traceyh415

One day, I was sitting next to the Christmas tree in my flannel footie pajamas with Snoopy on them. The next thing I knew, there was a syringe being passed in front of my face. "Are you ready?" he asked me. What should I say? In the past hour, I have witnessed my first overdose. The person who injected before me had to get stuck in the shower. He was a tall rocker dude with long hair. He lived out with his parents in a semi rural one story house 45 minutes from the city. He wore motorcycle boots, though he never rode anything except the back of a Honda a few times. He had ripped jeans, a bondage belt, and some type of black t-shirt he got from a concert with the sleeves cut off. His arms were semi developed into muscles. Not from hard work. I am not sure if he ever had a job, but from drumming in various bands around the city. He believed he was going to leave this place one day. He was going to blow this town, forget he ever lived here. I think we all believed that or ...

We did it. We made it to another Thanksgiving. We didn't OD and die. We didn't commit suicide. We aren't in prison. We got a third or forth or fifth second chance. We figured out how to make it to another day. No matter whether you are: strung out sick kicking scheming shivering hating life Remember- I love you. I have been there. I clawed my way out of that hole. I hope you are feeling grateful, feeling something Besides the prick of a syringe The cold night air And the desperation of active addiction. I'm off to make some soup. In my stove. In my house. For my family. I'm clean today and it feels good.

I walked into my cell holding an empty plastic tub and an extra pair of orange pants. The worst part of the kick was spent lying on the cold concrete floor. At various points in the last four days, I prayed for death. This alternated with furious masturbation, the only tool I had to get even a moment of sleep. As I sweated out the last of the delicious toxins that made my life worth living, I felt my legs stick against the surface of the mattress. The fear of moving across the cell to request a shower was real. I wasn't sure if the liquid stool was done evacuating my body with equal force as I had shoved syringes into my skin. I have known a few girls who turned tricks for food in here. I suppose I wouldn't suck any one's pussy for a candy bar but I would sell my soul for a packet of kool aid type drink. The water here comes out at a minuscule drip from a faucet that is located directly over the shitter. That can't be healthy. When the dry heaves hit me, I wish I ha...

I stopped looking at the world through rose colored glasses many years ago. After the first time you see a 13 year old girl/boy turning tricks for drugs, you world view is never the same. In the early stages, I would ask questions. What happened to you? Who did this to you? Who created this monster? In the later years, I bore witness to it. I bit my tongue in silence as the warm blood pooled in my mouth. I knew how things like this happened. When I was first getting introduced to drugs, just some weed and booze laced with the occasional T3, I had a friend who introduced me to the darker side. No, not substances but a world that existed beyond the world in which I lived a comfortable existence. I remember his mom telling him "I need my Kools and my 40z. I don't care how you get it". She meant that literally. She did not care. In fact, she must have known her youngest son sometimes turned to prostitution. How else does a 13 year old come home with $40 and a cartoon of cig...

I hear my children screaming in the other room. What are they fighting about now, I wonder to myself. It could be something as serious as who gets to sit INSIDE the fort or something as insignificant as why did you move my shoe. As I check I them, I quickly adjust the blanket that drapes the tent like structure they have created by stringing together a robe, a blanket, and the corner of a bunk bed. I admire their creativity, although I have to take points off for the overall durability. I pat my son's head as I walk back to my spot on the couch. The IKEA cover is slightly worn now. We switched it last year. Apparently, tan isn't a good color when you have cats and kids. Who knew?  I had never bought a couch before. The only thing I knew about couches was dragging them up from the curb with the hope that they didn't have bed bugs or scabies. My parents had the nearly the exact same furniture my entire life. Ethan Allen furniture was accented by a la-Z- boy recliner. You kn...