My Prostitution Past

I haven’t really talked much about it, mainly because right now it’s all tangled up with many memories that bring a lot of conflicted feelings to the forefront right now.  I think about it several times a day lately, though, always with a sense of regret and not a little bit of sorrow.  I had a constructive conversation last night about that part of my past, quite a few reminders of how things went down at that time.  Here’s some of how (and why) it happened:

When I started smoking crack, after a few years of snorting cocaine, I quickly discovered that my methods up until that point of obtaining my highs would not suffice to satisfy my new level of craving.  Crack burns through money a lot faster — smoking cocaine creates a much higher level of euphoria, mostly because it delivers a greater amount of the drug into the bloodstream much more quickly.  Unfortunately, it also leaves the system more quickly as well.

When cocaine is snorted, it leaves a layer of powder over every surface of the sinuses, which then proceeds to seep into the bloodstream slowly, and continues to transfer as moisture from the sinuses slowly seeps into the dry powder layer (and any subsequent layers that are piled onto the first by continued snorting).  The drug-into-bloodstream-into-brain transfer continues taking place for an hour or more after one stops snorting coke.

When coke is smoked (freebased, either with ether or in rock form), almost all of the drug enters the bloodstream all at once, hitting the brain pretty damn near instantaneously.  It is processed out of the brain very quickly also, so the euphoria lasts anywhere from about 3 to 15 minutes (at the most, for most users).  The stimulation (awakeness) lasts somewhat longer, maybe 30 minutes or so, but once the euphoria wears off, cravings and irritability are pretty universal.  For me, after a couple of years of smoking crack, I stopped getting euphoria almost entirely, my “high” consisted only of just more cravings, followed by misery.  But I get ahead of myself, and have digressed for too long.

When I got tricked into smoking crack for the first time (I didn’t want to ever try it, I knew it would get a lot worse if I did, but I underestimated the power of a crack fiend’s desire to get me hooked so he can mooch drugs and sex from me) I quickly switched from sleeping with my dealers for drugs to walking the street to get money to feed my habit.  Back then, it seemed like “an adventure.”  I knew a few prostitutes, I had helped watch for police for them in exchange for information about how they identified customers, how they identified and avoided the “vice” and “jump-out boys” (police rolling down the Blade, four or more of them in each single large tint-windowed SUV, waiting for a vice officer to confirm having positively identified a target — a prostitute, pimp, dealer, or someone with an outstanding warrant or who was banned by the courts from the area for previous prostitution or drug activity — or, after seeing such activity taking place as they go by, they roll up to the target(s), quickly stop and all jump out to arrest everyone involved), how to keep from getting jacked (mugged), how to keep from getting killed/raped, how to negotiate the terms with the john, how much to charge for which activities, and so on.

After about six months of this, getting tired of subsisting on the money I got from “flying a sign” and “spanging” (panhandling by holding a sign next to a busy corner where cars had to stop or by begging people for money, like people going into a corner store or at a gas station), I hooked up with a guy who had had a prostitute as his last girlfriend.  It was the first time I was able to come by information on how prostitutes could work without a pimp.  He offered to help me by watching out for me as my “driver” (a very different dynamic than the pimp-ho situation I had studied before, which is what had turned me off about actually working the streets myself before then — the driver-prostitute dynamic was one where the prostitute shares a percentage or a set fee with the driver for each job she takes instead of giving all the money to a pimp and then begging the pimp to provide for her basic needs) with no fee required, only an agreement that after I did a job we would go back to our motel room and talk about it while we fucked.  That day I turned my first trick, and made a hundred bucks (which is not really all that typical for girls that work the street instead of Internet or local paper ads).  The sex was hot, but the date ended badly (for me).  But that’s a story for another day.

I had figured out how to work the Blade as a “renegade,” (also called an “outlaw” — as opposed to “in-law” – hos of the same pimp call each other “sister-in-law” and the group of them together “in-laws”).  The others on the street I came to know almost universally resented/hated me (unless I was buying from them, selling to them, sharing the cost of a room, or getting them high so I could stay in their room while we used) because I wasn’t “in pocket” for a pimp.  I didn’t meet any other prostitutes who worked alone for more than the hour or two it took to hop from one pimp to another.  That happened a lot for most girls out there.

I still live near the track I worked most often, it’s not far from the house I own with my husband.  I frequently have to drive down it to get somewhere, as it is one of the three main thoroughfares through the north end of the city.  Almost every time I do, I pass by at least a few people I know, people I used with, bought drugs from, sold stolen goods to, got cheated out of money by, or other prostitutes I knew from walking past each other or sharing a mirror to put makeup on in fast food restaurants or from turning tricks with on “doubles.”  Many of them look progressively more run down every time I see them.  A few of them always look about the same, mostly the ones who are able to maintain a pretty consistent standard of living (through mostly working off Internet ads and only rarely turning car dates when things get dry).  But none of them ever look better.

