You don’t accept victimhood, but I read your story, and you were a victim. You are the one exception I know of Raven, and you have never played the victim…….you are one of the strongest people I have ever met…

This was from Kender, who had just posted a rant about drug addicts and how his state, Cali, is seeking to mandate rehab vs. prison time for any crimes an addict commits. Kender feels that addicts by default are responsible for their actions. He mentioned that many of these people play the victim and use this status to walk away from any true punishment.

About being a victim.

When I was young and took off to the destiny of my youth, I made some choices then, that led me down a road of a very hard, very illegal and very dangerous life. I took chances and trusted certain people, and learned quickly how evil even relatives can be.

When I CHOSE to leave my parents home, my home, to go live with an Uncle in a far away state, I was an innocent,wide eyed
young girl who was full of wonder and amazement at this world of ours. I wanted to SEE all the things to see; I wanted to travel and be worldly. I wanted to meet rock stars and go to malls and spend lots of money on the cool things every teenage girl wants. I was bribed with these things, and I recall my very first inner turmoil, that inner feeling that something wasn’t quite right…my first woman’s instinct happened. Being the young kid though, who thought she was so tough, I ignored those feelings and continued on my path to self destruction.

As time moved forward back then, I had several opportunities to get out of what was becoming more and more clear, to me, a life destined for failure. Deep down I knew what I was doing wasn’t right. The endless nights spent, parading myself in front of much older men, at parties where rock stars were in attendance; the very riskee dress code I eagerly attired upon myself; the make up and push up bras and high heels…the tender age of 13 at the time, a very naive but totally starry eyed ME fell for the glamour and money of those who were seeking to sell my soul. And I knew it wasn’t right. I remember calling home and telling my sick mother that I was fine; that camp was fun and we we’re learning to live in the wilderness. I lied. I could have been honest. I could have told her how scared I was but, I was too in awe of the superficial things being offered.

After my first experience with men, I had a chance to get out. A week after that awful and frightful and very dark night, I again called home to talk with my Mom. I almost broke down too and almost told her what had happened. Almost. I hoped, beyond hope, that she would sense something in my voice that would cause her to feel my fear. She was very sick and didn’t pick up on my subtle hints. She died many years later begging me to truly forgive her for the missed signals of that call. Of course I forgave her. I still could have been more to the point. I could have just told her the truth. But I didn’t. I chose, instead, to turn to drugs to heal my pain. I didn’t know it at the time, but the drug of choice offered to me was a deliberate set up- to transform me into an addict. It didn’t take long.

Months later, as I became a full fledged heroin addict, I quickly lost any sense of my own being. I became a ghost of a human, a living person whose soul had died. That’s what heroin does to a person. You live for your next dose and nothing else. You count the hours…minutes…you lose your self respect and courage. You don’t care about what you look like or when you’re last bath was. You don’t even care if you eat or drink. I never had to resort to criminal activity to get my next hit. Nope…my habit was sustained by my ability to stay alert long enough to entertain men who had bought my services through my beloved (not) uncle. As long as I performed well, I got my next hit. If I didn’t provide good service I was cut off. It was a pretty basic arrangement. I will say, at this point, I was not in control of my actions. The heroin was.

After those days ended, I could have played the victim. I could have used my experiences to garner sympathy from so many people. In every area of my life I could have capitalized on my story. With my education I could have received special funds for disadvantaged women which would have paid 100% of my tuition. My work, career- I could claim a disability simply by being a former drug addict…ADA rules apply to people like me. I could have been offered jobs above other more qualified people just because of this status I hold over them. I could have gotten away with so much at work too- hell, I could have called out three days out of five without any concern of getting into trouble. I’ve had people offer to sell my story via a book and a movie- I said NO THANKS. Every time I have messed up in my life, made the mistakes we all make I could have cried my foul tale as an excuse.

Being a victim is not an honorable thing. It’s a heavy label to wear, one that weighs you down and causes others to treat you differently.

A victim, to me, is someone who isn’t alive anymore. Someone who has been killed. Other senseless acts, like rape and burning people- create victims too. But the living have a choice to make. We can move on and take personal responsibility for our actions, and have some self respect and pride in being who we are…or we can dwell on the past and let it get in the way of our future. We can let it come between being a honest player in this world, and let it define our every thought, at home, at work, wherever.

Who the hell wants to be known as “The victim of…”
I prefer “I’m a survivor”…

I chose to call myself a survivor because I am exactly that. I made it out of that life. Barely so…and it was a hard, difficult fight.
A fight that took a lot of determination, self respect, and a strong will to want to LIVE. It takes goals and a plan to reach them. It takes a lot of will power. And sacrifice. It took me a few years to figure this all out too…but I wanted to live. I tried to kill myself,- not the real me, but that person who took me over back then. It didn’t work…the real me kicked in and came back to life. And the real me made a choice.

Being a survivor is much better than being a victim, anyday. The difference between a victim and a survivor is pretty easy to speak of: A victim goes through life feeling sorry for themselves and placing blame on others; a victim never accepts any responsibility for their part of wrongdoings. A victim never does anything wrong, period.

A survivor goes through life never forgetting, but forgiving those who committed terrible sins against them. A survivor dwells on the future and all life has to offer. A survivor learns how to get by with just being themselves and nothing more, or less. A survivor learns from their mistakes and passes the wisdom along.

