take off until fall. The seasons have passed. Instead of pulling out the vines, I got attached to these plants. Stubborn or foolish, I didn't want to give up on them. I could have used my pots for something else but I wanted to wait. It is march now. The vines have been in pots for almost a year. They are producing tomatoes, a few a week. To me, the tomatoes are a metaphor for my life. Beautiful things come

The domestic arts

I am spending my day digging out from having way too much fun last weekend. I'm plowing through four loads of laundry, dishes, dirty countertops, an overflowing cat box. There are cloth diapers that need to be stuffed, meals that need to be planned. I'm soaking beans for tomorrow's soup. I make soup every Sunday. It solves two major issues: saving time and getting enough vegetables. I spent 6 years trying to kill myself with drugs now I'm worried about GMOs. My mom was never much of a cook. I am not sure what happened. It seemed as if her generation truly bought into the notion that processed food was better. TV dinners, canned fruit we had it all. The microwave was my best friend as a teenager. My father was obtuse enough to want to make a few dishes from stratch. He would cook up the chicken carcass, have us snapping beans. He saved bacon fat in the refrigerator. This was his secret ingredient. He also made a signature meatloaf with wonderbread and ketchup but really


I use this blog as my outlet. I put down all of the things that have been kicking around in my head for the past 20 years or more. I was waiting around for hours and hours. When you do speed, more than half of your time is spent waiting. Are you done yet? Are you coming? Can you meet me here? When is he coming? Where is he? Tearing things apart and waiting for nothing to happen. I was waiting for my drugs when I met this person. Drugs bring you in contact with random people you would never associate with in your right mind. We were both waiting for the same connection. The Connection had their apartment upstairs. some connections were generous enough to let you fix in their bathroom if you were doing business in their house. We were both put out to find a quiet laundry room in the basement of the building. It was warm in the laundry room. The perfect place to find a hidden vein. I quickly prepared my poison. I get these senses. Gut feelings or paranoia both work. I generally was

Of Leather and Lead.

I am a big fan of love and I have had many loves in my life. I love food, I love drugs, I love... yes a pattern is emerging. Generally, I am attracted to things that can be take to excess and also things that are in need of repair. I would also say the same of my relationships. I have been attracted to people on the fringe of normal. It didn't start out this way. I was a late bloomer. I didn't go on my first date until I was sixteen. I didn't have my first kiss until the same year. I had sex for the first time November 19, 1987 with a boy I was in "love" with at the time. He was younger, confused about life. The thing I remember most about him was that he took a razor blade and carved "Tracey, I wanna be your dog" in his leg. The Love! He had gone out with me, he told me later, on a dare because apparently I was so bitchy and unlovable that only fools dare to pursue me. I found out late last year that he committed suicide. My boyfriends could be summed

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Welcome to my insanity readers from: Turkey, Bosnia,Italy, Mexico, El Salvador, New Zealand, Latvia, Thailand

Back on dry land

My cruise to Mexico was not what I expected. I am still wobbly and feel like I am on the boat. Sea sickness is similiar to morning sickness or a wicked hang over.  I am sure Ensenada is not representative of what the United States should expect from Mexico. From the US side, trully,  I am embarrassed by what we are exporting in the quiet town. To see Americans drinking to excess while women with dirty children beg nearby made my lunch much less appetizing. I thought about my own children safe on the ship while these women were out wearing their babies and selling trinkets to support their families. I was overcome with grief. I spent my time homeless , in a sense, by choice. The drugs made my decisions for me. At least these women in Mexico had their children with them.They wore them with care. On Thursday night, we saw a junkie couple at the hotel. He had dirty pants, pinned pupils, and bruised knuckles. he had his daughter on his lap. He pulled her out of the dirty stroller. She cle


The hotel we are staying in for 10 hours is giving me flashbacks. The Internet travel sites didn't mention that it has a healthy dose of junkies, tweekers, transsexual prostitutes, and general drug activity. After we got the kids settled, I slept in all my clothes, with my contacts in, on top of the blankets. I was asking my husband if he had a knife. Then I realized I was having a flashback. This place isn't THAT bad although the child with her dirty junkie father made me utterly sad.