The street never brings people up, it only brings everyone down eventually.  I don’t ever see people I ran with coming into recovery rooms, at least not yet.  I wish I would, it would strengthen my hope and tenuous faith that I’m not fighting a losing battle.  Well, my faith isn’t so tenuous.  I know several other women (and some men) in the rooms that also spent time doing “corner work” like myself — just that they have been around a lot longer, so the street doesn’t show on their faces anymore, like it’s starting to leave mine.

I hope someday that street and the guilt I feel over my steps along its sidewalks will leave my heart, just enough to hold my head high again in my own neighborhood.  I’ll be glad when hubby and I can sell the house to buy in a suburb where street life isn’t so prevalent.  All I can do, though, is live for (and through) today… and know that (overall) things will only get better.

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The “Please Forgive Me” Letter, early 2012

I found this letter among some of my husband’s things a few weeks ago.  It gives insight into how I was feeling just before I went into the detox unit of a local psychiatric hospital back in late January or early February of 2012.  I’m not sure whether or not to be grateful that my husband never throws away any piece of paper he has, ever — the reminder is a hard one, of how needy and desperate I had become.


Dear Hunny Bunny Love Monkey

Somewhere deep inside me is left a shadow of the woman you fell in love with, and she very much still loves you.  But she hasn’t been in control of me for a very long time, and I have no idea how to get back to being her again.  I’m so lost – you’ve known that as well as I have for a long time.  And I have done so many things wrong, and I can’t seem to find the strength to do the right things at all any more.  I feel so empty and worthless that I often think that hurting you and my family more [with suicide] would be kinder than going on being the evil pathetic excuse for a human that I have been.

But figuring out how, and where, and when to end my life makes me realize that as selfish as I am now, killing myself would be the ultimate, absolutely most painful thing I could do to you (and my family), more painful than the stealing, and the lying, and the cheating (breaking the rules & sneaking around).  I just don’t know how to start doing better, working toward making things right, how to stop breaking your heart, stop killing what little tiny bit of love you have left for the wife I used to be for you.

I’ve been killing myself slowly for at least the last 4 years.  Once cocaine came into my life, all my happiness, strength, follow-through, ability to focus, kindness, consideration for you and others, health, centeredness, balance, intelligence, creativity and more… and most of all my love for myself and for the people who were important to me and so much the center of my world then – all of those things have been destroyed, disappearing slowly but steadily, in such a way that I didn’t notice until it was too late & I was too weak against the power of that powdered concentrated psychopathic self-disintegration – like the barrels of oil or blood diamonds to a wealthy right-wing republican – I simply had to keep collecting more and more at everyone’s expense, especially yours & mine.

So I’ve taken risks.  The part of me that does still love you can’t stand to keep stabbing you in the back & so I’ve put myself in danger over & over again, hoping someone or something else will end your & my suffering, so that it won’t be my fault that my death will cause you even worse pain.  In a way, I’m glad I failed to bring about that end, because as much as I can’t bear the thought of the price I’ll pay for my weaknesses and pathetic evils that I can’t stop repeating – the price of losing you for good – I do want you to be happy again, and I know if I went so far as to put you through being a widower it would take you so much longer to be happy again than if I were to just lock myself up & let you get on with your life without me.

Why can’t I just give you as much love as you’ve given me?  Why can’t I just STOP this fucking shit and save our life together, and the house, and our love for each other? Why can’t I be the me I used to be before cocaine & the hippy crack coke nitrous substitute that devastated my brain?  Why can’t I stand on my own anymore?

As much as I have treated you worse than an enemy, I hope you will one day feel that our life together was worth the pain, and that you will stop hurting enough to feel at least a small amount of the love from me that you really do deserve but that I haven’t been able to give you like I should for so long.

Please forgive me, please please please let me try again after I get help like I’ve needed for so long.  I really do love you, Hunny Bunny!


 

A very short while after writing this letter, I went in for detox, horribly sick with bronchitis.  After 9 days, they discharged me, and the day I got out I went right back out to get and do more drugs.  I started going out to my Dad’s place out near the coast to get clean, staying there a month or two at a time, getting 30 and then later 60 days at a time, only to return home and, soon after, to relapse again.  Hubby started locking me out of the house when I refused to go back to my dad’s, and that’s when I started living in the shed, on the lead-up toward the final bottom that I reached when I started to get serious about recovery.

The Flow of Ink (Freewriting)

Freewriting for 20 minutes (Writing 101, Day One: Unlock the Mind).