Call me a victim if you want…but I’m not. I never have been and never will be. I’m a survivor and I always will be. I say this with pride and shame at the same time. We all make choices, even in our wonder years where deep down, we know right from wrong, good from bad. So long as we learn from our mistakes, we’re all good people.

I was at a bar off base near Lejeune when he met me. He took me to his friend’s trailer and wouldn’t let me shoot up or have drinks. I went through terrible withdrawals. He managed to stay with me the whole time and took care of me. He watched me go through the worst parts of my life in those couple weeks. He made sure I took the seizure meds and was just there.

Once I sobered up enough to see the world around me, I was in awe of this man who took me away from that life. He was my hero. We laughed and did everything together. The first time (and only time) I was in love. He taught me how to use a gun; how to jump from high rocks…into water or just for a landing. He taught me to drive. Most kids that age already had their licenses, not me. I have never driven an automatic-always had a standard and always will. He would me sneak onto the base at night and we go to the tanks and helicopters and into the barracks. It was fun.

We became fast friends and more…and he took me back to NH. First to my parents. Who were shocked and just didn’t want to deal with me. I guess I shamed them. Then he took me to his parents house, where I ended up staying for awhile. He traveled every weekend up to NH from CL to be with me, unless he was out in the field.

It felt good to be alive and to laugh. But ghosts from months past were always there. I always thought about Janine and that awful night. I always thought about heroin. And all those men I had been with. I got really sensitive to the scents and dress code of those days. Never again would I wear perfumes or dress in any way that might be like a bad girl. And I refused to wear makeup. (Still won’t).

During this time I got pregnant with my oldest daughter. She was born in January of 1983. I was 17. He got orders and was deployed to Beirut and left in July of that year. Three months later he lost 16 friends in the barracks bombing. I was sick to death with worry about him. They didn’t let him contact me for two weeks. Then he came home for leave and the sham wedding happened. He was (honorably) discharged in 1986. We moved me out of my parents place and down to where I live now…my small town that I love. With all it’s granite quarries and traffic jams on the oval; with all the cool little places I can go four wheelin’ and rollerblading. We had two more kids and our life just went on.

I don’t hold hubby totally responsible for that wedding. But I have never gotten over it and it is one reasons why we are having trouble now, I think. While I still have the highest respect for him, and I feel like I owe my life to him, things just aren’t right. We still see each other and we still fight everytime. That has to stop. It’s hard to do these things- break apart, yet trying to work it out. And not knowing if it is a total waste of time. Or if you are even really invested in getting back together. Everything you thought you knew about love goes down the drain too. It sucks and it is confusing as hell.

Kim
Kim and I hooked up soon after I found out I was expecting. She told me about how she and Jimmy hitchhiked cross country to get back to NH. She was a mess still though. She was still using smack and couldn’t get away from it. She met her hubby at a fishing tournament I managed to bring her to. He gave her the inspiration she needed to get off heroin. They got married before the year was out and she too was expecting. Her baby was born in May of 1983. We went back to school-at night. Got the diploma’s and both got jobs at a local factory in my town. She and I have been best friends ever since. We have always worked at the same places; we see each other at least twice a week, often more. We talk on the phone, several times a day, every day. We go online all the time, together to gossip and whatever. There isn’t anything we don’t know about each other, and I mean anything. There have been some relaspes with the smack. A few. We have been known to just go wild and we always regret it. It’s hard to stay on a wagon ride you don’t always think you need to be on.

Kim and I signed up for and went to CNA classes at a local university; we went at night and became LNA’s in 1988. It took us a year…We have been doing the work ever since. We have worked in nursing homes and hospices. Now we work at the same place, she works during the week and I just recently went to weekends. Up til last summer I worked side by side with her. We rule the place. And we really like what we do.

Patty
Patty had a hard time when she came back to NH. Her family wasn’t together at all. She had no where to go to, so she ended up living on the streets of Manchester for awhile. Then she met a guy who took her away from that scene and they have been together eversince. They lived together for years and got married about 5 years ago. They have two kids and they are very happy. She lives near Kim, but doesn’t work with us. She is a very funny lady and she parties with us when we get together.

Jimmy
Jimmy stopped using smack way back in SLC. He got his HS diploma through night school and then joined the Marines. (Why is it that all the men in my life are Marines?) He did 6 years, and while enlisted he got his degree in Political Science and Law Enforcement. After he got out, he went to work for a government agency. He has been there ever since. He got married in 1988 and has three kids. He lives in SLC, but travels all over the world in his duties. He has been in Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan and other places since September 11th. He and I maintain constant contact; he is the rock in my life and I worship every ground he walks on. He is always there for me. And I am always there for him.

Janine
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about Janine. She is always there, her soul, her ghost. Whenever I dance, I think of her. When we were out at Bryce Canyon, on those first few days of our long journey, we picked up lots of little japser rocks. We collected them, all colors and shapes. A few years ago Kim and I had them sanded and bored out; we had necklaces made for us. We wear them in Janine’s honor. I didn’t know it at the time but after everything was investigated and done, Jimmy had Janine’s remains cremated and her ashes spread out over Salt Lake. She loved that place. She wanted to be a teacher out there when she grew up, when she escaped the life.

