Tag Archives: love

Death and Getting the Most Out of Life

Yesterday, my husband and I went to visit my Grandfather in the hospital. He is 92 and he is most likely dying. He has been in and out of the hospital a lot this year. Usually after a day or two he is back at his assisted living home. The previous time, it was determined that he was not well enough to go back to Harmony Hall (the assisted living) and had to move to Lorien (a near by nursing home).
When he was in the hospital that time, he came in at 165 pounds. His doctor was incredibly worried about his weight and stressed how important it was that he not loose any more weig. He is at 130 now, normal for him is about 210. Appatently no food is getting into his stomach, it is all getting into his lungs. He is beginning to refuse treatment, and it seems inevitable that the end is near for him.
As he lay in his hospital bed asleep yesterday, I was struck by how much he reminded me of my father. My grandfather, who is my mother’s father, is a mere she’ll of his former self, just as my father was before he died. Of course one glaring difference is that my granddad is 92 while my dad was 42.
I am trying to clebrate his life instead of only mourning his death. When I think back on his remarkable life, I am struck by just how much a person can accomplish in a lifetime. He served in WWII as a marine where he received, not one but two Purple Hearts. He moved on to the CIA where he worked directly under J. Edgar Hoover and the first George Bush. Hell, he even bought a car from George Bush and had to go back over to their house to get Barbra to sign the title over because George forgot to. He was interviewed to have his life story documented for the Library of Congress. Him and my grandmother (who was a premier cryptologist in WWII) raised 7 kids (an eighth died at the age of six months) while traveling all around the world, living in Germany, Japan, France, Spain and other places.
The stories he has, my mother has, my aunts and uncles have, my grandmother had from living all over the world could create the most extravagant movie. His life is truly inspiring.
I look at all that he has done, and I realize how little I have done. I have stressed and spoken before of how much I fear death and how I feel like I am starting my life so very late. I ruined so much potential I have, and now at 30 I am starting fresh. I am just now, finally doing something in a field that I am passionate about. I am at a base position, but I am good at it and I like it. I get compliments. I hope that I can use this has a jumping point to launch my career in makeup and cosmetics. To me, makeup is more than a fun little pastime or accessory- it is my passion.
As I sit here with tears welling up in my eyes thinking of losing my beloved Granddad, I realize how profoundly honored I am to have even met such a remarkable and one in a trillion man. He has taught me so very much. Watching him take care of my grandmother after she had a stroke that paralyzed half of her body, and seeing how devoted he was to her up until her death showed me what true love really is.
Grandad, I am praying everyday that you are able to pull through this as you have done every other time, but if not, I can honestly say that anyone who was ever able to meet you was blessed. I love you and will miss you terribly.


Imagining My Life Without Having Ever Used Drugs

Often, namely when I am in a state or regret, I sit and wonder where my life would be had I never tried heroin, or cocaine (which I used prior to heroin, and lead me to heroin). It is very easy to think about where my life was before I was addicted to heroin and cocaine. Your brain naturally wants to assume that sans the drugs your life would have gone down the absolute best paths possible.

I was a student at the University of Maryland majoring in Elementary Education, with a focus on English. I was going to UMCP as an honor student on an almost full college. In fact, I was able to buy a brand new Honda Civic with all the money that my mother had saved for me for college which I no longer needed. I like to get down on myself imagining that had I never become an addict, I would be an elementary school teacher right now, with a nice house, white picket fence, a decent car and 2.5 kids. Of course, I could not go back to school to get a degree in education now even if I wanted to. For one, if you have any sort of drug convictions, you are no longer eligible for any federal scholarship money.  (Don’t get me started on all that is wrong with this policy- society wants drug addicts to get clean and turn their lives around, but you going to refuse to offer them ANY sort of financial assistance. WTF). Secondly, and most importantly, even if I went back to school on my own dime and got the degree that I was originally going for, it would be pointless. With my one drug conviction (I have a second drug arrest for which I was found not guilty) and my multiple thefts, and assault I, by law, would not ever find a job.

Thing is, I had already left UMCP before I started getting high. I was driving home constantly to see my boyfriend at the time. I started having a viscous bought with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I stopped going to most of my classes during my spring semester. My shrink had a meeting with me and the dean of the school and I was able to have my classes that I failed excused and taken off of my record.

Originally, my dream was to go to NYU and major in music business. I stayed behind to be with the boyfriend (BIG mistake). After I broke up with him and left UMCP, I was teaching pre-school full time and taking classes towards that music business degree at the local community college.

