



In 1992, I came to San Francisco California in the middle of the AIDS crisis. Contrary to popular belief, I was already using drugs intravenously before the Greyhound bus touched down here. I had began using opioids (later Heroin) and the needle in 1990. There just wasn’t much access to them in Ohio. I knew about HIV but not much. Suburban Ohio was still struggling to understand it wasn’t a gay disease or Godly retribution for abhorrent behaviors. The empathy in the presentation was lacking. My eyes were about to open as I arrived in the city where sick and dying folks were out in the open. It was something to behold.









From 1992-1998, I easily lost 200 friends, neighbors, and acquaintances to HIV. I had moved into a hotel that was part AIDS hospice, part functioning residential hotel for poor souls who had no where else to go. My best friend for most of my using years was a man named Mark Miller. Each month, I would watch the cycles of his meth use, his illnesses, and his week in bed as he would attempt to recover his strength. Mark died in 1996 while I was in jail. The letter I sent to his residence would be returned to me DECEASED. That death would certainly be the toughest to deal with as I was 100% sober and forced to deal with the consequences.



Fast forward to this past weekend- overdose awareness day. I attended two events. The first was focused toward people who used drugs and their friends The second one was focused towards parents who had lost children to overdoses. I would say the piece that stuck with me was the parent with the graduation photo of their son that had died of an overdose. For a decade, the only photo my mother had of me was my graduation photo that had hung in the hallway. If I had died as I had thought I was going to, that would've been the picture my mom would've presented at my funeral. Instead, August is the tenth anniversary of her death. August is a shitty month of reflection on my behavior and the people I have lost in my life.



In other words, fuck August. On with September- recovery month.



pardon typos etc, a bitch is on her phone.





I cannot stress strongly enough how 21 year old me was not prepared for the city. I had no concept of how widespread HIV was in the population of people who used drugs here in the City. Standing next to gaunt human beings with lesions at the syringe exchange, it was my first exposure to an epidemic that had been long raging before my arrival. Prior to my relocation to the City, the only thing I feared was dying of an accidental overdose. As I slowly developed a circle of friends who were HIV +, a new contender for my greatest fear entered my imagination. Within six months of my arrival, two of my friends contracted HIV. They would not admit this until much later as the stigma was a huge barrier to gaining support.From 1992-1998, I easily lost 200 friends, neighbors, and acquaintances to HIV. I had moved into a hotel that was part AIDS hospice, part functioning residential hotel for poor souls who had no where else to go. My best friend for most of my using years was a man named Mark Miller. Each month, I would watch the cycles of his meth use, his illnesses, and his week in bed as he would attempt to recover his strength. Mark died in 1996 while I was in jail. The letter I sent to his residence would be returned to me DECEASED. That death would certainly be the toughest to deal with as I was 100% sober and forced to deal with the consequences.Fast forward to this past weekend- overdose awareness day. I attended two events. The first was focused toward people who used drugs and their friends The second one was focused towards parents who had lost children to overdoses. I would say the piece that stuck with me was the parent with the graduation photo of their son that had died of an overdose. For a decade, the only photo my mother had of me was my graduation photo that had hung in the hallway. If I had died as I had thought I was going to, that would've been the picture my mom would've presented at my funeral. Instead, August is the tenth anniversary of her death. August is a shitty month of reflection on my behavior and the people I have lost in my life.In other words, fuck August. On with September- recovery month.

Overdose Awareness Day is my least favorite day of the year. Let me explain.