Billy
Billy is dead. He was killed back out in SLC shortly after he dumped me at LeJeune. I don’t know all the details but I do know he was shot. That’s too kind of a way for him to have died as far as I am concerned. I would have liked to have a hand in that. We never found out who was responsible for Janine’s death. It had to be one of the dealers, who must have found out about the sting op Jimmy set up that night.

The friendships have endured all these years. Kim, Jimmy, Patty and me. It’s funny that most kids who go to school together tend to grow apart as they move on with their lives. For whatever reasons, we have not moved on. While we have lived out our lives on very different paths, we still think of each other all the time. There is a bond here that cannot be broken. We are lucky to have this.

I could move my eyes around, and that is when I saw Jimmy. He was standing over me, looking kind of weird and strange. Then he was gone. I thought I was in some nightmare. I wanted to wake up because it felt so real. Then a man stood next to me with a nurse…he was a doctor. They asked me to use my eyes to communicate with them:
Two blinks for YES and one blink for NO. (The same sequence used to this day for people coming out of comas who cannot talk).

He asked me if I knew my name, which he said…I blinked twice, really hard in case they missed it. He told me I had been in a coma for 96 days; the date was February 14th 1982. He told me I had been found in SLC almost dead from a heroin overdose. Then it all came back-Janine, the blood, the horror of it all. I must have tried to cry or something because they quickly knocked me right out. When I woke up the next time, the tube was out and I could swallow and know I was doing it. And I could move around a little. I was hooked up to machines and a cath, had little probes on my chest and felt….miserable. felt like I was going to throw up. I was cold. I wanted out of that place.

I way laying on the cold hospital bed, shaking and scared when it happened. At first I didn’t know what is was. My hands got stiff and I couldn’t move them; then I smelled burning rubber; then I started seeing everything in double. Then my eyes rolled up and I could feel my body start to really shake. I don’t remember anything else.
It was a seizure. The first of many. A direct result of the heroin overdose. And a lifelong issue for me.

After we had been out in SLC for three years, we were wearing down fast. The lifestyle will kill you if you let it. You have to eat and you have to drink, water. You have keep clean. We did none of that. And you have to watch your back all the time.

When our third year had came around, things got messy really fast. Billy was caught selling heroin to some folks down the street from us. He was arrested and we didn’t see him for weeks. This meant that we had to find our own supply. That wasn’t that hard in SLC. We knew who Billy’s sellers were and we went to them, daily at first but then every few days. They had to trust us for the money. We didn’t know that Jimmy had turned on Billy, and arranged the very deal that got him arrested. Jimmy was working with the police.

Being a part of these things made you a marked person. A few weeks after Billy was put behind bars, Jimmy told us to be careful. He told us that we might be in danger if word got out that he ratted on Billy. Jimmy wanted all of us to go home, to go back to NH to be safe. Patty and Kim didn’t believe him, and I didn’t care. I just wanted my heroin. It was shortly before Halloween in 1981. October 29.

Janine and I were going out to get some more smack. We usually did this late at night or early in the am. In the dark to draw less attention. This night was no different than the others. Calls had been made and a place to meet was worked out. The dealer was a mean mother fucker.

We actually laughed that night, for the first time in what seemed forever. We joked around about Janine’s new look-she had new clothes and shoes on. She looked really good that night. And happy. She wanted out of this life we were living and was starting to plan her escape. She was excited and glowed with it. I didn’t think she was serious but I went along with her happiness and we laughed…not for long though.

It was a rainy night. I remember seeing streetlights and cars and trucks, and looking at a clock…1:30am. The pavement was wet and full of potholes. Janine and I were walking out of the apartment building, going down concrete steps when it happened. As we walked out into the big parking lot near the building, someone yelled to us to run. Janine and I both turned around and then she started to fall to the ground. Making no noise-she just went down. We never even made it to a fast walk.

I can see it just like it happened yesterday. In slow motion. Janine turned and her head popped back. Then lots of blood droplets fly everywhere as she went down. I didn’t get what happened. And to this day I cannot remember hearing any gunshots. I went down with her, kind of grabbed her from behind under her arms to prevent a hard landing. I tried to cover her and keep her safe. Her head was in my lap. I felt her blood crawl up my shirt and ooze down my legs. I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t respond. I remember crying and then screaming at her to get up…and run with me. It occurred to me that she had been really hurt and might need help getting up. So I tried to get her up and that’s when I realized she was dead. Half her head was gone in the back…it was all over me, and the pavement under us. Blood, bone, brain. Just one little hole in the front of her head under her long bangs. Her scull just crumbled in my hands. Nothing can prepare someone to see this or smell this or feel this. It was the single grossest event of my life. Anyone who has seen this will understand why I feel the way I do. It makes you craZy, and it’s something you never go a day without thinking about.

Everything happened fast. People yelling, sirens seering somewhere off in the distance. Jimmy running over to us, bending over me and Janine, crying and yelling. Policemen all around me. Everyone trying to get me to move here or there. I remember someone saying-”Get the bitch out of there, we have a dead one to pick up”. Someone kept saying to me-”Excuse me miss, can I help you move?”…then “Young lady, you need to let us help you”. Yeah, sure I thought. I got up, but only after Jimmy took Janine into his arms. I wasn’t going to leave her lying on the cold pavement.

