Chapter One

I have nothing to say. So what do you write about when you have nothing to say? Should I write about how I feel? I’m angry. I’m crazy. Keep me quiet, it makes you well.

Should I write about where I am? I’m really no where. Slapped down in this hole. All this whiteness. Then the memories come red appears and the walls start to bleed. Lights start to flash in the corners of my eyes. My throat is dry. I cross the room to the sink in the corner and cup my hands under the faucet. The water is warm, but still I gulp. I rise from the sink and look in the mirror. I see nothing.

Born and raised in Chicago, that’s where the walls start to bleed.

I leaned about love from the T.V. I learned about sex from the adults around me.

I graduated with special achievement awards in grammar school. I graduated High School, barely.

I’m terrified. I need to shut off my imagination. What comes next?

Do I continue? Why did they take it all away from me?

Chapter Two

My family and I lived in a two bedroom apartment. The bedroom I shared with my sisters and baby brother was crammed full of furniture. A set of bunk beds, two dressers, a crib, and a cot took up every inch of space. I had to share a bed with my sister sometimes. The other bedroom was my parents. What was strange, my Mom preferred to sleep on the living room couch instead of sharing the bed with my Dad. On some nights I had horrible dreams and I’d sleep in my Dad’s bed. My Mom would get so angry at this. I got a funny feeling in my stomach from her reaction.

When I was twelve my Mom and Dad bought a house. It had two bedrooms on the first floor and a finished attic, which could be used as three extra bedrooms. Now there was plenty of room for everyone. But some of my sisters chose to sleep on the living room floor. My Mom still slept on the living room couch. I don’t know why. My sisters chose to sleep on a hard floor instead of soft beds. Maybe it was because of the crawl spaces in the attic.

It was at this time that the discovery of John Wayne Gacy’s transgressions became public. But there was no people in our crawl spaces I hoped. I slept upstairs most of the time and I would get scared of the attic.

When my Mom and Dad bought the house money became even tighter. My Dad worked full time and often overtime. He always looked so tired. My Mom did not work. But she liked to spend money. She ran up the credit cards especially at Christmas time. Santa always piled presents under our tree. She should have let my Dad have the money to pay bills. “We will end in the poor house one day,” my Dad screamed. I always wondered what the poorhouse was like. Did it have rats? Did they make you eat cold porridge?

My childhood was chaotic. My discomfort with life began at an early age. When school started it was easy enough to play sick and stay at home. I should have went to school. I went to church. The priests or nuns didn’t save me from the bad choices I made later in life. The priests and nuns didn’t save me from my own private hell. The place of my nightmares awake or asleep.

I didn’t understand the rules of heaven and I still don’t.

I wish confrontation wasn’t necessary. If I had a magic wand I’d erase all the hurt I’d caused everyone. That would have been easier then to face the hypocrisy and perversion.

I made choices I hid. I have no magic wand and no one’s life is a box filled to the brim with candy.

Chapter Three

When my Mom and Dad got married I don’t think they planned on how many kids they were going to have. Six was just too many. It made my Dad crazy, depressed, and anxious.

Mary was the oldest. One year ahead of me. Mary had trouble in school. Mary took up a lot of my Mom’s attention. Mary made us all worry. She was a little slower in school, but she was intelligent. The kid’s gave her a hard time. So she didn’t go to school most of the time. When she didn’t go to school, I usually didn’t either. We were partners in crime.

I was quiet and kept to myself. My first few weeks of Kindergarten, I was scared and overwhelmed. When Cheryl approached me on the playground one day, I was grateful. I was afraid no one would ever talk to me.

Cheryl was a small girl with dark hair and dark eyes. She played rough at recess and she spoke out of turn in class. The rest of the kids in my class soon started excluding her. I was just glad I had a friend.

Mrs. Stevens always began the day with attendance. Instead of replying with “here” in response to our name, we would stand and skip around the large circle our class had formed by sitting on the floor.

I hated attendance. I hated having all those eyes on me. My feet felt too big for me and sometimes I would stumble. I’d hear snickers and laughter. Laughter coming from Cheryl!

One bright sunny morning not long after Cheryl and I had become friends, we were sitting in morning circle and Cheryl leaned over and bit my nose. It started to bleed. I said nothing. Neither did anyone else. I felt like I was invisible.

Two weeks before Christmas we were cutting Christmas wreaths from green paper. Cheryl took her scissors and cut a chunk of hair from my head. I cried and cried. I liked my long hair and now I would to have to get it cut.

When I got home that day my Dad tried to repair the damage. He had to cut my hair very short.

