traceyh415

Letter and emails oh my!. I get so many emails, I call the my junkiemail. More surprising, is when I run into people I used drugs with that are still alive and out in San Francisco. First of all, most of them are surprised by my overall health displayed by my chunky figure and smile. I am kind of a grumpy person but I make a daily attempt to smile at homeless people. I say hello to them. I answer their questions when I have a minute. I respond in a kind manner that acknowledges their existence. I see myself in their faces. Surprisingly enough, I remember being out of the streets. The cardboard boxes houses, the coldness of the sidewalk stay with me. I remember being so afraid of sleeping outside. Many nights I would take speed or sit up staring at the streetlights. People leaving their jobs or the bar or their apartments would stroll pass me ignoring my very presence. Looking at me mean that in some way your soul needed to ponder the fact that people like me existed in your world. I ...

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown. – The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot I love heroin. For the average person, these three words are shocking, grotesque even. “How can you love the worse drug ever” and “It’s such a horrible, horrible drug. Didn’t you listen to your parents/society/church/politicians/DARE? It WILL kill you!” Heroin is a bitch, no doubt about that. She can make the most pious, virtuous person pawn their family heirlooms for a fix. She can make the strong, fall. She can make even the most disciplined, controlled person keep coming back over and over and over. She can corrode the soul . She can fuck up your sense of right and wrong. What is up is now down, and what is down is now up. Heroin is terrible, ruthless, heartless , but that makes me love her even more. She soothes my troubled spirit and my overactive mind. Forget tai chi and yoga, onc...

This is the time of year when the days are shorter and my bank is much smaller trying to keep up with a dizzying array of social activities focused around my my need to reign in my food addiction. The holiday season casts a dark cloud over the heads of people like me. I am always in a a state of moderate depression but as I forced indoors by the rain and the cold, I am given more hours to contemplate my complete inadequacy as a decorator, baker, and selector of gifts. Both of parents are dead. I think this may have something to do with the feeling as if the holidays are not particularly significant. My mother was always the person who believed in decorative sweaters, earrings, cards, and obligations. If my father ever picked out a gift, I am not aware of it. I know his name was added to many cards. He would get me flowers for valentine's day- an extension of holiday disappointment that reminds people that they have no one worth buying last minute candy or flowers from lest be t...

i sat at the bus stop and smoked my third cigarette while checking my phone. my man had said it would be forty minutes fifty minutes ago. i had been sitting there for half an hour. buses had come and gone, people dressed in their work clothes had gotten on those buses and cast confused looks at me when i remained seated. there was only one bus that stopped here, why on earth wasn't he getting on? i fought the nausea rising up from my guts, the cramping in my sides caused me to wince, i checked my phone again while i lit my fourth cigarette, wondering what other people did on their days off.  i couldn't cop at my apartment. i was lucky enough some friends had a spare room they let me move into. they didn't want drug dealers going into their apartment, and i suppose i couldn't argue, i was a guest after all. my plans to move back home to be with my girlfriend fell through when she broke up with me. she no longer returned my calls. she told me i was a sociopath, in...

I feel very proud that as an unknown author, I could get over 100,000 page views in less than nine months. Thank you for reading my blog. I really do appreciate my readers. Love Tracey

" I think I am going to be get clean..." The words tapered off into the air. The hotel room is full of the medicated smell of burnt chore boy and butane. My lips are slightly numb. I took a hit of crack. I hate this shit. I don't know why i have to sell heroin so he can fuck off our little bit of extra money on crack. The room is a mess. Full of wrappers from candy, clothes on the bed, syringes, and cookers on the floor. I am trying to shake off a nod. It took me so long to get the money to pay for this room for another night, I am too tired to enjoy it. He sits on the edge of the bed. He is starting to pick at his hands. His tweak is tearing up the beds of his fingernails with small tweezers from a swiss army knife. "Really. I'm so tired of this shit Spanky. I really want to try to get clean." It feels so nice to have my pants off and lay down on the bed. I have to count the money again. I need $12 for my dose in the morning. I already missed one day. If ...

Drinking coffee until I nearly have an anxiety attack seems to be my only chemical fun anymore. My world seems to be full of the overlapping realities that are polar opposites of each other. I have this great life that creates an outward picture of happiness. I have a great job. I have a family. I have two cats and a dog. I drive a mini van and live in the semi outskirts of a large city. Yet, all the outside trappings of success do not explain all the crazy things that go on inside my head.  My closet is sort of a metaphor for my mind. It is organized from the outside but once you get in there, it is a whirlwind of things that don't go together. There are boxes of syringes from all my harm reduction projects. Work clothes on hangers, some in piles. There are old things that no longer fit on me or in my life. There are things I swore I would grow into but I just can't make those things work as part of my daily life. I have dresses I say i will take out on a special occasion b...