Thursday, December 31, 2015
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
I am not wasting my life on you
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Saturday, December 5, 2015
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
I regret the day I decided to stick a needle in my arm.
I don't remember why anymore.
Why did we shoot up Vicodin?
Were we really that bored?
Why couldn't we be like everyone else?
Happy with a few beers and our Vicodin.
God, why couldn't we have been those people?
So high off a few beers.
It doesn't matter.
It is done.
I regret the day I turned my first trick.
I got money to buy heroin.
I went to a hotel with old man.
$40 while he stared at me.
I was naked on the bed.
He told me I was beautiful.
I almost believed him.
See, how easy this was...
My friend told me it was so easy.
$40 dollars was so easy.
Now we have some drugs. Yay.
It doesn't matter.
It is done.
I regret the way I stole from my parents.
I regret the way I used their confidence.
I regret the way I lied to them.
Give me more money.
Help me. I'm clean.
Heroin and I live a symbiotic relationship.
We get curled together.
Our mind. Our thoughts.
More. Get me more.
I used you.
I used you.
I used everyone around me.
I sucked people dry.
I have many regrets.
We all have many regrets.
The harm I did to others-
Some days I regret this more.
The people who loved me.
They didn't have it coming.
It wasn't their disease.
Heroin changed me.
I was once a daughter, a friend.
It changed me.
Can you love me now?
Can you love me?
I have freed myself.
Relived myself of this parasite.
Removed the shadow.
It clouded everything around me.
Can you love me for the soul I once was?
The friend I hope to be?
The person underneath the shell.
Friday, November 27, 2015
"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 secretly wished we could leave Ohio. We didn't want to be living in our parent's house until we got that job that paid for our first shitty apartment. If you didn't go to college, you were expected to work your way up. Go to Taco Bell, go to Kroger. Put in an application, son. Some place where he needed to pull his hair back. Some place where he needed to take out his earrings. He wasn't going to do that. He was going to find a way, anyway to get out of this city. He would go to LA, Atlanta, anywhere but here. Or at least this is what he hoped. Until then, he would be supported by his parents or his girlfriend. They say women can be whores but I saw him get paid for what I assumed must be a big dick and a pretty face. Now that face was blue.
When I pictured an overdose, I imagined someone drifting off into a gentle slumber. I never imagined a person would turn red, then blue, then grip the sides of the coffeetable so hard, they cracked the wood. They were grasping and gasping for their life. I was told later it is called the Death Grip. Some people hold on to things to keep them from smashing their lifeless body on the floor. As he started to slide down, it became clear to all us novice junkies in the room, this was not going to be okay. I hadn't even had my turn yet. This was all of our first time using heroin, with the exception of the people that delivered it to us. They had hung around long enough to help us. They told us to get him in the shower.
As the water poured over this man in his skin tight stretch jeans and boots, I wondered to myself if we are supposed to undress him. Put the cold water on his nuts, we were told. His 6 foot 2 inch frame felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. Dead weight I suppose. As we dragged him closer to the water, I felt myself question how I got here. A few days ago, I was eating turkey with my family. I was anxious to get outside to take a few puffs of my homemade bowl I crafted out of a diet coke can. Now, I was dealing with a potential murder case. His girlfriend screamed and cried in horror. I suppose she was happy her parents were too drunk downstairs to notice the commotion. Every aspect of this scenario was all fucking bad.
Then , we heard it. That gasp-AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Then he wanted to know why in the FUCK he was all wet, angry at us. ANGRY. Isn't that rich? Fucking angry at us. I let my friend and his girlfriend do their hugs as I went back into the bedroom.
I threw myself back down on the floor. Exhaled loudly. What the fuck.
"Are you ready?" he asked me. It was time for me to do my shot.
My heart was beating out of my chest in fear. What could I say really? I was always picked last for the teams in gym class. I was always the kid people crank called on the weekends. No one every saved me a seat in the lunch room. Deep down, I hated myself. Is this the reason I stuck my arm out? No. I wish the reason were that nuanced and complicated. In reality, I just wanted to fucking do it. I was young, I was impulsively. I just wanted to get fucking high. I guess there is a first time for everything. With that fucked up logic, I did what many thought was unthinkable.