This is when I started getting high with the boyfriend I was seeing at the time. It started with us getting coke (a drug that I had done a few times before). Eventually we were buying dope to come down. Soon we were buying more dope then coke or only dope.

That boyfriend went to jail on three violation of probation warrants, one of which was a no bail. My husband called me wanting me and my boyfriend (his brother in law) to pick him up to take him in town. Obviously he was unaware that my boyfriend (we’ll call him Joe) was locked up. I picked him up alone.

Soon I was picking him up every day. We had a plutonic relationship for a long, long time. Eventually after a night of drunk sex, we realized that we were meant to be together. He made me happier than I had ever felt. He made me feel beautiful, truly beautiful. He treated me like a princess. We got in legal trouble together, and often got out of it due to both of our unwillingness to snitch on one another.

Within just over two years, we were married and had a beautiful daughter. We went through periods of him being in jail, or me being in jail, or both of us being in jail. We were clean for a few years, we were addicts for a few years before and after our sober period. We are clean together now. We also have a son together now as well.

See, as easy as it is for me to dwell on what could have been had I never stuck a needle in my arm, I cannot overlook everything that I gained through addiction. I am married to my best friend. I have two wonderful, beautiful kids (one turns 9 next week, and the other turns 6 in December). Most importantly, I like the person that addiction made me. Maybe I do not particularly like the person that I become while in active addiction, but I am a lot stronger than I ever knew. I have unlimited compassion for others. I know what it is like to be at the bottom of the totem pole.

Have I lost a lot do to drugs? Of course I have. Drugs have made me realize that not everything is the end of the world. I try to look at the good side to what I have been through. I truly believe that if you can make it through heroin addiction and come out on the other side with your morals still intact and are able to achieve and maintain sobriety, them there is nothing that you cannot do. There is no one out there stronger than a recovering addict, and I am proud to say that I am in that group.



Living and Loving with Severe, Clinical Depression

I came across a brief article the other day that discussed how difficult it was to be in a relationship, to be in love, with another person while severely depressed. This is not a particularly new topic, but whenever I read an article about depression and love, it is talking about how hard it is to love someone who struggles with depression. This was talking about how hard it is to love someone when you struggle so severely to love or even like yourself.

Don’t get me wrong, I do not in any way think that it is easy to be in love with a person who has severe depression or bi-polar disorder or anxiety. We are a moody bunch to say the least. We push the very people away that we want in our lives more than anything. We pick fights for no reason, we cry and scream for hours at a time.

The struggle of a depressed person to be in love is almost insurmountable. I have been married for almost a decade. For 10 years, I have been with the same man and yet I still have trouble believing that he loves me.

It can be virtually impossible to believe that someone can stand to even be around you when you hate yourself with such a fierce disdain that it is palpable. There are days when I literally hate myself to the point where I would prefer to stay in bed, asleep, simply to not have to deal with myself.

My whole life has been spent pushing people away, and now I am in a position of trying to keep so done close, and it is terrifying. For one, I don’t really know how to NOT push someone away. I find myself doing something only to later realize how fucking stupid it was. I take shit way too seriously, I dwell on everything. Most of all, I second guess why someone would even like me at all. I worry that eventually I will convince him that I am such a terrible person after all. It’s almost like I am pulling off some massive con and any day now the jig is gonna be up.

I think that in a way we are set up to hVe difficulty in relationships. It is drilled into your head as a young person that you should not or cannot love another person until you love yourself. What if you hate yourself?

I also fear that perhaps I love my husband too much. Like maybe I love him far more than myself and will do things that are not healthy for myself. Would I even know if I were to engage in unhealthy relationship behavior.

I told my husband very early on in our relationship that I  often get sad, suicidaly sad. That a good deal of the time these crying fits will seemingly be brought on for no reason at all. It doesn’t always take something big to set me off. Funnily enough, I feel like being an addict has helped with this. I went through so much bullshit that it helped me to put some of the smaller things into perspective. Nothing seems so “life or death” to me anymore, except for life and death.

I still have my bouts of terrible sadness, however. I warned my husband, but I can tell that he had absolutely no idea what he was really getting into with me. What if I am not worth all of the trouble, all the shit that I put him through? I try to make up for all of this by being the most loyal person that I can think of. I give a lot of love. I may not show any love to myself, but I try to show it to him. That being said, if I am incapable of loving or even liking myself, how effectively can I show love to someone else?

