preface

Imagine a life in which you wake up in the morning with thousands of dollars in your Kate Spade wallet, dressed to kill in nothing but the best and trendiest, with the newest and most up to date cell phone and tablet tucked away in your Coach handbag (because, as my friend stated it, “Never match [designers] when choosing a wallet to go with your handbag. Instead, mix it up so the designers can have a party in your purse”).  All of these things, along with a few other obvious qualities or characteristics (like being able to hold an intelligent conversation while being well versed, being college educated, and having the IQ higher than that of a turnip) will lead the average person to believe you’re just a normal, functioning member of the human race.

Material items allow me to continue to keep up appearances, to allow me to continue being a chameleon for one more day because people look at me and think, “just another beautiful, well-dressed white girl,” nothing shady about her to the naked eye to alert their Stranger-Danger sensor. Except for the one thing they don’t see: the syringe full of dope I have on me at all times in case of emergency and enough extra tucked away in my bra so that I don’t get sick for at least the rest of the day, to ensure I’m able to keep up my charade. And if you have a decent habit like me, it will run you anywhere between $50-$300/day, depending on your connections. In order to keep up a daily habit like that, one would either have to be a trust fund baby (oh, if only…), a drug dealer, a prostitute, a career criminal, or a combination of the aforementioned. Being an heiress to some multi-billion-dollar corporation isn’t what separates me from the rest of white-collar America. It’s a fierce addiction I’ve struggled with my entire adult life, an addiction that began at age 14, causing me to evolve into a grade A sociopath, with the talent of being able to spin a web of lies which makes even the most untrusting feel at ease with me enough to share their deepest secrets. An addiction that transformed me from a naïve, small-town Catholic girl from a good family (albeit, a girl with a painkiller habit) to a street-savvy, heroin addicted criminal (for those of you who view the alternative lifestyle in which I choose to live my life in black and white cut and dry, right vs wrong, and from that moral standpoint, drug use is illegal, and therefore, wrong, labeling me as a “criminal”). Label me however you wish.

There are very few true, hardcore, drug addicts I can think of who are able to use on a daily basis while maintaining a career and any semblance of a so-called normal life. In my experience, it’s only a matter of time before life spirals out of control, takes you for everything you’ve got, and lands you in the county jail holding cell, placing toll-free calls desperate to make a deal with the devil, because it’s now a race against the clock, every second becoming more valuable than the next, as you begin to feel the first signs of the worst sickness known to man sink in, a sickness that allows even your worst enemy feel a sort of shared empathy toward you: dope sickness. Panic begins to overcome you as the cold sweats encompass your body, and you begin to feel the twinge of pain in the base of your spine, radiating heat up and down your vertebrae. The microscopic worms are just starting to squirm in your muscles. There’s still a little time left, if someone posts bail now, you’ll still be out before the worst of it hits you...but, I digress.  My first vacation at San Mateo County is another story for another day. 

All things considered,  I think I managed to keep up appearances for a considerable amount of time--I made it through college as a raging alcoholic,  waking up having no recollection of how I'd driven home, who was lying next to me snoring louder than a freight train,  or why there was a taco in my hair.  I survived living in England for the better part of a year,  in a whirlwind romance with a lovely British man who adored the hell out of me, and I him,  until I flew him back to the states and came to the crashing realization that the tables had turned and the game had changed now that he was in my world,  living among my people,  my friends.  I wasn't ready to share my life and selfishly bid farewell at Detroit international airport,  making empty promises I knew I'd never keep. 
It was that summer,  however,  where I began my downward spiral. After a three day music festival in the ironically named Bliss, Michigan I rashly made the decision to give up my cushy  poolside apartment in the city and move on with an ex-heroin addict who tolerated me.  At 300lbs, I was a desperate tons of fun.  And,  the winning candidate lived in a trailer that would have been considered dilapidated 50 years ago, with a dream of growing only the finest of marijuana. And so,  we did.  Until,  one drunken night when we got into a fight about Lord knows what,  he shoved me,  and I found myself on a plane to California. That was four years ago.  I haven't been home since. 

Everything you read from here on out is an account of the last four years, it is completely autobiographical. Names have been changed to protect the guilty, but is otherwise a factual retelling of the life changing experience of becoming an IV heroin and methamphetamine addict living in San Francisco. 

I will do my best to update as frequently as possible,  but as any member of the A-Team will know,  that's not always possible as I may decide to sell my tablet for drugs.