"yeah," I told him. "I am ready."
That was that. 25 years ago. Longer ago that many of you have been alive. Everything has changed. Our feelings are the same though. The heroin today is cheaper, more available, and more potent. I hope you make it through this day. I hope you find the strength to find a way to survive what kills so many.
Love Tracey xoxo.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
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:
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.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Sunday, November 8, 2015
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 cigarettes. She drank herself into a foamy glass of denial while her son sat on hard benches waiting for men to approach him. Teachers, bus drivers, lawyers, and coaches cruised by looking at him, wondering if they should approach. I never went with him. I only knew what happened when he relayed the stories a few years later while we passed the pipe. I only knew that there would be no food in the house that night unless he found someone to buy it for them. I only knew that a family cannot live on nicotine and alcohol alone.
As the cars breeze by, I see the faces. I see the dreams destroyed. The car seats that get brushed aside for a quick blowjob in the car. I see the shadow of the wife in the passenger seat. Her hair brush sits next to the stick shift, waiting for the next time the wind catches her curls the wrong way. I see the sweaty faces of men, their eyes like high beams as the scan the side of the road for a willing, yet inexpensive companion.
"This is the life I chose," he tells me "I get as grimey as I need to be, sweetheart." He counts his money as he walk into the store to get a pack of smokes for his mother.
I shake my head. No. I am not one of these people. I have morals. I won't do x,y,z. Until I do them.
There is a saying among old dope fiends- are you dedicated to the cause? Are you willing to do whatever it takes to get the things you need? Are you will to trade your self respect in for powders, rocks, and dollars. Self respect is a vague concept out here. Powders, rocks, and dollars- these are things I can hold in my hand. What is a few moments of agony in exchange for a night filled with blurry glory? I am not sure I can pay all these prices. When I see the working girl with her arm abscessed to the bone, I wonder to myself what is really sold here? Is it sex or the illusion of normalcy? How does one wake up for work at 6:00am and say to oneself "I think I am going to roll down to the sketchiest part of town to get sex. This one, anyone will do".
Seventeen years clean. How can I forget all the things I have seen? How can I bleach my memories to forget about the minister who picked up teenage boys off the street? He would ask them to pray before he paid to suck their cock. How can I forget about the mother who sold her daughter or the father who used to come shoot dope with me and his son. I just don't know, readers. Seventeen years clean and I just can't forget. So I write. I reflect. I remember the moral ambiguity and the depravity that was my daily life.
Monday, November 2, 2015
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 knew you had reached the lower middle class when your family got a lazy boy to sit in front of the television. There, in the throne, the paterfamilias could sit and cheer their teams. College football was a staple on Saturday, the NFL on Sunday. In other words, I had an ordinary life. Just like my kids have now.
I dragged the la-Z-Boy up to my apartment. Well, Eric actually helped me drag it up. I had slowly been downgrading over the past two years. I started out with a few nice pieces of furniture and a room mate. Now, I was living in what amounted to a shooting gallery. I had embarrassed my parents again. This time, with a DUI. It was almost a rite of passage in my family to get arrested. It seemed like we all had done it, much to the dismay of my mother. Unlike my siblings, I was still experiencing the prolonged adolescence that started when I took those vicodin my senior year in high school. I was dragging a recliner up from the street, a perfect place to "nod and chill". There would be no football in my apartment, no trappings of success. I had no phone, no tv; just a radio, a few CDs, and a large metal trashcan to puke in that was left by the workmen who had prepped the apartment for a new renter. Next to Jane's Addiction, the Velvet Underground, and Motorhead was a paycheck stub that was gone before it hit the bank, the remnants were left at the bottom of a spoon.
If you would have told me I would have ended up a junkie at 21 years old, I would have thought you had lost your mind. I was the type of lady who didn't even want you to blow pot smoke in my direction at 15. I was voted "least likely to get laid" at my high school. I got a 31 on my ACT. I was going places in life, right? I have to remind myself. I push myself back into my chair and take a sip of my beer. Hell, I didn't even lose my virginity until I was 17. I was in love with a freckly ginger who carved "Tracey, I wanna be your dog" into his leg with a razor blade to prove he loved me. I guess he didn't. He dumped me a few months later. Everyone fucking leaves. You know the drill. I had so much to live for but I never wanted to live my life alone. The beer is starting to kick in, helping me keep the sick off.