I truly believe that  people like myself deserve love and are capable of giving love out. It is a challenge to be sure, but maybe anything that is worth it is.


I can see your fire burning
Open your eyes
And I’ll show you mine
Reach into your deepest corners
Bring about darkest desires
Oh baby, oh baby
I’m much darker
I see you everywhere I go
Far back in the recesses of my dreams
I know that you are there
I never knew the flames inside me
Could burn so hot
You bring about my pain
My pleasure
Everything that I never knew I wanted
You’ve got my heart with you
Did you let me hold yours too?
Burn through the night
With me
Will burn out together

To My Mom

So this is, like most of what I do, a day late and a dollar short. Anyway, I wanted to write something about and for the beautiful woman who brought me into this world. We have not always had the eaiest relationship,  many years of it have been tumultuous at best,  but I love her with every fiber of my being. 

As I have gotten older, as I have had children of my own, I understand that as a mother we sacrifice everything for our children. When my father died she was not able to take time toGrieve properly.  She put eeverything that she had inside of her, to take care of my sister and I. Sometimes she would snap. Sometimes she would zap out. At the time, I would be angry that I was left to calm down and care for my little sister. Now as a mother of teo chikdren, I get it. 


She had a year or so before my father past, while he was dying of lung cancer, where she had to take care of a 5 year old, a 10 year old, and a husband that went from a strong man, a man’s man, to not even being able to walk.  It was nice just the physical deterioration that she was forced to deal with, either. He was so heavily medicated that he became an entirely different person. He hallucinated all the time. He often thought that our house was some sort of war zonem and that my mom was in charge of the opposition. Honestly,  I can not even begin to imagine the heartbreak that most go with caring for a person that in no way resembles the person that you married.  My mother,  though, she never complained. She was a soldier the whole time. She continued to work, and she took on the extra responsibility of my father’s health problems. 

When he died, she tried her hardest to make sure that we were ok. She took no time for herself. She never remarried,  hardly ever dated. It was just me and my sister.  She did everything on her own. She drilled into my head, that the worst thing in the world is to have people pity you. Honestly,  she may have taken this a little too far, but I learned how to be a strong woman watching her refudal to ask anyone for help ever.

I was a child and had no idea how much weight was instantly thrust upon her shoulders. She worked full time, she took care of us. She made ssure that we never had to move out of the house that my dad had built a massive addition on to. We were able to live in his place of handiwork. 

My mom, used to tell us stories about her hippy days. She saw the Beatles, the Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zepplin, Marvin Gaye, Herbie Hanncock, and many others. She would talk about going to Mowtown concerts that would have all the greats. She went tothe fampus Monterey IInternational Pop Festival. She instilled in me a love of music.  One time when I got stoned with her, she sat there and stared at the radio saying that she was “watching the music”. She played Michael Jackson, and the Four Tops, and Linda Ronstead, and the Beatles.  She took me to a Prince concert when I was 2 years old. I learned from her just how powerfully music can affect your mood, your entire being. She is the reason that I wanted to become a music executive. 

As I previously stated,  my mom was a full fledged hippy in her youth, her twenties. She taught my sister and I to love everyone regardless of race, gender, religion, sexual orientation,  economic status. She showed us the injustices in the world.  She explained how fucked up this world was. She told us about the Veitnam protests. She shared stories about the civil rights movement. 

My grandfather fought in World War II as a Marine and received two Purple Hearts. After he left the Marines,  he went into the CIA. He was like three people from the top dog, and his job entailed that him, my grandmother,  my mom and her two sisters and four brothers move all over the world. My sister and I would listen intently as my mom told us stories of living inside the Berlin Wall.  Of moving into a house in Japan that came with a chef, a maid, and a nanny. We would revel in the fact that her entire family had to use false identities for every new country they went to. We lostened to the fascinating story of how their true identies were discovered in Japan and they had to leave right away without packing or daying goodbye to anyone.  I woukd jealousy ask about her times in Spain and Paris.

I learned what a feminist was from my mom. She (and then Courtney Love) sparked what would be a life long love of feminism.  She showed me what a REAL feminist is, hot the stereotypes.  We are not ball busting, man hating, dykes. We are just women that want to be treated the same as men. My mom never asked for special treatment because she was a single mother, a widow. She got fucked over at work, amking less then men that had the same position as her even though she worked twice as hard and was twice as good. She always had some asshole trying to rip her off because she was a woman. Mechanics,  plummers, electricians, really anyone that came to fix something at the house. She didn’t complain,  she just started having one of her brothers with her when getting estimates.  She never wanted pity, she figured out how to deal with a fucked up situation the best that she could.