I’m torn. Torn between my desire for thrift in using every page of this journal, and between my desire for ink that flows freely from the metal nib of my new fountain pen that soaks through and makes the back of the page unusable.  I opted for the flow of ink this time, as I think most easily for wordsmithing in cursive, and the bold lines stand out indelibly dark purple against the pleasantly beige page.

I almost forgot to write today, I remembered at five minutes to midnight.

I’m writing in the garage, the only place with the needed combination of adequate light, seating, privacy, and the ability to chain smoke cigarettes, a bad habit I will soon enough need to untrain myself from. It’s going to really suck trying to write for a long while when that happens.

I’ve been in a funk the last couple of months.  It’s been difficult to get out of bed for any reason but unavoidable obligations and social occasions for that time.  I wish that one antidepressant were sufficient for combating my clinical depression, but wishes have always been fishes in that regard ever since I hit puberty.

I’m glad to be clean off drugs, but sometimes I really wish I didn’t have cravings anymore.  They depress me even more.  I cleaned the garage out today all the way back to the wall for the first time since we, my husband and I, moved into this house in 2009.  June, in fact, so this month makes it five years that we’ve been here.  So much has happened since then that it feels more like it’s been a decade, but anyway.  While I was moving the dust around, er, I mean moving boxes, I came across a couple of baggies that had once held drugs.  Not together, separately.  One was one of the baggies from when I was snorting cocaine, toward the beginning.  The other had likely held crystal meth.  While I’m glad I was able to eliminate their presence from the house, it was a real harshmellow (a word I invented many years ago) to find them.  A small part of me wished to be doing drugs still, so I could lick the baggies in futile thriftiness – futile because no small amount of residue they could have contained could have any perceivable effect, but I would still have considered that action a relapse.  Most of me was just sad in remembering that I used to hide back in those areas of the garage so that my husband, if he suddenly came out to check on me, wouldn’t see the straw or flame from the lighter and pipe in my hands before I could hide them, to prevent the explosion of rage and sorrow in discovering me attempting to use in secret – yet again.  Every time I encounter another reminder of my not-so-well-kept-secret life, I mourn for all the heartache I put my husband and my family through.  I didn’t share that at my meeting tonight, the focus/topic was on other things and I was more focused on carrying the message to the newcomer who was there, but I talked with a new female friend about it after the meeting.  She was right, a person so early in recovery  like myself shouldn’t be dealing with paraphernalia alone like I’ve had to on several occasions (I blogged about one of those times recently), but necessity has made my cleaning a solitary trial, so far successful in staying clean through it, however.  Yay, I filled two pages!

Poetry – Crack-Ho’s Cookbook

Note: This poem is written primarily in street slang, so it probably will only confuse you or be irrelevant unless you have an interest in the urban dialect of the pacific northwest. It also speaks of numerous deviant activities, with which I became familiar in recent years. I no longer spend any time hanging out with my former street “friends” but my experiences were liminal and fairly formative in my current inner personality. I don’t dwell on it much lately, this was written during a period at the beginning of the year when I was not clean or sober in the slightest.

If you are a minor, please wait until you have some adult experience before trying to comprehend these concepts. Kids, stay kids as long as you can, some people (like me) never had that option.

Okay, disclaimer done. Read at your own risk.

Crack-Ho’s Cookbook

Ten toes down for that rusty renegade rock-bottom crown
That prehistoric hustle of hips hovering horizontally, they
Numero ocho their way above the ground.
This well-designed dawdle is a marketing ploy, out on the
Bleak blustery razor of the blade,
Saying simultaneously, “Come catch me!”
And yet, “Too pricey for your pocketbook, Loverboy.”

You can only make it here if you
Stay always somewhat out of reach.
It’s unattainable for me to stay in pocket
Me, the potentially top-dollar head doctor
Still intrinsically the same small-town whitey-whitebread reject kluck
Finding over and over that “I got you”
Equates to “I’ll bop you” time and again.

Unlike the other ho’s I was born to the trade
but not to The Blade.  I didn’t trick, didn’t have no licks, cuz
I was the trick, I was the lick.
Not for my Johns but for those damn gorilla pimps
Who take a “No, thank you” personal and so maneuvered
To be my non-consensual gigolos

Here, where a head-game
Is naught but the time of day (where no one wears a watch)

So I branched out to feed my habit
Boosted bottles and such, switched up those toes
For a few fingers – five, to be exact.
Slung a few rocks, but couldn’t stop myself
From lezzing it up for that cold, hard, White B**ch
More than a little, for
More than a little too long
But because I didn’t also fall for the Midnight Lady’s numb embraces
I was constantly inundated by my emptiness.
The street can only be home when you no longer feel your heart.