Where am I going to night? How will I eat? How can I see my mother with these bruises on my arms. Exactly, I can't. I just can't do that to her. I will find something, anything. I will eat food left on tables at taco bell or find some left over pizza over when the bars close. Next time, I promise myself I won't spend all my money on my drugs. Next time, things are going to be different. Until the next time.
Saturday, October 31, 2015
You want to cloak yourself in your fury, but its too sharp
Like wind on the beach against a bad sunburn
So instead your first layer is the toddler he was,
Grape jelly smeared across his smiling face
Blonde hair sticky and damp
His grandma laughing beside him
You scream his name
And remember him as A Mutant Turtle, A Pirate, Batman
A sword always at the ready
You hold onto that, breathing in the smell of him
The sharpness, before that other smell, that smell of decay, of deceit
That sword, how you wish he could've used it
You’re still seething but next you add on the boy he was on the field
All sinew and charm and goofiness
You’ve forgotten that he was once goofy!
Before the lying, before the stealing, before his mother grabbed him from behind and wouldn’t let go, screaming into the night
Before the lying
Before the stealing
That boy, in his dirt-stained uniform
You wrap yourself in that
You add a layer of grace, for the times it seemed like he would find it
Might find it, please, let him find it, let him know
A minute of peace in the center of his swirling madness
The days he dropped the lies and the attitude and admitted
He was scared
You wrap yourself in that
And then it is time to walk out the door
But you know there is something else, and you run back to find it
Your wife calls from the door— “Hurry, we’ll be late!”
You don’t even know what it is you root for in the drawer
Past the tie clips and the golf T’s and buttons and paper clips
Past the coins that say II and VI and X, not even the heaviest, XXVI
Not those, but the cheap white plastic one that says 1 Day
You put that in your left breast pocket, like the sword it is
And go to bury your son
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Saturday, October 24, 2015
When I was my daughter's age, I had already smoked pot. This was at seven and eight years old. I had already seen my father falling down drunk numerous times. I had seen older people in my life under the influence of drugs. I am from the beginning of the DARE generation where we were told drugs were bad. No one ever explained to us WHY or what drugs actually did to young bodies. We were also told sex was something married people do and HIV is God's righteous wrath for being a sinner. Except, I already had seen people on drugs, people having sex outside of marriage, knew people that were Gay that were nicer than the uptight judgemental folk feeding me this information. By the time I got to be sixteen years old, I felt adults were liars and hypocrites. It isn't what you SAY to children, it is what we SAW that made an impact on us.
During Red Ribbon week, I wonder if they will ever call on me to tell the children what it was like to be a junkie. That is what they need to hear. They need to hear some raw stuff. Some of the best emails I have ever received were from grown adults who told me they were on the fence about drugs when they saw "Black Tar Heroin". The film pushed them into the "nope" zone. That makes me feel as if allowing people to see me at the lowest point of my life was worthwhile.
I pray to all the Gods that my kids stay off drugs. I do my best to make that a reality. I sit at their soccer games. I cuddle them. I answer all their questions. I want them to love themselves so much more than I did back then. This is my greatest hope.
What was your experience with drugs? Did you see people using them? What brought you to the place where you gave yourself the permission to use?
I see you all as my extended family. I hope you love yourself a little more than you did yesterday. I hope you learn to love those drugs a little less. Those drugs are lying to you. They demand everything. They provide diminishing returns and will eventually leave you for dead.
Monday, October 19, 2015
Saturday, October 17, 2015
I was reflecting today on how much my life has changed. I was sitting in the spa chair at the nail place. As I was getting my legs rubbed with salt scrub, I was thinking "This feels better than heroin." Maybe, that is an exaggeration but at that moment, having a leg massage certainly felt better than heroin. Plus, here it is hours later. I'm not scheming on how I'm going to get another one in a few hours.