When I stood up the blood just poured off me. It was raining and I was soaked and covered with Janine’s blood and brain. I freaked out. Started crying, and hitting the cop and punching him away with bloody hands. Whoever he was he didn’t hit back and he just took off his coat and put it on me. I waited for him to go away, which he did after a few minutes. I was alone, yet surrounded by all these people who didn’t know I was even there. I must have panicked… I took off. I ran as fast as I could. Through cars and police and firemen and the lights and rain. I had no idea where to go. I don’t remember how long I ran. Long enough to get me to a park about ten blocks away.

I remember seeing a bridge and going up to it and sitting on the concrete ledge. From here I could see the city and all the lights and smoke coming out of chimneys. Through burning eyes that wouldn’t stop tearing. It was cold and I was out of breath. Off in the distance I could hear music. I didn’t know it at the time but it was Pink Floyd’s Great Gig In the Sky. It made me cry harder. I looked at the city and that smoke was moving upwards-twisting and turning and forming into little clouds. I thought the clouds must be Janine’s spirit rising up. She was dancing once last time, to some obscure and awesome song that had no words to it.
The lady who screamed and oohed and awed to that tune must have been through this, I kept thinking to myself.

I wanted to kill myself. I didn’t want to be alive anymore and I thought Janine should be here, not me. Whoever that bullet was meant for, it got the wrong person. Janine didn’t deserve to die. She was only 17 and had her whole life ahead. She had plans too. She told me many times about how she wanted out of the life we were living. She wanted to be a teacher. She had plans to go back to school and college. Once she did all that she wanted to get married and have lots of babies. I had no plans and didn’t care about life. I really didn’t ever think about anything else. Not Janine. She saw her future and was trying to work her way out. And now she was dead and so were all her dreams. It wasn’t fucking fair. It was cruel.

I took out my kit from my bag, which I didn’t even realize til then I still had with me. I let the downpouring rain fill my tin and I poured all my smack into it. Stirred it up; lit the lighter under it and stirred it some more. Filled the syringe and put a needle into it. Then I put on the band really tight, waiting for a vein to swell out. And I shot up. I knew it was too much, I used all of what I had. I didn’t care. I wanted to die. I felt that heat sensation go all over, and I felt heart rate go way up. Then I passed out. I wouldn’t wake up for three months.

None of the heroin came for free anymore. Billy had decided we needed to help pay for our stuff. What’s a young girl supposed to do to earn money? Not to worry. Billy had it all arranged. (Just dress pretty, act cute and lay there). And thats what we did. Only now it was every night, a couple times a night sometimes. And we weren’t driven in some limo. Things weren’t so classy anymore. Billy made the “appointments” as he liked to call them, for us. He drove us to wherever we were supposed to be. We didn’t do things together anymore either. Everyone had their own thing for each night. It wasn’t every night, but 5 out of seven.

I have been with so many men I cannot even begin to count. I’ve been with every varity too. Tall, short, fat, skinny. Those in wheelchairs, those with half a leg. Deaf and blind men. Young guys and one as old as 86. Black, white, foreign, domestic. Priests and pastors. I’ve been with married men, single men, and out in Utah those who had a couple wives…Been with groups too. Fathers and their sons, brothers and their cousins…Politicians…Those who spoke English and those who didn’t. Sex has it’s own language. And every man understands it.

It was weird that most of the men I was with were either married or they were soldiers. Kind of funny, I remember thinking. The soldiers I could understand. But not the married men. What the hell do they need me for? I asked and was told married men don’t get sex enough. OK I thought. Whatever. I think it is because the particular men who saw me had a thing for younger girls (13??? 14??). Course they all thought we were a lot older than we really were. With all the freekin make up we looked 18 or 19.

Some of the married men felt guilty. They would tell me things I didn’t want to know. Like all about their wives, what they ate for dinner, or about some business meeting or work problem. A lot of them talked about their kids too. I remember thinking how strange it was, to be hearing about how some Tom, Dick or Harry was worried about his daughter’s upcoming date. Concerned about what the teenage boy might try to do to his little girl while he himself was doing those very things to me. It was even more strange to find out that his daughter was older than me. These types of men were usually the ones who would walk away crying…and unable to do anything because they felt so guilty.

Then there were the men who thought very highly of themselves. These guys were usually younger, unmarried and yuppie like. They dressed for success and had huge egos. They would always ask after, “Wasn’t that the best you ever got?”(Duh punk! My job is to make you happy, not the other way ’round)… You played the game and went along for the ride. You told them what they wanted to hear. Occaisonally, even back then some of my smartass-ness would shine through. One self proclaimed stud muffin asked me that question and I asked him back-”Oh, you mean you’re already done? I didn’t notice.” I always paid a price for being like that. It was always best to just go along with these types and stroke their ego. They were the worst and they made night girls laugh the most. The Don Juans of that world were the lowest of the low and they had no idea of it. They were experts at fondling their own ego.

Everytime I was with a man, I would shoot up right after. I wanted to forget them and become numb.

