traceyh415

I have let many men touch my flesh.  I have let a few of them in my heart.  I have stuck some needles in my neck.  Dulled the pain before it starts.  I have lived years with no love in my life. I have traded my morals at a cost.  I have let blood drip down my arms.  A sacrifice to a God I lost.  Don't be sad when I am gone,  Don't cry I am gone too soon,  I sold my life for pins and needles, That I melted in a burning spoon.   

I still have a handful of t-shirts left I had printed for a benefit. $20 postage paid. Email me traceyh415@gmail.com 

I like to post different views on recovery and addiction. This is one, you may have another. I am in abstinenced based recovery but that is not the road for everyone. Success can be measured differently by different people -Tracey When people think about recovery they tend to do it in terms of black and white, addicts are either active, currently using, or in recovery, no longer using. when I look back at the blurry haze that has been most of my life I often find myself lost trying to figure out when I have been most 'active' and when I have been most 'in recovery' over my 15 year long adventure with drugs and alcohol I have shifted through many phases of use, sometimes only drinking, sometimes only drugs, occasionally (albeit rarely) neither. In my youth everything was in play, the game was 'get fucked up' and the rules were lose, every narcotic was a new experience, a new tool on my belt of feelings and experiences that I could have ready and waiting

Os sonhos agridoces   que você tem quando e stá são              Eu nunca soube da alegria que eu poderia ter durante a  minha recuperação até o dia   em que aquelas garrinhas se   levantaram, a amargura diminuiu, e finalmente tive a chance de experimentar uma vida feliz. É preciso um tempo para superar os danos que o abuso de drogas durante anos pode   causar no nosso corpo e cérebro. Eu estava  me mantendo  em uma zona decente por muitos anos até agosto de 2006. Mas esse mês iria mudar a minha vida pra sempre.               Pelos primeiros nove meses eu estava longe das drogas , eu não podia chorar. T entei gritar , eu queria chorar. Todo mundo me disse que era bom chorar , mas eu não   conseguia derramar uma única lágrima sequer. Um certo embrutecimento havia sido criado dentro de mim . Tantos anos de desapego  com meus sentimentos   fizeram com que fosse impossível ter empatia comigo mesmo. Eu nunca havia derramado tantas lágrimas até aquel

I was staring out the window one icy Ohio morning. I could see my breath against the window pane as I shivered in my seat on my way to school. I was bundled up in my leggings, covered in thermal underwear, hastily tucked under my blackwatch plaid uniform skirt. I had wool socks, waterproof boots, and layers upon layers over my sports bra. I knew I had gym class that day. I hated to change clothes around the preppie bitches I called my classmates. They had been cruel to me since I started this educational nightmare three years prior. My notebook was covered with offensive bands, offensive sayings. I wore a black crucifix around my neck. My black nail polish was chipped, my cat eyes were slightly smeared that day. I looked out the frosty window pane that morning and I knew I needed to get the fuck out of here. I imagined myself in a movie, I saw it. I knew one day I would be someone special. But I was fucking nobody, seventeen and alone. My first time I really remember getting high was

Addiction, its the little voice in your head tellin you to just do it....like an infinite nike logo swooshing through your head eternally, "...just do it....just do it"    The well known voice thats whispering sweet nothings into my ear every night....enticing me to give in my cravings and go cop a blow...this voices, speak in such a way that you dont ever hear it....you just react to it, its gets into your blood and begins to work its way through your inner core..where it sinks its fangs deep into the black glob of your remaining soul...where it feeds off of your emotions like a parasite. EVERYTHING becomes a reason to get high...Have a bad day at work? Fuck it, just get high....Relationship problems?..fuck it, just get high....stubbed your toe...might be time for a little heroin to cure the pain. Before you know whats happening your at the ATM, pulling out another 40, 80 or 100 dollars to give to the devil..the rush of going to cop is something  that every addict is familia