Let's be honest, my legs are fucked. You can't inject heroin into your legs 6-8 times a day for years and come out of that unscathed. In addition to that, street level Black Tar Heroin id full of garbage. When I first started going to 12 step meetings through the rehab, my stomach used to get super upset. It took me about a month to figure out why. It was that cheap coffee smell. It was the same smell of cooking up heroin filled to the brim with instant coffee. "The best part of waking up, is chivah in your spoon..." I suppose that should have been my commercial. Finally, my legs are fucked because coffee and bacteria lead to abscesses. The sanitary conditions of shooting drugs outside is dubious at best. Combine that with enough bacteria to blow up a petri dish. My poor legs- thanks universe for allowing me to walk today.
Finally, my cat. My cat is 13 years old. I didn't know how to love when I first stopped using drugs. Hell- I didn't even cry for the first nine months after I quit heroin. People ask me- after I quit opioids, how long will it take me to feel better. "Better" is relative. You will be able to have your first seriously satisfying poop and orgasm pretty quickly. That is feeling better, right? Emotionally, it is hard to say. For while, you may actually feel nothing. You may get depressed. You may want to break someone's face. You may feel overwhelmed. I don't have a a great answer for you. All I can promise is that your life will change, most of it will be positive. Eventually, you will feel- something.
Back to my cat, after being traumatized, used and abused for many years, I had issues with feeling. Enter Smokey the cat. The month I moved out of sober living, I got Smokey. He has taught me how to love, taught me kindness. He taught me empathy. Smokey had a tumor. He needed surgery. He has loved me. I was able to get the surgery for him. If I was on drugs, I wouldn't have been able to take care of him. I would have wanted to, I just would not have been able to manage. Smokey had a surgery that wasn't completely successful. He is happy and comfortable. I will make sure he stays that way for the rest of however much time he has left. I get to do this. I am honored to help him.
This post is to say I only had to give up one thing to get everything. Massages, cute toes, cats, love, self respect. It seems like I made the right choice.
I love you friends. XOXO Tracey
Monday, October 12, 2015
The truth was right in front of me.
Like the blood that poured over my skin when I pulled out the needle,
I just missed that point.
I loved drugs. Loved them. Did I mention I fucking LOVED them?
Heroin, amphetamines, MDMA, LSD, benzos, cocaine.
My love for all of you made me insane.
I'd be searching the Tenderloin with no shoes on.
Walking barefoot over broken crack pipes
I thought Jesus called my name.
I'd see Satan at the Civic Center smoking rocks,
Charlie Manson was at the corner.
He was a guerrilla pimp on a bicycle.
The chicks were sucking dicks in vans
Strange men found then on their lunch hours.
What was my life?
Just hand to mouth to bag to vein to pleasure then pain.
Until I did it again. And again. And again.
You were everything I loved and hated.
That syrupy substance that promised me release.
I cast all my burdens upon the poppy.
The promise of relief was too powerful.
I didn't need food.
I didn't need hugs.
I didn't need love.
I didn't need you...just for that moment.
I wiped the pinned from my eyes one morning.
I could finally see again.
My dog wanted to walk.
My cat wanted a scratch.
My snatch had an itch for some company.
My bank account had a positive balance.
My family let me come around.
I was free.
Heroin will never completely let me go.
She waits for me.
That one last passionate embrace.
That last goodbye, the last shot I never gave her.
She wants me back.
17 years later...that bitch still calls me from time to time.
I don't answer.
Not because I don't love her.
But because that love I have consumes everything.
Because that love that saved me once almost killed me twice.
I have to be satisfied letting it go.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
I nervously took a drink of my chocolate Quik. The breakfast of champions- a cinnamon roll, a Nestle Quik, and a fat shot. I had two of those three things this morning.
"what do you mean?" I asked.
He pivoted towards me for effect.
"Those men you play around with girl" he spun around in his chair "you better be using condoms."
I laughed to myself. Condoms? When was the last time I had a period. Six months? Eight months? I lost count. It isn't like I am having sex anyway. Sex to me is having someone lightly scratch my back. Sex to me is coming back to my room and having him say "look babe, I saved this for you." That hasn't happened.
