A Note From The Writer

Welcome to the archived blog posts (when I was a wee blogger, wet behind the ears and not aware of spell check and various other gramatical structures!) I have kept the writings unedited or reworked as I am in the process of doing a massive rewrite of my entire life, many posts I have yet to publish and this blog was merely writing practise for the massive job of sorting out my emotions whilst retelling the story as cuttingly real and dramatic as the real memory was.. some of the posts contained are raw, streaming emotion.. many posts although painful to write, had a tremendously cathartic effect - cheaper than therapy one would say. I welcome new and old readers to keep in touch via my author email (sensualexplorersatHotmaildotcom) if you have any questions or wish to share the feelings and emotions raised by my work.
I will announce the publish date and title whenever it happens and I have been clean now for three years. It is possible.
But it is never easy. It's a lifelong journey, I will always be an addict, but I must stay one step ahead of myself and protect all that can be ruined in the eternal struggle to be
at ease once again, comfortable in this skin.
Thank you for being a part of my story.

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Behind The Soccer Club

"And I have learned to live, as it were, with the idea that I will never find peace and happiness, either. But as long as I know there's a pretty good chance I can get my hands on either one of them every once in a while, I do the best I can between high spots.” Hunter S. Thompson.

This is true and very sad. I don't think my boyfriend can read this.
This makes me sad. Maybe in time..it can be a happier story and not so personal. Maybe it will stop someone from trying heroin. Loving Heroin. Dying on Heroin. Maybe it is just a blog and I am just a part of your morning read.
Maybe today is your first day well or your worst day yet. Heroinegirl XX

The cars wash down the highway in mechanical waves, the full moon fills out my silhouette, I stand in the gutter illuminated by the occasional headlight. It is cold and I lost my jumper.
I am wearing a miniskirt and heels that always seem to work. I am 21 and slim.
That works too. In fact in spite of myself, I am still called beautiful , yet I suppose it is in a tragic way like a rosebud worn away from the stem. Just call me beautiful one more time, even though you are a stranger to me. Maybe I will start to believe?
I once believed I was better than this.
I once believed I could never do this.
Heroin. Need I say more.

My skin feels like greasy bitumen as the dust and sweat coats my legs from the
passing cars, that some times slow down, sometimes speed up.
The Waiting Game. I have been here for hours. All day and nearly all night. I feel like I am a hundred years old.

I have made about three hundred dollars but we have spent that on gear to get through the day and I needed more dope in the morning. So I take up my spot on the gutter and wish to the stars above that someone will come along soon.

My arms are goose bumps and my skin is all a shiver, everyone is going home to warm dinners and television but I have no home tonight. I wiggle my hips and make contact with a man passing in a black BMW. He shakes his head. But he does a lap of the street, all the same. He will work up the courage and return tommorow. You just wait and see.

I can feel the crumple of money in my back pocket but it is not enough to stop. I only have enough for half a hit. That will not do. So I swap sides of the highway; I hope they don’t call the police again. I'm nearly done. I feel the condom packet scratching my navel, hidden in case. One more condom. One more job. Done. Baby, I am nearly done in so many ways. Don't try to help me. It will only make both of us feel worse. I won't quit heroin right now - I just won't but I am sorry.
Just draw your curtains and pretend I am not here.
That's what I do.

The Man In The BMW returns, I see the client leaning over the passenger seat as the vehicle purrs into the pavement. I look to the right and I look to the side.
Then I get in the car and we drive. I don't speak much as I have nothing to really say to him - and I know he doesn't care anyway.

"Take me to the soccer club."
I show the middle aged businessman the way and I think he is frightened that someone will see us. I try and make him feel safe but in reality - I don't really care. . Like I am going to kill you.
I can see the client is keen even though what he is doing is not what he would usually do. He is exhillarated and petrified in the same pathetic moment. I am quiet. Let's get this over with. Pay upfront and no kissing.
I can do it in the back of the BMW.