What I am trying to say is that as a child I had no idea, not even the slightest inkling of how much she was dealing with. I would see her freak out at my little sister and I, telling us that she couldn’t take it anymore,  that she was leaving forever, get in her car and leave, and be furious. I would think that she was being so selfish. I didn’t understand how much of her own happiness she had sacrificed for us. She didn’t grieve the way she needed to because she was trying to keep our lives as normal as possible. Sometimes it was just too much and she would snap. I get it now. After years of putting my mother through hell,  of refusing to forgive her for mistakes that she made, I get it. I grew up, I had kids, I stopped being a fucking selfish brat. I look at my kids, and I see how much she gave up, how hard she worked. She kept our lives as normal as possible after the death of my dad. She bought us nice clothes, she took us on vacations,  she kept us in the h I use that my dad built. She did her best to keep us happy. When I went through my struggles with addiction, my mom never gave up on me. She supported me time and time again. Her love knew no limits, and I am almost positive that her love and support is part of the reason that I made it through to the other side alive. For that, and for everything, Mom, I love you. Now and forever. 

Weak – Or Strong Enough To Help Others And To Ask For Help?

Very recently, I got into a political debate with someone in my husband’s family. Ok, don’t worry. I will not talk politics on this blog. I will not get into who I vote for or anything like that. Anyway, this person was saying how people like me are pussies because I believe in food stamps, and raising minimum wage and generally helping others.

I had to disagree. Respectfully, of course. To me, the beauty of having the brain of a human is that we are able to show compassion for others while animals can not. In my opinion, a weak person is someone who refuses to help others. Whether it be by giving money, a place to stay, or sharing your knowledge or wisdom about something. We as human beings owe it to our race to not selfishly horde what we have.

None of us got where we are alone. This includes both our successes and our failures. Anyone who has had a drug problem, had someone give them the drugs for the first time. Anyone who has achieved lasting sobriety most definitely had help along the way. It may have been a great counselor, or the family member who stood by us no matter how many times we disappointed them. We had help.

Not just addicts, anyone. No one owns a Fortune 500 company with no assistance. Whether or not we choose to recognize everyone that helped us along this journey that we call life, is another story. It takes a great deal of self-awareness and humility to admit that we needed and used the assistance of others along the way.

One of the hardest things for people to be able to finally admit is that it is not a weakness to ask for help. When I relapsed, I was so ashamed that I would not, under any circumstances, ask for help. I thought that admitting that I couldn’t do this on my own, that I needed the help of professionals would make me look incredibly weak. I now realize that it doesn’t. My weakness was my stoicism. I could have nipped that relapse in the bud if my pride had let me man the fuck up and say, “I need help.”

I feel like this problem gets compounded when we become parents. We are supposed to be the problem solvers. The super-moms and super-dads. How can a superhero need the assistance of mere mortals? Well, even Batman had Robin.

I was baptized Catholic. I am still Christian, but I have been incorporating many Buddhist principles into my life as of late. The Dalai Lama teaches us that it is a critical part of human happiness to help our fellow man. He says, “Anyone who is only concerned with the well-being of others takes care of himself without even thinking about it. Even if we decide to remain selfish, let us be intelligently selfish -let us help others!” There is not a human living on the face of this Earth who has not garnered the help of others. It simply is not possible.

I have finally become able to admit that as an addict who is totally out of control of my addiction, I need the help of others if I am to survive. And by survive, I mean live a happy, sober, fulfilling life. Right now, I need the help of methadone. I rely on the help of my counselor at the clinic. I am cautious and wary around people and somewhat disinclined to make new friends, I appropriate much of my strength and sanity from my husband and family. My life is exponentially improved now that I realize that is not a sign of decrepitude to admit that I need the aide of others from time to time.

I also know that I must pay it forward. I would not be living the life that I am if were not for the love and benevolence of others. I have to do my part. We as a country must do our part. If you have been blessed by God enough to have large sums of money, give to charity. If your gift is that of an acute, knowledgable brain, I urge you to share that knowledge with others. If you have the voice of an angel, sing to brighten people’s days. We all have something to offer the world. We all need to share whatever we are rich with. To me, that is strength, not weakness. Weakness would be to selfishly keep to ourselves that with which we have been blessed with.