In a world full of seven billion people, I gravitate towards a few people who are absolutely no good for me. The fact that I am a drug addict in the present tense doesn't make life any easier. Relationships between users seem to fall into a few general categories.
The first would be the whipping boy. This man is nice. He is extremely nice- TOO nice. He puts up with my lies, my deceptions without question. I find it impossible to be attracted to anyone who cannot see that I can't be changed. I am the scorpion. He is my frog. As much as I would like to be in a relationship with a fully realized human being, I am turned off in a way that can't be ignored.
The second category is THUG LIFE. Bring me everything I need. We are in this together. My broken nose or black eye reveals the truth. He always has a plan- a blueprint. The great come up that will never happen. If stay together, I won't live long enough to see it.
Finally, there are my broken toys. The junkie boys that turn my world on end. From broken homes, one step away from the grave. I fall in love with the ones who ran away. The ones who are too afraid to stay. The ones who know too much about me. We share our stories of use and abuse, cuddled up together while we watch the world burn. A fleeting light, a brief shine in my world of darkness before they fade away.
What is love between two users? Is it an illusion or mutual usury? Perhaps, it is the realest thing that ever existed. Who could ever understand more than a person who has been there? Pass me the sour patch kids...
To be continued
Friday, October 2, 2015
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
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 having an unlimited supply of drugs. When I came to San Francisco only to have unfettered access to them, I began a cycle of self destruction that was past my ability to rationally manage.
8 years of on and off homelessness
11 trips to jail
2 methadone clinic runs
Amphetamines for months on end
Attempt on my life
Yet here I am. There is a scene in "Black Tar Heroin" when I look out the window. I say outloud to no one
"Sometimes it makes me happy."
I kept chasing the sometimes.
The important thing is that I believed some day I would get off that shit. I believe some day I would give up everything I knew, everything I loved (my drugs). Just like you.
Some day, you will too.
Some day, you will send me a message "Tracey, I just wanted to let you know..."
I can't wait for that fucking message.
I will love you until I receive it.
I will do everything I can to keep you safe.
I will work to make the world a safer place for people like us.
Because you deserve it.
My book is coming out in March. A fucking book being sold in bookstores. I got my author page yesterday. I find it hard to look at. I was supposed to be dead ten times over. Here I am.
For all the people who doubt you, they doubted me too.
Let's prove them all wrong.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
Saturday, September 19, 2015
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.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
They didn’t fucking prevail.
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 bitch on the track. He's taken up residence on my left shoulder, like a belligerent squatter refusing to leave. At times he's calm and smooth and can give me all the right answers when I need to make excuses about my drug use and where all the money I've made is......but he's Bi-polar as a muthafucka. In a flash he can transform into the raving uncontrollable beast that brings me into the abyss of self destruction..
For the past 3 days he's been on a rampage, he knows my drug break is up...he was on a warpath until I tricked him back into his cage.
About 3 weeks ago I told my dealer to cut me off...this was after several scary black outs at home, my girlfriend definitely knew I was fucked up on something.... Xanax and heroin can throw you into a helluva stupor...if you are reading this you have either been in one or have seen someone in one. This is the walking zombie syndrome, when the nod takes over and you fall asleep standing up...mid speech...in the middle of the he meal..it doesn't matter, you will only know it's hit you when you snap out of it.
Like an extra in "the walking dead" your body is there but your mind and soul are ultimately gone
This is known as the "dope fiend lean " and it defies all logic of balance, some people will be full on touching their toes while nodding out while standing...others turn into bobblehead dolls and their heads just dangle about.
I was the walking dead...slamming into walls, almost crashing through the shower doors and shattering them in the bathroom. .. I snapped a chair in half after collapsing into it...it was pretty scary that she saw and heard me like that. If she catches me I'll lose her...there's no coming back from "oh yeah by the way I got a small problem, it's heroin but I promise to stop"
Knowing damn well I wouldnt...