Next day at recess the kids made fun of me. They said I looked like a boy. I wish a hole would open up in the earth and I would fall in.

Mary got sent away for the eighth grade. I missed her a lot. I was in the seventh grade. At a new school and I knew no one. My other sisters were in younger grades. I didn’t see them much. I felt lost and all alone.

We were all good kids I believed deep down inside, but we could act like brats. Mary had so much attention given to her by my Mom. Did she even have a chance? A parent should do everything for their children. They have to let them fall on their faces sometimes. For pain is a teacher who tells you something is wrong. Something needs to be fixed or done differently.

My Mom used to love to talk on the phone to her Mom and her sisters. While my Mom was on the phone we were pretty much unsupervised. We used to wrestle a lot while my Mom was occupied. Sometimes the horseplay got a little rough. Mary was bigger than me. Mary and I would wrestle and sometimes Mary would get frustrated for I was stronger than I appeared. She’d grab a pillow and put it on my face and sit on it. I tried to scream for help hoping my Mom would come and stop her, but my Mom just yelled out, “Would you please just try and hold it down. I’m on the phone.” This is when I started to learn I’m pretty much on my own. I’d get dizzy and sometimes I was almost afraid I’d pass out. But Mary would always let up just in time. I was a nervous child.

I was given a lot of responsibility as a child. We were all responsible for certain chores. Sometimes they’d get done and sometimes they wouldn’t. The house cleaning got very overwhelming with so many people living in close quarters. Sometimes I felt like I didn’t belong. My sisters were very pretty girls. Most of them were outgoing with a lot of friends at school. I was tomboyish. I didn’t have many friends. I liked spending time with my family. And being the second oldest I tried living up to the responsibilities my Mom and Dad placed on me.

I’d see people looking at us when we’d go somewhere. Maybe it was my imagination but I felt like they looked at me as if I didn’t fit in. I stood out. All these girls in pretty dresses. Me in my mismatched pants and t-shirts and short hair. I never grew it out after kindergarten. As I grew older the difference between me and my sisters became more apparent. I was much more fearful than them. I was terrified of boys. I was terrified of people. What would life hold for me.

I remember my Mom and Dad’s fights. Their voices got very loud and they said horrible things to each other. I’d run and crouch in the corner, feeling trapped, pushing at the wall my back as if the walls would split apart and then I could escape.

Sometimes after a particularly bad fight my Mom would pull down her suitcase from the closet shelf and pack. She’d say she was sorry, but she couldn’t take us with her. My sister and I would stare up at her in bewilderment. We’d beg her not to leave but she’d walk out the door anyway.

When my Dad got home from work, he’d drive around the neighborhood looking for her. He’d find her walking and ask to get back in the car. She always did. She had no where to go. None of us did.

Chapter Four

I was 7 years old when I first thought about running away. There was a park down the alley behind my house. It was secluded and usually empty.

One morning I got up and packed a small bag with some clothes and my book.

I went to the park. No one would ever be able to find me here.

I sat down in the grass under a huge tree. I pulled out my book and started reading. Next thing I remember I was waking up. I felt so peaceful and safe here, so unlike my parent’s house. I started reading again, but it was getting chilly. I was hungry and I had to use the bathroom.

I decided to back home. I would wait `till I was older or at least had a job to run away.

When I returned home my Mom was sitting on the couch. She asked me where I was. I told her I was out playing. “Oh, OK.” She didn’t even care. I was gone for the best part of a whole day. I went to my room, laid down on my bed, and went back to sleep.

It all seems out of order. My dreams. My daydreams. My reality. I know too many people went through what I did as a child. I felt so damaged. I had a calling to fall short in everything I tried.

When I was 14 I took a speech class, hopefully this would help me conquer my fear of speaking in public. I failed miserably. I only passed that class because the speeches I wrote were good.

When I stood in front of a group of people I felt like I had 2 heads. Something to this day that hasn’t gone away unless I’m drunker or high. Hell, I can barely stand to be in my own skin most of the time. I need answers.

When I was 15 I was taking two English classes. I was wowing two English teachers with my essays. I had already aspired to being a writer. One of these English classes was taught by a man named Mr. Chappelle. Mr. Chappelle was tall and thin and had long hair. I had a crush on him. Mr. Chappelle loved my writing.

One day after school I was cleaning my classroom. I did this because a portion of my tuition was deducted and this helped out my parents.

Anyway I had written a poem that morning. I showed it to my best friend who was staying after school to clean a classroom too. Mr. Chappelle was still in the classroom. My friend grabbed the poem and fled off to his classroom to show him. I ran after her. She knew I liked Mr. Chappelle. And I would be embarrassed if she showed him my poetry. Well I didn’t catch her in time. I stood next to her at the side of his desk while he read the poem. He liked the poem. I thought it was sappy.