Doing those things meant you had better be good at faking it. Janine sat me down one night and told me that in order to keep making money, I would need to not only be good at what I do, but that I had to pretend to enjoy the men. Oh God, I remember thinking. What’s there to enjoy? It never felt good and I had been told it would (by Billy the dreamer). And how do you pretend to like it? Janine explained to me and Kim and Patty that all we had to do was move around a lot and moan. OK. Move and moan. Got it. If we didn’t do the M & M as we called it, we paid a price by getting knocked around by Billy. I guess he had his own little satisfaction survey he would take…If we failed, we either got hit or our fix was witheld. So M & M it was.

Most 13 or 14 year girls don’t talk about these things, at least they didn’t back then. (Most women of any age don’t talk about these things…) The whole faking-it business usually comes later and most women do indeed FAKE IT. And often. They learn to do whatever, M & M and all sorts of other things to make it look good. It’s just one of those secrets women hold deep down. Most women will deny this to the bone. Most women like to have sex, but only because they know it’s what keeps men happy, not because it feels good for them. It takes a very long time for women to chill out and enjoy sex. Years and only then when the right buttons are touched. Just because a woman is turned on doesn’t mean she’s going to like the actual sex either. It takes a lot of work and it is the up to the woman if she wants to enjoy it…once she figures out what she likes, then she can enjoy it. Until that happens, don’t be fooled by all the sights and sounds of it. It’s most likely an act. And don’t take it personally. When you’ve seen the things I have seen, and listened to the conversations I’ve heard, you would know this to be true. (I know I will be getting lots of nasty emails for this). (Was this a lecture or something? I don’t know where it all came from or what my point is here). (And Kim just read this and says-”Now all the men are going to go ask their girlfriends and wives if this is true, and those who admit to it being true at times will be the one’s who enjoy their sex and those who deny it are the fakers…” Kim rules. LOL).

Poor Janine took on the role of teacher, for Kim, Patty and me. She had to explain all things to us, as we didn’t have a clue. She is the one who got us birth control. She is the one who insisted to Billy that he get us checked out by *doctors* every so often. She made sure we took a bath every so often. And she made sure we drank water. She would mend our clothes when they got too tattered; and she somehow got us new boots every so often. And she would take Patty to the abortion clinics a couple times because of some unwanted (by Billy) pregancies. Patty had trouble with birth control pills. She forgot to take them all the time.

When the time came that we had been in SLC for a year, so much about us had changed. We were older and more mature, yet hollow and lifeless. No one ever saw us laugh anymore. That was unheard of. No more girl talk and crushes on rock stars and cute boys. No more all night long phone calls to friends. No homework and no school dances. When I look back at it all now, I see how much I chose to miss. It’s hard to think about. And even harder to write about.

I remember calling home one afternoon and telling my Mom I wanted to come home. She told me to stay where I was because everyone in my town had heard rumors about us and she didn’t need the attention. She didn’t want me to come home because of the uptight and snobby people of the small town. I guess she told them all that she sent me off to a private school. Nice. Even my brother and sister didn’t know the truth.

It was just heroin, zone out, sleep, and the low class motels and back seats at night. What a life.

Heroin has several names. Smack. H. BlackDeath. Of all the narcotics anyone can become addicted to, this drug is by far the worst. It is extremely dangerous when mixed with alcoholic drinking binges and when used with other drugs. Heroin that is used today is wimpy compared to what was around back in the late 1970’s. Modern day stuff is cut down in potency and purity to the point one cannot achieve the numbness.

People react differently to heroin. Some can’t tolerate it and they get a bad case of the shakes, they will vomit violently and generally don’t have a good experience with it. I wish that happened to me. While I did throw up, I liked how it made me totally and completly numb. I liked the warm sensation that crept all over my body. After a few days, the vomiting stopped.

Janine liked it too. She wanted more of it than I did. I think she was needing it more than me too. She was a mess. And she must have been hurting. She didn’t look so innocent anymore, I remember thinking. Suddenly she looked so grown up.

We all got addicted via the fast track. In a matter of a few short weeks.

Billy of course made sure we had plenty of heroin to go around. He made sure it was pure, that we had our own “kit” and supplies. A kit is what is used to shoot up. A little measuring cup, made of steel or tin. A Zippo lighter. A syringe. A little spoon. And a fancy handmade leather arm band. And needles. The only thing that wasn’t included was the medium: Water to heat the heroin in. Everyone had their own stuff. We kept our kits in little silver hinged top boxes. I still have my kit tucked away in some box somewhere in my closet.

Jimmy had learned how to cook his own fix. I watched him cook mine all the time. It was quite a feat to do that without getting burned. Sometime around Christmas of that year, I finally was able to do my own fix. I lost half of it with my shaking and fear, but I did it. The first time is always the worst. You don’t fear the needle going in the wrong way or fear shooting air into your veins and killing yourself; no-you fear wasting the drugs. Soon enough I was an expert. I was able to remove the armband with my teeth before long…at the same time I was injecting….a sign of an addict who knows what they’re doing. When the Zippo ran out, we used stove matches. I always had burn marks on my thumb and fingers from holding the hot measuring cup and match.

I learned not to shoot up in the arms all the time. Doing so would leave track marks and scars. Cops were always looking at the arms first…No, you shoot up between your toes and under the tongue when you want to keep secrets. Luckily, I don’t have scars like Patty does. She didn’t listen to Billy. One could shoot anywhere there is a vein.