"THE ANTICIPATION ON PLEASURE OR PAIN IS ALWAYS GREATER THAN THE REALITY OF IT"
As I sit here thinking that the high I'm chasing is some fantastic orgasmic feeling of pure euphoria, it's not...and it hasn't been for a long time. I use alone so the social aspect is gone, and having to hide the habit and the high is getting to be too much. How the fuck am I supposed to enjoy myself when I have to hide it?
The answer....a drug vacation day. I put in an order for 5 grams of black tar, knowing that the chances are slim of this happening the way I am planning it. Called in sick to work to score heroin and get high....Yeah I'm sick alright..sick in the fucking head. One day this whole shit show will be exposed to the world and they will know my secret. While I clean up nice and can play chameleon on most situations to blend in, I'm sure everyone I know has caught me in a nod once...and I've been able to blame my insomnia for most of it.
See, I've battled insomnia ever since my last long term relationship...and it was with that bitch Crystal. See, before brown sugar was my sweetener of choice I dabbled into the world of high grade stimulants. Beautiful shards of all shapes and sizes were crushed and sniffed or smoked. My girlfriend at the time liked it, and I was trying to play it cool and party with her even though it wasn't my thing.
See, the stint I served in the Amphetamine Penitentiary was during a different era, we didn't have the quality these tweekers have...our shit was just that, shit.
Crank was a filthy predecessor of crystal meth around the 90s, but it was what we had. Rose, Peanut butter, and others dirty white powders were the flavors available. We didn't have these magnificent shards of glass that looked like they were stolen from a chandelier...we had shit that tasted like it was made in a motel bathroom. You could see the pink from the benadryl they were using...sometimes the dope would still be wet. Leave a line of this stuff on a CD case too long and it would seemingly begin to eat away at the plastic ...and we happily snorted this shit by the boatload with no concern.
I didn't enjoy smokin meth because it never really got me high like everyone said...until one day. I was renting a room in these shitty apartments by the freeway, most are occupied by section 8'ers or dopefiends...I ended up with a section 8 dopefiend, such a winning combo
I was green to crystal meth and the glass pipe wasn't my specialty, she would fire it up and tell me when to hit it...and after a few hits I got the hit that changed my life.
"Whoa....so THAT is what everyone is talking about!!!!" as I feel a tingle just flow through my body like a low voltage electric buzz...we smoked more and fucked like rabbits until the next day. I was selling crystal at the time and had around an ounce or so usually with me at any time....until I broke the commandment of "never eating high on your own supply"
Little did she know I was barely sleeping 3 hours a night after that, and was smokin my way into meth psychosis. I was able to hide it well enough, but what happened was just more of us using together. She wasn't hooked but liked to party...so I played along. While we'd get high on the weekend together...
"First me and Crystal on saw each other on the weekends,
But now Im hiding my tweekin
and seeking her out everyday in between em"
And that's how I ended up on meth for about a year or so.
I sit here at Ocean Beach and watch the waves roll in and outt... pop another xanax to hopefully calm the beast....and wait.
I picked up some good weed from the club to try and calm King Kong down for awhile. They called the stuff Gorilla Glue,ho fitting,hopefully it will do the trick... the names of weed nowadays is pretty interesting...hopefully this glue will keep my mind stuck on something other than heroin.
As I smoke my joint and watch the waves flow, I feel the warmth of the sun on my face and for a split second I forget all about dope and just enjoy the view..the weed elevates my mood for the moment and I'm at piece...
I look down at the halfway burned joint and mumble to myself "this shit is the bomb" I drift off into a dreamy haze with the sound of the ocean and seagulls. For a brief moment I forget about heroin and fall into the comfortable bliss of the xanax and weed...it's such a beautiful day, I remember so many good times here. My car engine still running, I pass out and let time fly.....worry free
And then the beast jolts me from my slumber....fuck, did I miss his call? How long have I been asleep....? FUCK!
It's now 1130 am....is he awake yet? By my logic it should be a decent time to try and call someone...or maybe not? I dialed his number and listen.....one ring....2 rings, 3 rings..
The 4th ring means he not answering and inside I pray he answers.
"YEAH...what's up? "
Why does he bother asking this?
You know what the fuck is up, I need to get high because I sure the fuck didn't call to say good morning, make small talk, and discuss the weather.