Two years later I would see Mr. Chappelle at a different school he was teaching at. And he didn’t even remember my name. I was stunned. He had praised me for my writing and now he didn’t even remember me! But I’d always remember him.

I went to church every Sunday till I was 18. When I went to church I felt a kind of peace settle over me. The people were so nice to each other in church, but I didn’t understand why things changed when people weren’t in church. I went door to door collecting for a charity. Some people didn’t even open the door, although I knew they were home. I was still very young, but hypocrisy was something I knew about. Sometimes I wish I could live at church. The nuns were mean sometimes and the priests would preach fire and brimstone sermons. I remember one particular priest. He had a greasy smile. He was very vocal. I didn’t like him.

In high school things changed. Church wasn’t all that peaceful. The hypocrisy was more apparent and the teachers at school didn’t help. When I turned 18 I stopped going to church. I gave up. Now, I believe in God sometimes. I believe sometimes he is watching over me. I’m not dead yet and I think I should be.

Chapter Five

I was twenty-five when I first tried heroin. Mark was working day labor where he met Jose. Jose was a daily user of heroin. He was the one that administered my first shot. There are no words to fully describe the feeling of your first shot of heroin. It’s something you only experience once if you live. It’s like an elevator ride. You go way up ten come down to a warm intensely peaceful feeling. The rush is incredible.

I first started using socially. Eventually, Mark was administering my shots. I never could figure out how to give myself a shot.

Of course Mark and I became daily users. No matter how much we vowed not too. It took only three or four months for our lives to become all about heroin. It was all about finding the next fix. Finding a way to get money without getting arrested, then going down to the West Side to buy the drugs without getting arrested. We were even warned by dealers and fellow addicts to be careful not to let the “dragon” get a hold of us.

We were fighting a battle, but it was winning the war.

In 1994 my 1^st hospitalization occurred. I was trying to kick heroin and have my anxiety disorder addressed. I was nervous because I had never been on the psych floor before. I was 29 years old. I had been using heroin since I was 25. I wanted to quit. I was tired of the street life. I was tired of lying to the people I loved.

The doctor there kept me 8 days. He tried an anti-anxiety medication. It didn’t seem to work.

I did meet someone while I was in the hospital. Daisy. She was there because she had cut her wrist. She wanted out badly. So did I. It turned out to be an OK hospital stay because of Daisy’s humor. She was released a day before me. She told me where she lived, so we could hang out after I was discharged. And that is just what we did.

The Dream

I had a terrifying dream one night. We were playing and Johnny was babysitting us. Johnny lived downstairs from us. He was the landlord’s son. I remember in the dream when it was time for bed, Johnny was there all of a sudden. I felt his hands in places on my body where I didn’t want them. I felt sick. Then I awoke in a cold sweat. I knew what happened, but I never wanted to talk about it. It gave me a horrible feeling, even when I thought about it. But a shot of heroin would take care of that.

Chapter Six

It was getting bad. When I didn’t have any junk, I’d get very sick. Vomiting stomach cramps, cold sweats, anxiety and panic attacks, extreme fatigue. Mark told his boss finally that he was a heroin addict. He was working for a moving company. Unexpectedly his boss agreed to pay for Mark and I to get on methadone. It went OK for awhile. Until Mark brought home a crack dealer one day. We had to run from him because we owed him money. Then Mark went to live with his parents and I went to live with my family. Now we couldn’t walk to the clinic like before. We started doing heroin again. Mark lost his job. It was the beginning of the end.

Daisy’s House

Daisy lived with her husband Gus. They both smoked crack cocaine. Gus went to work everyday only to have his paycheck go up in smoke on Friday. Mark loved smoking crack. We were staying with them sleeping on the pullout couch. I hated staying there. Crack was not my drug. Heroin was. Mark and I used to fight over what were going to buy. I jumped out of the car once while was moving because Mark refused to by Heroin. Everybody acted so weird on crack. Looking out of windows. Daisy cut herself while she was high on crack. She did this often. Mark would look on the floor searching for a piece of crack he was sure he dropped. I’m glad we got away from Daisy eventually.

End Chapter

So what was the point of this story anyway? Just another Junky. But I got off the junk eventually and I could write a whole lot more about it. I guess the point of the story is my life didn’t end because of the heroin. Did I beat the odds? All the rest may have been the reason for the heroin but anyway it makes for interesting reading I hope. Oh, by the way, Mark’s dead.