It was the same routine, day in and day out. Wake up, shoot up. Eat, if you had an appetite. You tend to loose the appetite when you use heroin. You eat only when you feel like it, which is only when you’re not flying in the numb zone. The only thing I drank was beer. It was cheap and Billy gave it to us. One would spend a great deal of the day just zoned out. Staring out windows and seeking shade from daylight. For some reason I hated being out in the daytime. I remember watching people. Just going about their routines in the day…and wishing I were in their shoes.

We never washed up. There was no time for that and besides who needed to be clean? I would go weeks without washing my hair. Just scoop it all up into a tight pony tail and no would notice. And I would go weeks without changing my clothes. You just didn’t care about those things anymore. All that was important was getting your fix. Life revolved around it and it ran your life. Nothing else mattered.

You would know when it was time for another fix-you would feel the subtle urges start up. If you didn’t feed that urge quickly, you broke out in the sweats and got all shaky. It was an endless, mindless existence that made no sense to any of us. Sleep, zone out, sleep…the same thing everyday. Stand up to shoot up, only to pass out onto whatever was under you. Don’t worry about your kit, it all stayed right on you or in you, or it might all fall out. You cleaned it up when you woke up. We almost always did it while sitting to prevent the mess.

The very nature of narcotics makes them dangerous when abused. In order to get the same effect you get today, you may have to use more of the drug tomorrow. It wasn’t quite that fast, but every couple weeks I needed to use more heroin in order to get numb. I would know when it was time to increase the dose.

By Christmas of that first year away from home, after September 23, I was a full blown heroin addict. And I stayed that way for the next four years. I used other drugs too, smoked things and snorted things. Sometimes we would snort the smack with other drugs and that was always a wild trip. I had hallucinations when we did that. They always seemed so damn real. One never forgets drug induced dreams and nighmares. And through the years if one went back to shooting up, those dreams and ‘mares would come right back.

There is no drug can reproduce the effects of heroin. Cocaine doesn’t even come close, nor do all the mixes of modern drugs. Heroin is in a class all by it’s deadly self.

Most former addicts cannot ever use any form of narcotic drug, for life. It’s too easy to get addicted.

Janine was a beautiful girl. She had red hair and a pale complexion. She was sweet and spoke softly. And she was funny as hell. She had a sense of humor I can never forget. She was wise for her age and she told me we were about to embark on a trip that might kill us. She told me not to tell Jimmy about any of this because he would not allow it to happen. Since he was her brother, and older than all of us, I thought Janine might be right. He might even call our parents to tell them what was going on and we would have to go home.

All those parties that Billy arranged for us to be at were really just expose sessions for some of his clients. Billy was a pimp, and a professional one at that. Not the typical types we see on TV. Rich men like to have young girls for their special events and little gatherings. They have a thing for girls who are virgins too. It was a commodity, something to be bought and sold, bargained over. Who knows how much Billy got paid, to hire Janine and I out.

Billy told Janine and I what was going to happen. I didn’t really know what he was talking about. He said sex…what’s that I thought? I had heard of it, but didn’t really know what is was. So he told us. He told us all we had to do was dress pretty, act cute and, later, to just lay there. He promised us we not get hurt and that it wouldn’t be THAT bad. A man had “hired” us for a night at the big fancy hotel in the city; his son was getting married and this was a bachelor party. It was to be the following Saturday, September 23. I will never forget that date. Billy called this our “indoctrination into the lane of those who live fast”. He made a joke of it.

In the evening of that day, Janine and I were picked up by two drivers who drove a limo. Janine looked so pretty-all decked up and smelling fancy. (I hate perfumes but I didn’t back then). Me, well I was all decked out too. I’m short, but that night I grew about 5 inches with high heel boots and a black leather dress with a very uncomfortable slip under it, padded bra that made me look a lot bigger than I am. I have brownish/reddish hair, but it was dyed black for the event. And the makeup. Tons of it, heavy and gross. Some chick made us up…did our hair and all. I remember walking past a mirror and looking…and wondering who the hell it was I was looking at?

We were brought to this big fancy suite of rooms. Everything was big and pretty and there were lots of lights on. Janine and I were in awe of it. It was the last time we both laughed for a long time. Immediately Janine and I were separated. I don’t know where they took her and she didn’t know about me.

I remember being hit so hard I saw spots. I remember my arms being tied at the wrists and wrapped behind me…Being sat up and hit again. This time I felt it and it hurt. I felt something warm oozing down my face. I thought it was my tears. It was my own blood. Something was flowing down my throat, and it wasn’t tasting good. I choked and spit it up-more blood. I could barely see, my eyes hurt so bad and felt like they were on fire. A hand touched my lips and I saw blood on it. I remember crying and trying to yell, but I couldn’t. It was like my voice went away. Screaming screams that no one could hear. I remember my mouth quivering I was so scared.
My wrists got all raw because I was trying to get them apart. They used thick rope to tie them together and that just ripped my skin right up.

Everyone remembers the first time they had sex. For guys, they loved it pretty much no matter what. For gals, they probably didn’t like it but liked the idea of doing it.