I can bend into all kinds of lusty shapes as you thrust me in the back of the BMW. I can hide down low, so nobody sees me?

We don’t know each others names - but baby we don't need to.
We just move in awkward silence, I jerk you off well and proper. This suprises you with the crassness of my eager rubbing - you come on yourself - before you even know what happened. You only absorb what happened when you look down to the spreading stain on your jeans. the sadness you feel in your heart. Maybe for me. Maybe for yourself. But I am gone , so don't fucking worry about it. Don't pretend your better than me until you turn the corner and go home to your toddlers and you wives. I sound bitter but it's true.

To many men I became an addiction. I made sure of it in order to survive.
The men will keep pulling over for me and I will keep coming onto them. We live in a sex symbiosis; only my survival really does depend on what I do. Deep throat for a dime.

As I have warned you many times sweet client, don't even try to trick me at tricking. I know the drill because I made the drill.

We don't have any rules of engagement down here, in the dark place inside your leather bound interiors, it is all hope and pray. You make it my sole purpose in life to get you off and my main goal is to get out alive. I did this because I chose to be a junkie..and now I am addicted like nothing I could ever imagine.
I make myself sick everyday and all I want to do is stop wanting.
Stop needing. Stopping hitting up junk.
I am dopesick and I feel it is time that I contemplated this is my lot.

Pay before your pull down your pants. I am gentle with you, but it makes me tougher on the
inside. You don't make me come. You don't mean anything to me after I get my drugs. I hope your wife finds out and you get counselling. I hope you wash well. I hope that you never forget my face - but I know that you will.
That's the way life goes.

Don’t ask me my name. You never saw me and you don’t know me.
When I see you at the supermarket I won't pay you any notice. So stop fucking freaking out.I was too high to remember what the fuck I did with you or what house we went to and I need it to stay that way. I am not your friend.
I am definately not going to stop whoring and be your girlfriend.
I need to pay for my drugs. I wish it could be different for us.

I feel for what you what me to find and I yank it like you ask for. Enough.
I never promised you anymore. Only myself. I will not remember you because I can't.

I can't forget the taste.
I can't forget the fear.

I will never forget how the bushes felt beneath my naked behind as I was pummeled deep into them, but I was paid – so it was ok. No one knew what happened behind the soccer club but me and you. And fourty others.

I won't stain your suit. I won’t leave my lipstick in your car or the condom wrapper underneath the child restraint. But then again, maybe today I might.
Ruin your life , like you seem to take from mine. You barter down my pride.
You wont give me fifty cos you know I will settle for twenty cos thats what Janey is getting lately and she does it without a condom. Whatever it takes. Janey is sicker than me and she is fourty-five. She don't have my legs or my face.

She has to do a lot more and it shows.

Time passes with the man in the BMW and decides I'm not even worth fifty anymore. You used to pay so much more ??? Who has changed - me or you?
As you turn the key in the ignition – I stop you.
I say yes. Everything else inside me screamed no.

But the Heroin spoke for me.

We had come this far and I might as well. It will only take a moment. But it doesn’t and my mascara is running and my mouth is sore. You work me well.
You hold me by the ponytail and inside my mind I am choking on myself rather than you. You yank me away and you come on the oil rag you got from the boot. I hike up my underwear and reapply my lipstick in the rearview. At least you wore a condom. Next time you will see someone else, but at least I remain clean for one more night.

I am better than this – if I dare to get over this. If I can live through this, then I will be fine. But for now, it only costs you 20. To have me and everything I can give. Just ask me – I will sell you whatever I can find of myself.

Running into the red. Drowning in your debt. That's me.
Fucking myself over till the day I die.


Monday, November 29, 2004

Pink Lady

A hot summer afternoon with nothing to do and a webcam. So I made a flash show.
I wish I had other females to photograph.
Soundtrack Suggestion - Claire De Lune by Debussy

Memoir to come.