You make me dizzy

I’ll wash away in your eyes

You have burnt a hole clear through me

 Can’t you see you are all I need

You are my dream

You are all that I see

A crystal beam with cherry eyes

You pull is strong enough that I cant hide

Baby, please don’t ever leave my side

You’ve burnt a hole right through me

A place where your soul can breath

Rose petals, so much in bloom

I hope that you’ll soon persue

Metallic wings on butterflies

We’ll ride on them

And soar to the heavens

I will give you all that is mine

I am trapped inside your halo

And I know that none of this will ever seem old

We’ll float to heaven and far above

On the fumes of this unbridled love

You’ve burnt a hole clear through me

I don’t even mind if I begin to bleed

You make me dizzy

I’ll wash away in your eyes

Angels’ strings, and all that they tie

Feels like heaven, I must have diedSoul mates forever

The First Time

Just like losing your virginity, every addict remembers the first time they got high. And like sex, most people’s expeiriences tendnto be either really bad or totally orgasmic and wonderful. Either people tell stories of throwing up for hours or speak of an inexplicable bliss that they would go on to chase forever, never to duplicate.

My first time was neither, or rather both. To set the scene, I was 19 and on summer vacation from the University of Maryland College Park where I was an honor student. I had recently broke up with the verbally abusive, alcoholic boyfriend that I had had for the past three years. I was hanging out with a guy who would eventually become my boyfriend for a short time. He was a recovering addict. He had just come home from jail and rehab for theft charges that stemed from his drug habit.

I was hardly a drug virgin. I had smoked copious amounts of weed, popped E pills galore, done Special K and coke. Never heroin, though. I was scared of it. My ex used to do dope occasionally and sometimes would disappear into the ghetto parts of Baltimore for a week or so, worrying me to no end. The guy who I was hanging out with (who we will call J) was recovering from a pretty bad dope habit. I was sort of afraid of heroin.

One day J called me up saying that he had gotten a bunch of cash for his birthday. He asked if Inknew somewhere to get some girl (coke). I said that I did not as my ex usually got any drugs that we did. I never really sought out drugs at that time, I just did what was around. Anyway, J told me that he new a place where we could get it. He would pay if I provided him with a ride. I was game.

What he didn’t tell me was that we were going to be pulling up to a dope strip. He had told me that we were meeting somebody in Baltimore County. Lies. We were going to an area behind the Edmonson Village Center that I would come to know very well in the future. When he told me that we were almost there, I asked if he needed to call the guy and was very confused when he stated that he didn’t. “Umm, how will he know that we were here if we don’t call?”, I inquired. “They just will”, he told me.

We rounded the turn and the road went from row houses to a cul-de-sac with three to four level brick apartment buildings. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot about 15 guys ran to the car, shoving their hands and heads inside either window. “Girl”, “Red tops”, “Boy”, “Yellow tops”, “Nickles”, “What you need?”. I was shocked and a little frightened. I had never seen anything like this before. J pointed to a guy he recognized and asked, “What you give me for $200? I want girl.” At the time these apartments had nickels so the dude gave us 45 red top vials. He went back to my house and snorted coke all night.

This continued for about a few weeks going in town three to four times a week. One time, he got six boys (dope). After we had been doing coke all night, J asked me if I wanted some of the dope. He told me it would help me to come down off of the coke. I was hesitant. I knew that he had just cam home from jail on theft charges that he never would gotten if he didnt need the money for the heroin. I went into my 14 year old sister’s room. She had two of her friends over. “Have you all ever done dope?,” I asked them. “Oh yeah. A bunch of times,” they all answered in unison. “How bad could it be if a bunch of 13 and 14 year olds are doing it?” I thought to myself.

I marched back into my bedroom and told J that I did in fact want some. He broke some out for me. “This ain’t coke, girl. Don’t be doing no big ass coke lines. It will kill your this shit’s a lot stronger. You just take little bumps.” So that is what I did. Little bumps.

I felt drunk. Dizzy. A little sick. I never threw up, but I cam really fucking close. He had to go home, but I was way too fucked up to drive. He drove to his house and I spent the night. My skin felt like it was being attacked by swarms of fire ants. We made a bed on his floor and laid there all night. Watching tv and scratching each others backs. I didn’t sleep at all. I couldn’t. Between the nausea, the feeling like I had been lit on fire, and feeling drunk and dizzy, there was no way that I was going to sleep. I had never felt anything like this. I had energy, but I was relaxed an serene. I was giggly and happy.

