The rumble of traffic was deafening. Dust and exhaust fumes stung my eyes as I leaned against a telephone pole. Four o'clock on Tuesday afternoon; I hadn't had a bath in days.
If I don't get a trick soon, I thought, I'll be a dead duck. At age 19, I was already hopelessly strung out on heroin. My family had all but deserted me. I was the world's worst hooker. I was determined not to cry, because my little boy, Billy, was probably at home crying his heart out right now.
As the sun went down, I felt the cold sweats coming on. I needed some dope soon or I wouldn't be able to work at all. This was the common predicament: Get a fix so you could get out on the streets to sell your body to get another fix. The problem was that it invariably got worse, never better. With all the hazards -- the cops, the nuts, the occasional rip-off -- life was not worth living.
It wasn't worth dying for either. Losing Faith As a child, I learned to love God and the Bible, but somewhere along the way I got lost and turned to drugs. After two years of marriage, hopeless poverty, and the birth of my son, he walked out on us. I decided to turn my son over to my parents and try to kick heroin.
I went to drug treatment programs, recovery homes, hospitals, and psychiatrists. Nothing helped. I desperately wanted to change but couldn't find anyone or anything to help me. Hopelessness In this hopeless state I shot more dope to ease the guilt and pain.