I remember finally being able to see: A big, older man with grey hair was standing over me, naked, and his fist coming at me again. I moved as best I could, kind of keeled over onto what I think was a bed. That pissed him off. And it turned him on I guess. He spent the next 10 minutes having the time of his life, moaning and groaning. I thought it would never end. It hurt more than anything I could describe, maybe like having knives shoved in and out. It stung and burned and I felt sharp pains. He told me to stop crying or he would kill me. I was trying to kick him off me but he was holding down my legs. I thought my arms would break, they were tied behind me and I was laying on them. I gave up fighting, like a wimp. I just laid there, like Billy told me to do. And prayed it would end soon.

I must have passed out or something. I have no memory of it ending. I have no idea of the time either. I know the next time I could see I was being sat up again, with someone holding me up from behind and feeling someone in front of me. I was dizzy and had a headache like I had never experienced. I saw another man this time, younger and skinnier. I didn’t know what he wanted. I felt him grab my hair and move my head forward into his groin…you can imagine what happened next. I can’t even begin to describe that. All I can say is I almost choked to death and it didn’t last too long.

When that was over my arms were untied and I could barely move them because they were so stiff. Someone stretched my arm out and wrapped a cloth around the upper part of it. Then I felt the needle go in. I felt this sensation I will never forget. I was bleeding all over and in pain. As soon as that needle went in I felt goose bumps and then heat radiate from my arm all the way down to my feet and back up again. The pain went away. I felt nothing. Numb. I fell back and don’t remember hitting a thing.

I opened my eyes and immediately closed them. It was bright. And I was cold. Then my stomach felt like it was going to come right up through my mouth. Next thing I know I am throwing up all over myself. Again and again I threw up. Do you get all shaky after doing that? I do and I did back then too. I looked around and saw that I was outside, looked up and saw bricks and windows and metal dumpsters. It was daytime, and it was sunny. I heard cars and birds and people talking.

Then I saw Jimmy. I began to cry…He was swearing and hitting the bricks. And then I saw Billy. Jimmy hit him too. I said to Billy: “You said it wouldn’t hurt.” He had to get real close to me because I could barely speak the words. They came out in chokes. If I had any strength I remember thinking I would kill him right there and then. But I just couldn’t move. He said back to me: “I’m so sorry this happened”. Yeah. I’m sure he wasn’t and I’m sure he got off just thinking about what I had been through.

Jimmy picked me up and carried me to Billy’s car and put me on the backseat. He was swearing at Billy really bad-shouting. He covered me up with the bloody blanket that was wrapped around me when he found me. I had no clothes on under it. We went to Billy’s apartment -I couldn’t walk. I had to be carried up. Once inside, Jimmy put me down on a mattress on the floor and washed me up. I was a mess…a bloody pulpy mess. I asked him where his sister was. It was only then that I realized she was right next to me, laying next to Kim and Patty. Janine was curled up and sleeping. She rolled over and I saw she had been beaten up too. Worse than me-she had cuts all over her face and arms. Patty and Kim just looked at us, with tears. I said to them, sarcastically: “Happy Sunday”–Jimmy told me it was Tuesday. Time had escaped me for good.

I told Jimmy how much it hurt. I told him everything I could remember. And I asked him to get me something for the pain. He did, another shot was given and I passed out again. I didn’t know it was heroin. For the next few days that is all I wanted. To keep the pain away and to put me out of my misery. I didn’t want to be alive anymore.

It took us a couple weeks to heal from September 23. Bruises formed right away that night, black and purple and ugly. Slowly they turned blue, then red, then yellow…I had bruising in places I didn’t think a human being could get bruised. The wrists healed up and so did my spirits. I tried to forget about what happened. I also ignored Billy and refused to even look at him whenever he was around. Which was often. I thought about going home. I wanted to be with my mother. But she was still sick and couldn’t give me anything I needed. And besides, I really wanted my heroin. Couldn’t get that back home for sure. I told my mom I didn’t want to come home yet. What a stupid kid I was. I could have made a better choice right there and then. But I didn’t.

Patty and Kim were sent off to their night of indoctrination around this time. They didn’t get beat up though. Instead they were drugged up. Patty had a seizure because of the mix of drugs she got. They got to go to some business men’s retreat somewhere north of the city. Kim tells me that she was scared to death, that there were over 10 men there, who did their thing with her and Patty. She cried too and it hurt her as well.

My next memory was about a month later. I wasn’t attending school out there. I was still staying at Billy’s slimey little apartment, all of us sharing a couple big mattresses on the floor. Our little wounds healed, slowly. And our habit of shooting heroin became a passion.

The times of our lives…Remember when you were a little kid of 12? In 6th grade, playing at recess and goofing off with the friends? You were all too happy with things and had not a worry in the world. The Wonder Years.

In 1978 my mother got sick. She found out she had cancer, and needed surgery. My Dad was an alcoholic and couldn’t deal with this. They didn’t want me to see my mother so sick, so they sent me off to live with a relative out west for the summer. My sister is 16 years older than me and she was already working, living on her own. And my brother is 8 years older than me, and he was away at college. I had an uncle who lived in Denver, or so we thought. He invited me and some of my friends and neighbors out to his place in June, for the summer.