This became a new habit, getting dope to come down off of the coke at the end of the night. Soon the pendulum started to shift, however and we started to get more and more dope until the order was mostly dope and just a little coke.

“They used to call us track stars/ Before they even stopped/ We ran to them cars.” – Young Jeezy. This describes to a T what it was like when my silver Cavalier pulled up to the apartments. They had so many dealers back there. So much competition, and they knew that we spent money, thqt we weren’t knockers. They all ran at the car before we had even stopped, twenty sets of arms in the windows shouting for you to but from them.

I was still so very green at that time. I had never been pulled over in the city. I knew nothing about lying police and racial profiling. I had yet to discover that we would be pulled over just because we were white. One night we were coming back from the apartments. It was a Saturday night at about two am. It was me, J and one of our friends in the car. We were coming down the one way street to turn on to Edmonson Avenue to go home. That night however, the police had set up a sobriety check piont. You HAD to go throughout the parking lot of the village center because the road was blocked. J had his left hand filled with vials, and was driving with his right hand. We pulled up to the check point. An officer shined a flashlight into the car and asked J if he had been drinking at all. “No sir,” J said. “Okay,” the officer replied, “Take this pamphlet about drinking and driving.” Since J’s left hand was over flowing with vials he has to awkwardly reach across the steering wheel with his right hand to grab the pamphlet. “Have a nice night and be careful,” the cop told us. “You too,” we replied. As we pulled off, J and our friend were freaking out. “Do you have any idea how fucking close that was?” They asked me. I mean of course I knew that we had drugs and that they were illegal, but I didn’t really grasp what a fucking close call that was. I didn’t think about how lucky we were that he didn’t ask what three white people were doing coming from an all black, notorious drug area at two in the morning.

For the next few months J and I were getting high almost everyday. He also taught me  hustle that I did on and off for years to come. One day it was J’s birthday. While he went out to dinner with his mother, I went out and boosted the items that we sold to the corner store downtown. I picked him up at 8:30 pm. We had to make it to the store in Baltimore before it closed at 9 pm. It was about 25 minutes away. Problem was sometimes the store was known to close early. J drive and was speedimg in order to ensure that we made it. On the school down the street from his house, a cop was shooting radar. As soon as we drive by, the lights switched on. “Shit!” J exclaimed. We were short on time and ahas a back seat full of stolen gods. They took J’s license to run, they walked back to the car and asked him to step out of the vehicle. He had three warrants for his arrest. He had violated his probation. One of the warrants had no bail, so he sat in the Baltimore County Detention Center for about four months.

When he was locked up, I decided to chill with the drugs for a bit. I couldn’t sleep. My back ached. I swore that I needed a new mattress. It wasn’t until I got a REAL, REAL habit that I realized that I was going through a very minor form of withdrawls.

One day J’s brother-in-law called needing a ride in town to cop. J and I had given him a ride a few times before. I explained that J was locked up and was denied bail so it would be impossible for the two of us to give him a ride. “Why don’t you just come get me? My treat.” I hesitated, he had been really cool the times that J and I had given him a ride, but he was hammered the first time that I met him and a total asshole. Eventually, he talked me into picking him up. Over and over again, he would convince me.

One night after we went in town we decided to hang out with some friends and get some vodka. Before I knew it, we were drunk and having sex. We started hanging out everyday, and long story short, we are married to this day with two wonderful children.

Almost every event in my life goes back, one way or another to that first night that I tried dope. A lot of shit that I went through because of heroin was terrible. Jail, arrests, overdoses, sickness, losing more friends and family then I care to remember. But it made me who I am. Aaron and I had met, but as I previously stated, I hated him. We got close because of the drugs. Usually couples that get high together fail, but we are soul mates. I have two beautiful children who would not exist if I were not giving my future husbands rides in town. Most importantly, I am proud of my scars.mi have huge, physical scars on my forearms, and shins from abscesses and infections. They serve as a reminder for all the internal scars that you can not see. I have been to hell and back. I survived and am stronger due to the journey. I am not hear to scare anyone or to say how wonderful you will feel on heroin. Honestly, it feels great, but that feeling wears off. What you are left with is a whole in your soul that you continually fill with a drug that is ripping it open wider and wider every time you use it to fill the whole up. Every addict remembers their first time. I choose to remember mine, but I am sure that play the movie all the way through. I don’t hit pause when it is still fun.