Thanks Garrison Steele for this dare. NOT !
If you read this then you have to do it. No exceptions.
That is the deal. This is tooo funny. Ok , I am stalling.

1. Copy this whole list into your journal / blog.
2. Bold the things that are true about you.
3. Whatever you don't bold is false.

01. I've had sex in the past five minutes.
04. I love sleeping with more than one person.
05. I own at least three books about sex.
11. I have published the sexual exploits of a past relationship without telling my ex.
13. I have more than four tattoos.
14. I like and respect Jenna Jameson.
19. I carry a condom at all times.
21. I've broken a bone while having sex.
22. I have a wet dream that I am ashamed to reveal.
23. I have had sex in the rain
25. I would get plastic surgery if it would improve my sex life.
26. I want to have sex right now. * no one is home.
32. I have fantasized about having sex with my brother-/sister-in-law.
34. I dress to look sexy every day.
35. I have had sex with twins. ***
37. I have more than ten sex toys.
39. I have lied so a person would sleep with me.
40. I change from one sex position to another in a specific order each time.
41. I saw my parents having sex.
42. I get cable just for the soft porn.
44. I have a list of people I would like to see naked.
46. I wish my sexual organs looked different.
49. I have been arrested for being naked in public. ***
50. I flirt online daily *

* - only because no one has offered. ;)
** - more than one, actually
*** - feel free to help me change this answer

The dare continues. Thanks Garrison ;)

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Everyone's A Winner !

Now Extra Sweet

Hope you like my little bit of fun ! Also I have finally coded up the list of Memoirs to the left for easy reference. If you over the links it should reveal a little about each memoir and I have more to add - about sixteen all up. Thank you for all the nominations for certain awards going around, I am so flattered and gracious. The comments have been awesome, all duly added to my big book of "Why I Should Get Published". I am so happy I have a memoir archive as now I can do silly posts (like this one) and they won't bury the memoirs deep into the archives. I am not doing a memoir today - I know I have earnt a day off as I had a lot of trouble sleeping last night and kept dreaming about sidebars and apostrophe and blogroll links. That is when you need to have a little rest me thinks. Plus, it is nice to just chat isn't it ? So a bit of fun ;

I am going to also issue the Snot Challenge. I challenge the blogset ( refer to my links) to try and go until Febuary 14th without catching a bug. I will know if you are sick as you will probably blog about it. At recent head count - I know Dee is out of the running for the prize - but don't worry - you inspired the competition so you get naming rights. I will probably need to clarify bug as well.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Against All Odds

So take a look at me now,
Oh there’s just an empty space
And there’s nothing left here to remind me,
Just the memory of your face

I wish I could just make you turn around,
Turn around and see me cry
There’s so much I need to say to you,
So many reasons why
You’re the only one who really knew me at all

I can recall the moment I told The Ex that I was abused. I remember feeling intrepidation although I felt it was right to explain certain shortcomings within my sexuality, it was still frightening and embarrassing to put it ‘out there’. It was after a particularly hard day - I had seen The Stepbrother and I felt his eyes upon me again - could he never leave me alone?

I lay out on my bed, heart heavy with emotions on the explode. Just on midnight.
"What's wrong my precious?' He asked softly, his words so gentle, like my eyelashes that fluttered with the strain of holding back my true feelings. I felt my cheeks twitch; my lips trembled as if they were pulled by imaginary strings of sadness. Inside I was falling deep into my pain. I couldn't go through with our lovemaking tonight and I needed to tell him why. I needed to come down from the refuge of the ceiling to confide in his embrace yet I could not find my way back through the night, it was like I had snagged myself on the stars. This night was before the drugs - in the blossom of a new found romance and down the rabbit hole we dissappear.