"It's all good but you gotta wait until around 3 to get it"
A four hour wait for heroin feels like 12 hours in my mind, but what can I do? I make sure to remind him I need 5 grams, because he'll forget and only have 2 to spare. He sounds annoyed but at this point I don't give a fuck, I want my dope....
It could be worse, I could be left to scouring the streets of the Tenderloin and taking my chances with strangers hopin for a friendly face....which is an endless roulette wheel of possible rip offs. I should be thankful that I have a direct phone number to the devil himself and he answers my calls for the most part.
How can so much emotion and joy be created by this small ball of black goop. This sticky tar has so much power to be just an inanimate object..once it touches you, there are thousands of unseen teeth that sink deep into your soul.
Heroin has no soul, but it can permeate yours and cause it to disintegrate rapidly and causes necrosis of the soul. When Im high, nothing matters...I am numb to the world and my mind is no longer racing with madness.
I enjoy the bliss off slipping in and out of a conscious reality and into my personal dreamland. In a nod..a single thought manifests into a detailed dream, each new nod takes me down another rabbit hole in my twisted mind. But the true bliss is the complete numbness to anxiety, worry, stress and fear..
It's funny how this can ease the pain on life in an instant. The most stressful day is instantly relieved once that double wrapped plastic package is secured. After 3 days of a drought and no connections, today felt like fucking Christmas and Junkie Jesus smiled upon me. 5 grams of tar and I'll get through another couple of days before the carousel begins again.
The cycle of addiction is hard to break when the monkey lives on your shoulder and is constantly whispering sweet nothings in your ear....life itself doesn't feel the same without hop and I hate that my peace of mind and happiness is routinely based on copping. I try and pass the time by reading stories on r/opiates to help me realized I could be in a much worse situation..
I could be using dirty toilet water to try and get a hit from old cottons, or I could be puking my guys out and I fully blown withdrawal shitting on myself in a SRO in the TL. I'm not trying to say my struggle is worse than anyone elses, because I know it isnt...but it is still a struggle for me mentally and controls me more than I would like it to..and this is just my story.
36 phonecalls in a single day to the same number are a clear sign of a problem, and I sit here and wonder how much of a dopefiend he sees me as. See, my dealer is also one of my best friends....while dope brought us together, we formed a bond and treat each other like real family..a twisted misfit bunch of dysfunctional addicts. We don't just meet up for transactions, we actually hang out and have a friendship..
This friendship of course gets rough when the main dope man aint around, he can't cop, meaning I can't either and it turns into phone tag and text relays.
Yeah, I could hit 16th or head over to the TL and try and cold cop....but I got a family, a job, and a lot to lose if I were to get busted. My boy Irish aka Big Rich was my sidekick in the L's, he knw every spot, every dealer and could get us some action within few blocks of browsing.. Rich died alone in an alley in the Central Valley during a relapse and overdosed. Xanax and Heroin killed my boy.
And that's the same combination in my system now.....I pray for the strength to break free from this. I've done it before, it can be done again.
Until that day comes, I'll live this life day by day....praying for the courage to face life without the need to escape reality, but to face it head first without a crutch.
There is something in life I have yet to discover that will mean more to me than getting high...I struggle daily to find and accept this, and pray for the epiphany that will save my life in the long run.
Until then I'm taking my spare change, tossing it into my pill bottle with some mannitol and a chunk of black tar and drift off into my personal land of peace....without worry, anxiety or the ability to give a fuck for a few moments of incoherent bliss...
May God grant me another day of life and allow me to wake up from my self inflicted euphoria....
Thank you for reading.....you are not alone..
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Saturday, September 12, 2015
A man of odd circumstance,
A victim of ghetto demands.
Feed me money for style
And I'll let you trip for a while.
Insecure from the past,
How long can a good thing last?
No, no, no
Got to be mellow, y'all
Got to get mellow, now"
For a generous fee
Make your world what you want it to be
Got a woman I love desperately
Wanna give her somethin' better than me
Been told I can't be nuthin' else
Just a hustler in spite of myself
I know I can break it
This life just don't make it
Lord, Lord, yeah"
Gotta be mellow, y'all
Got to get mellow, now