traceyh415

There was a time that seemed not that long ago when the only thing I needed to worry about was what kind of drug was flowing through my veins. Opioids, benzos, amphetamines where my drug of choice. All at the same time of course. Don't forget the cocaine. Some booze was in there, too. That feeling of being dopesick and chugging on some Taca cheap ass vodka will never leave my memory. That feeling of having my side hurt only realizing it was my liver after washing down a handful of Vicodin with flat beer. There were many days when I woke up broken in my small apartment in Cincinnati that I thought "how much worse can my life possibly get?" I found out. I don't know if I was born an addict. I know my behaviors certainly molded me into one. That roller coaster of crippling depression briefly came to a screeching halt when I found opioids. There was my solution, my lover, and my best friend in one place. There was a time when I thought the real problem was simply not ha...

"I'm here on business..." he tells me. His voice is trailing off. He must be desperate to trust me.  There is a certain magical place for any all middlemen. That is a place when a person approaches you that is both too sick and too scared to get product for themselves. This person is firing on both cylinders. How he ever acquired a heroin habit, I do not know. I suppose he started popping a few percs after a sports injury or someone gave him a few lines in college. He stuck the straw in his nose expecting something similar to coke. Instead, he traveled down the rabbit hole where heroin became an orgasm, a first love, and a bowl full of fuck you all in one. As he settled in, he told himself this was the best feeling in the world until he began violently puking on his loafers. He couldn't make it to the bathroom so he yakked in his empty big gulp while his edgy female companion told him "I knew you would like it". I suppose when he stepped off the airplane in ...

Work. Dope. Sleep. Work. Dope. Sleep. Work. Dope. Sleep. Broke. Cry. Twitch. Whine. Ahhhhh. Nod. School. Dope. Sleep. School. Dope. Sleep. School. Dope. Sleep. Beg. Borrow. Cry. Twitch. Shit. Ahhh. Nod. Scam. Hustle. Scam. Hustle. Tick Tick Tick. Call. Wait. Call. Wait. Sick. Sick. SICK! No, I didn't lie to you. Well, maybe, just a little. Yes, I promise I will get clean. Middle. Skim. Middle. Another Day, another felony. Some cheese, some tar, some scramble. My life inside a plastic bag. Valium. Vodka. Ramble. My self esteem? I misplaced it. My faith in God? I erased it. I held my future in my hand. I traded it to my man. If I die in my sleep, Promise you won't wake me. If I have to live this way, I pray the drugs will take me. Tell my family that I loved them. Tell my girl she will love again. Tell my boyfriend that I am sorry. As I fade into oblivion.

I have been invited on a few different podcasts lately. This one required me to get up at 5:30 am. I try only requests that seem like a good fit and are no going to be saying terrible things about heroin users. I liked the way this one turned out. Link  here

Let me be completely clear. I have never been an addict. I have never lain my head on the street for slumber or been driven to prostitution or acts of craziness for cash.  My perspective is based wholly on being a witness to addiction. Sadly, most of the addicts that I see cannot talk. They are tiny babies born to moms who are addicts. I am a lowly administrative assistant in a small hospital on the east coast that helps babies born addicted wean from the drugs they are dependent on.  There are stories here…stories that some folks aren’t strong enough to tell themselves.  Yet.   Not strong enough YET.  I always say yet because as my young daughter tells me, anything can happen.  The first mama that I ever encountered was named Sharon  in 2010 . Sharon had a beautiful baby girl as well an older child which I never met but she talked about constantly. She was in her 30s and her story still haunts me.  It is amazing what people tell me. I really...

Endless Ancipation It's  6am  and all I can think about is scoring heroin...I'm not sure how I ended up in this situation, wait....that's a lie. I know exactly how this escalated to black tar. I followed that curious cat down the wrong alley, tripped, slipped and fell nose first into a pile of brown powder...well,fuck me....let's get this show on the road. 630 am "maybe he's awake, should I try calling?"  I mean, the sun is almost up and he MIGHT be up....That's the logic of an addict, I know damn well he won't be awake for at least 4 more hours..and that's still not likely, my call log is more like a continual spiral into drug craving madness. 745am While my cravings are completely mental, that voice in my head just won't shut the fuck up...That gorilla on my back weighs 800 lbs and he's a mean fucker when he doesn't get his way. He's a master manipulator and will speak to you smoother than a seasoned pimp mackin to a fresh bit...

I forgot to post the links when I did the official reddit podcast  Here . Follow and it will give you a variety of different ways to listen to the podcast

"2 bags please" As the words of Curtis Mayfield are on an endless loop in my head...the thought of heroin is the only competition it faces for my attention. Days blend into nights, night blend into weeks, and it all becomes a blur until you're staring at yourself in the mirror trying to figure out your life. How can such a small pebble of joy cause such a reset in my brainwaves...the joy of having the dopamine production of a dopefiend...joy is only found in a pile of brown powder.  I check again to make sure I still have my score...a black ball about the size of a large marble, portable pitch black onyx love measured by the gram. This 3 grams won't even last 3 day before I'm back in the endless rat race of copping. I am best friends with the devil and he feeds my addiction happily..a sick twisted friendship of mutual self destruction, our bond is heroin and his habit is worse than mine.  The feeling of hopeless addiction sets in deeper as I look through my...

I am 45 years old now. I am soft in the middle. I own a home in the San Francisco Bay Area (the bank owns most of it). I have three children. I racked up a bachelor's degree, a master's degree, and an addiction studied credential. I have almost as much in retirement accounts as I do student loan debt. I have traveled to Canada, Mexico, Europe, and across the US. I wrote a book then another. I have tried every drug I could get my hands on. I have had my share of lovers, lost many friends. In fact,  I have lived 15 years past my expiration date. When I was using drugs, the Sex Pistols reminded me there was "No Future". There was no future for a person like me. I hated the world. I hated the establishment. Most of all, I hated myself. I am not sure how I went from a loving, confident child to an anxious teen full of self- loathing. Incrementally, I changed into a person that was afraid of the world. I was afraid of my reactions. I got into drugs and alcohol because it ...

Some days I feel like a normal person. Other days, I feel like a worthless.   Depressed, stressed.  Worrying about the tiniest detail.  I want to cover my face.  That way, you won't see.  I wear my emotions like make-up.  I cover up down to the foundation.  Years without drugs. Years without an excuse.  When you peel back my skull,  You see that only the pain remains.  How can I let it go?  It has kept me company.  So many years spent beside me.  Depression is a comfortable robe.  I wrap myself in that warm feeling.  I'm settled in. 

"It's too hot out here" he tells me "my nuts are sticking to my leg". I shake my head. "Ohhh you think that is too much information?" he asks me. I roll my eyes. He follows "how do you think I feel about think I feel about watching you dig for a vein a half inch from your pussy?" I pull my hat down, pretending I am slightly embarrassed. The truth is- when it comes to drugs I have no shame. We met in the hall way of my hotel. I wasn't looking for anyone. I preferred to do my thing alone. A man tended to get in the way. A man was either lying in the bed crying about ho he was sick, in and out of jail, or trying to put restrictions on my use. The last one I dated only wanted me to use when he was around, as if I couldn't handle myself. The idea was ridiculous. Everything bad had happened to me in the first six months after I got to San Francisco. Raped? Check. Overdose? Check. Robbed? Check Beaten up? Check. Had someone try ...