February 26, 1998. It was the day that changed everything.





The hotel Kinney was not for the faint at heart. It was not the kind of place you would visit unless you needed something. The place was a beacon for empty souls that filled that space with vices of all sorts. The rooms were dingy and dark. They smelled like old beer, crack, and stale cigarettes. The elevator was the type that had a gate that needed to be slowly slid into place before it would trudge to the next floor. The stairwell was always a center of illicit commerce. The hallways were the site of many a robbery and even an occasional rape. It was generally assumed using the bathroom in the sink in your room was safer than walking down the hall to the shared toilets. Someone was knocking on doors looking for matches or chore boy.





I had given up my room facing the street. I was selling heroin. Lots of heroin. Too much fucking heroin. I liked the window in the front of the building because people could yell up when they needed something. My connection would throw me a free bag of coke if I came correct with all the money. $500 was my end for a Mexican half ounce. I say a Mexican half ounce because their bags are always short.





Selling heroin as a woman was horribly dangerous. I had been robbed many times. A robbery and a rip off are totally different. I rarely got ripped off. I knew all these customers. They hated me. They hated that I was a junkie and sold heroín. Suddenly, I "thought i was better" they said. I didn't feel better. I was cooking up half grams and injecting them in the soles of my feet. I wasn't better, I was worse. I was carrying $500 in singles , fives, and a few twenties in a condom in my pussy. I prayed my snatch would go back to normal after shoving a bankroll the size of my fist in there twice a day. I would spent two hours on a bad day trying to get a hit. Covered in my blood, I would have holes all over me. I wondered if I drank water, would it all pour out like a junkie irrigation system.





My boyfriend left me for his street "sister". She was a white girl with a gold tooth and a tattoo of two pimps ago on her neck. I had told him I really, really, really wanted to find a way to get clean. He didn't want any part of that. I know he had loved me but he loved that dope more. He had hounded me every day I was on methadone to try to get me using until eventually I quit the clinic on 60mg. He liked the hustle. He was not down for a doughnut and a coffee near the clinic as his only form of entertainment.





I was alone in the world with stacks of money and drugs as my only companion. The ex did give me a gift though. He had got me started smoking crack in addition to all my other problems. Crack sneaks up on you like "I don't smoke crack- do you have some?"then it's "I don't smoke crack really but can you get me some?" Then finally "get me some fucking crack dawg." That was kind of it for me. I was starting to get heart palpitations from years of speed now cocaine use. After the incident where I did the hit of coke, shit in the sink, and threw it out the window because I was too paranoid to go out of the room to the bathroom- I was never the same.





I don't remember all the details. I know I started out my day by mixing speed, heroin, and coke in the same syringe. I used to call it "the normal". It made me feel normal for a few minutes, almost how I feel now. I should have called it "the bi- polar" because ten minutes later, my moods went up and down. It was a ridiculous cycle of chasing a feeling that may not have ever existed- the feeling of being satisfied. I am not sure I have that feeling today. I am always moderately dissatisfied with one thing or another. I think I am simply hardwired that way. No drugs, no food, no sex, no love can cure this feeling. It is what it is.



The day ended in my room. It was the day before "check day", the day when recipients of government checks who have addictions purchase drugs in bulk. My connection had loaded me up for the business in the morning. I settled in with some crack, benzos, a 40z ounce, my heroin, and my best friend. He was passed out on my bed after a long speed run. Our friendship had survived many years of ups and downs but it did not survive when I got clean. We still hug each other and exchange "I love yous" but things can never be the same. As he put it "I can't hang out with you Tracey. because I am doing this and you are doing that." I understand it even when I didn't like it.



The police knocked on the door. I was so high, I could see something was wrong with the situation but it did not register with me. I had what what is known as a 1035 search and seizure. Once I opened the door, they had the right to search anything because of my probation. The dope was sitting out on the bed. I felt comfy in my drug induced haze. I told them instantly "the dope is mine". so they would let me friend go. I had a suitcase packed in my closet in case I got arrested. I wanted to discharge into some fresh threads not jane doe clothes. As They clicked on the handcuffs, I decided to leave everything behind. I left in a jacket and some pajamas. Bye room. Bye clothes. Bye addiction. I left all that shit there for the crackheads to pick through. I was done. Peace.



I didn't cry. I was done crying. I didn't beg to be let go. I was done with that life. I knew the pain I would face detoxing on a hard floor in a jail cell. I was ready to give it a go. I had kicked heroin 10 times. I had done 2 methadone treatment programs. I had 1 chance left. I was going to take it. That was 17 years ago ago. Tomorrow, unless the needle slips and falls in my arm, I will have 17 years clean. Thank you for listening.









When I say "the last day I ever used", I want to make it perfectly clear to readers. I am done using drugs. It was not easy but it was worth it.