            I never knew Robin Williams but I thought I would add a few words that are in shock or grief. I feel like I can provide some insight for you. As a person that has struggled with depression since childhood, unfortunately I am never surprised when a person takes their life. Yet, of course, I am profoundly sad. I feel a connection with that person. I remember walking about in my pajamas as an adolescent for week at a time, wanting to sleep my life away. No one could put a label on this feeling, until one day they did. Depression hangs over you like weight pulling you into the earth with no soft landing. Depression pushes out all other thoughts and leaves no room for competition with joy. Depression chains you to the couch and disarms you with it’s subtle dismissal of hope.             When a depressed person first discovers drugs, it is a revelation. It provides a warm sense of relief that fill your entire body. Finally- I can be in the company of my fellows. Finally, I c

 أُحيِّيكم يا قرَّائي الأعزاء، أشكركم لقراءتكم سيرتي، و آمل أن تأخذوا العبر من الإدمان من خلال كلماتي كوننا في عوالم مختلفه، الرحمة توحدنا. الرغبة في التفاهم هي الخطوة الأولى في التغيير. لا تترددوا في سؤالي أي سؤال. شكراً ,تريسي

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tessie-castillo/saving-lives-by-mail_b_5660024.html?utm_hp_ref=impact&ir=Impact

            I never knew the joy I could have in recovery until the day the PAWS lifted, the bitterness subsided, and I finally got a chance to experience a happy life. It takes time to overcome the years of damage drugs do on our body and brain. I was coasting along in a decent zone for many years until August 2006. That would be the month that changed me forever.             For the first nine months I was off drugs, I could not cry. I tried to cry, I wanted to cry. Everyone told me it was good to cry but I could not summon a single tear. Av hardness had developed over me. So many years of being detached from my feelings made it impossible for me to empathize with myself. I have never cried so many tears as the day they told me I had miscarried my first child. Not before, not since then. I laid on the cold medical table in the emergency department as the technician scanned for a beating heart. Yet, there was no one. I noticed immediately how my baby had grown from my last appoin

A Overdose Tem algum mofo se formando na vidraça. As ruas estão me chamando de volta novamente. Se eu morrer nesse quarto, alguém vai saber o meu nome? Serei uma carta marcada para overdose. Se eu me estabelecer aqui por um momento, cairei na escuridão. Engoli aquelas pílulas com um Old English (bebida alcoólica). Se eu acender um cigarro para me acordar, será que eu me queimarei em chamas encima desse colchão? Têm buracos nas minhas meias, buracos na minha calça jeans. Tem um buraco no meu coração tão profundo e tão grande quanto as lágrimas que caem sobre meus sapatos enquanto grito. Ou pelo menos eu achei que você tivesse me ouvido chorar, mas tudo foi apenas um sonho lúcido. Se eu morrer hoje, eu me agarrarei a essa mesa - ofegante como se eu estivesse tentando ficar? Será que escorregarei para o abismo, enquanto você dorme a um metro de distância? Eu te prometi que eu iria parar. Outra mentira, outro dia. Uma overdose, uma vida explorada. A morte é meu conforto. E a minha

​ Melody and I drove into Santa Fe. It was about midnight. Unaware of the size of the place, by the time I thought I was entering a downtown, I was already leaving the city limits. Taking the first exit, we quickly came upon a funky looking old motel, set back from the highway by a couple hundred yards. The neon sign proclaimed  “ Raving Ed ’ s. Motel and Bar. ”  It seemed like a desert-biker version of the motel from  “ Psycho ” . It was so desert-dark the motel seemed to be floating in the void like an apparition. We decided to park and get out.                Upon entering the lobby, Raving Ed ’ s wife rushed up to us and gave us a hospitable Southern welcome. She was dressed like a biker-chick, and was in her mid-50s. Dirty blonde hair like a horse ’ s mane and leathery skin. The lobby reeked of cigarette smoke. Her name was Sharon.                “ Boy, you don ’ t look so hot! You better hunker down for the night. He ain ’ t plannin ’  on doing any more driving tonight, is he? ”