Everyone was excited and we all looked forward to the fun. My best friends were going with me. My neighbors were going with me. It was going to be a great time. We left a week after school got out in June. I have pictures of my group: Me, my friend Patty (there were 2 of us with that name), my neighbor Jimmy and his little sister Janine; and my friend Kim. We were very young: Patty, Kim and I were almost 13 ; Jimmy was 15 and Janine 14. Babies, really. But we thought we were all grown up and tough. The reality was we were all vulnerable and naive as to how cruel this world we inhabit can really be. Patty, Kim and I would not come back home for 5 years; Jimmy never went home and Janine died during our experiences. This is an account about those times. It will be many parts as it is a long story.

My uncle was a non-blood relative of mine. He was my mother’s half brother who lived out in Salt Lake City. I loved him. He was my favorite relative of all of them. He was cool: He let me and my friends smoke and he bought us beer, when we were WAY TOO young. His name was Billy and he was 24 years old at the time. He was a drug addict, but no one in my family knew it. I didn’t know it. He sold drugs and made quite a living doing so.

I remember all of us standing for a group picture, holding a banner we drew with crayons and markers. It said:
“Denver or Bust” Then after the picture was shot we all fell down laughing and giggling and being kids. We got onto a bus and headed west…but we would never make it to Denver. At that moment, in the bus, we had no fears and no worries. We sang over and over again-

Please come to Boston for the springtime
I’m staying here with some friends
And they’ve got lots of room
You can sell you paintings on the sidewalk
By a cafe where I hope to be workin soon
Please come to Boston
She said no, boy you come home to me

And she said, ramblin boy why don’t you settle down
Boston ain’t your kind of town
There ain’t no gold, and ther ain’t nobody like me
I’m the number one fan of the man from Tennessee

Please come to Denver to see the snowfall
We’ll move up into the mountains so far we can’t be found
And throw I love you echos down the canyon
And then lie awake at night until they come back around
Please come to Denver
She said no, boy you come home to me

We got to Utah in five days. I remember being in awe of all the things to see: Bryce canyon and Zion park and the wild west look of the place. And it was hot. And dry. When we got to Salt Lake, Billy met us at a bus station and told us we were going to be staying there for a few days. We went to his place, which was a nasty apartment on the corner of 4 and 12th Streets. His place smelled like things I didn’t know about then, but now could recognize in an instant. Heated up heroin leaves a sweet musky odor that never goes away and that was what we smelled. It was the scent of times to come.

That first night at Billy’s was fun. It was the first time I had been to a party. He had lots of pot and pills and we all got stoned. Billy had some of his friends over, all of whom were older than us. The friends had nice fancy clothes and drove nice big cars. And they had big fat wads of cash on them. We stayed at Billy’s for three more nights before he told us we *shouldn’t* go to Denver…He said that he would call our parents to let them know where we were and that we were all ok. Billy told us we would be staying in SLC. Being the stupid, in awe-of-all-things-grown-up kids we were, we thought Billy and his plans were the best. We trusted him and we worshipped the ground he walked on.

We went to the lake, Salt Lake and got to experience that swim and float sensation. No one drowns on that lake they say–too much salt in it and a human body will stay afloat. We ate and slept and went shopping. Billy took good care of us through the summer, right into July. My mother was still in the hospital, getting sicker with all the treatments. I would not be able to go home until at least August. And that was ok with me. I loved it out there.
I loved the city and all the people. I loved the parties and smoking pot and getting high. Patty and Kim loved it too, we were having the time of our lives. None of us wanted to go home, to little New Hampshire…

My friends called their parents and pleaded and begged and bargained with them to let them stay the whole summer. They lied to them. They told them were learning how to fish and build campfires and all sorts of crap. And Billy did his part to add to the sheer deception. He promised parents he would watch out for their kids. Yeah, as soon as they all said ok, the fun really began.

Billy knew he had to get us hooked onto a lifestyle that would earn him money. It took me years to get IT, but that was what it was all about. Teenage kids are especially vulnerable to being impressed by big things and lots of attention. Jimmy got to ride in and drive cars and motorcycles. We girls got to buy any and all the clothes we wanted; we went to concerts and to meet lots of neat people.

Sometime during this period I noticed that Billy was encouraging us to buy skimpier and skimpier clothes. No more jeans. Short skirts and tight tops, braless, were his preference. High heeled boots too. And makeup. Lots of it. Black mascaras and pink lipsticks. We all thought he was just being really cool. Anything we wanted, we got. There was never a lack of cash around. We girls were always being invited to parties with all those older men around. They didn’t really take part in the parties, rather they just watched us.

One day in the beginning of August Billy told us that he had arranged for us to go to school out in SLC, if we wanted. He told us he had spoken to all of our parents and they were ok with it. I should have known better but I believed him. So did Kim and Patty. Jimmy and Janine weren’t so sure. But they really didn’t want to go home.
My birthday was coming up and I was a little homesick, missing my dogs and my other friends. I called home many times and remember telling my parents I loved them and missed them. I wonder if they ever picked up on the tinge of fear I had in my voice that August. I guess they didn’t because they sounded happy everytime I spoke with them. And they trusted Billy with my life and the life of my friends out there.

Later I found out that my parents were relieved that I was away; they really didn’t want me around while my mother was so sick. Patty’s parents were in the middle of a divorce…Kim’s mother was a drunk who didn’t have a husband. And Jimmy and Janine didn’t have parents per say…they lived in a foster home. We were all easy targets for Billy.
MORE boring stories from the other life to come.