I told him all of it and it felt so good to do so, I spoke so fast that my sentences were piling up on each other. I floated down from the ceiling and into the arms of love. “I love you so much for telling me”. His voice was smooth, reassuring. “We will get through this. Healing is possible. It started tonight.” I tell him how I can’t sleep and when I do, it’s all I dream about. Every small girl I see on the street reminds me of my own loss of innocence. I can’t make love, I can’t look at my body, I hurt myself when no one is looking, bruises forming on my body like dark purple stormclouds. My whole life is becoming a giant flashback, talking about it to my shrinks, not talking about it with people I want to. Half of the time, I can’t believe it happened to me, and the other half I blame myself.

“But it did happen. Why would you choose to live through this torture? You were just a little girl. You were a victim. It wasn’t your fault. I believe you. You’re going to make it. You’re going to be ok. It was never ever, your fault.” Over and over The Ex told me all of this as the night peeled into the early hours. How long I had waited for this absolution. I expressed every single doubt and every fear I could think of. I feared so much that I felt broken and ruined for him. He understood and loved me anyway. That never changed. I shook with anger and rage. I wanted answers and I wanted confrontation. He listened to me and took it all in. I felt much better, the best I had felt in many years.
I always knew I would fight with the healing process, I would take drugs to keep it managed – I felt and still do, disconnected from myself in the bedroom – but it was The Ex that showed me the first path through the pain. The first person I could tell everything - I laid it all down for him to see. I was naked with suffering now fresh and liberated, I could finally speak out and hold a mirror to the madness.

You can fight your past all you want, but once the door has been opened you are in the healing zone - like it or not. There is no way to hide from the abuse and the pain that it caused. You keep on running but in the end - you only fear yourself.
No, The only way out is through. But it hurts. It hurts so much.
“I love you. You have me in your palm – you could ruin me or make me you realize ?” I found his outline in the darkness by following the trail of his cigarette. His eyes glittered with the happiness this confession gave him.
“I know my darling. I know. I promise there is a way through your pain, and I know we are going to find it.”

I could never find it with him alone but I did find it with many other survivors and the support of my loved ones, not family, people just like you and me. I just started writing one day and never stopped. I finally understood that I did not have to keep the silence for the sake of everyone else. I tried to drown it out with Heroin. I tried to keep the anger inside me for a very long time. Through living straight and narrow I finally knew that I don’t have to forgive him and I don’t need to excuse him. Now, I want to break the silence. You may be reading this and suffered abuse, sexual or otherwise. It has been my experience that when the subject of abuse comes up in my life, outside this blog, people feel afraid and even if they wanted to say that it happened to them too – it just doesn’t seem right time or place. But know this, I hear you. When I went to write about the incest, I started to write in third person. Then I realised.
It happened to me. Not them.
It was not her.
It was me.

I could not associate myself with the terror that came from between the lines. I was scared. What if he reads this ? What if they all read it and wondered how I could admit what happened – it is so dirty and unpleasant. I am lucky that I can. It’s not how could I write about it – It is why would I not ? When I get overwhelmed when writing about my childhood , I try and remember that I have already lived through the hardest part – the abuse itself.
I had to go back and manually cross out every generalisation and replace it with first person. There was a tiny voice inside me that said "You're gonna make it through" And I took hope and courage from this constant whisper inside of me.

Somehow, I felt sure there was a process, a reason that would explain why the pain existed so great in my life, and that somehow I would make it through as a survivor. I believe that was my spirit , and she will never be silenced again.
Recovery. What does it mean to me - that word ? Listen with your heart and I will tell you.......

I am standing in the sunlight and my family and fears are all back in this dark cave. It is crowded and hard to breathe inside the cave. He is inside the cave along side the people that tried to hold me down - those who tell you you're not good enough. Yet they need me and they don't know why. But I don't need them.
Eventually, I found my way out of the cave with the amazing love of my friends and partner - so I am now singing to you in a symphony of sunshine, fresh air and hope it is swirling around me - close your eyes and you will feel it.

The people that never understood me, they still beckon me to return to the cave and believe that I never deserve to be happy. But I do. And I am.

I've made it to the sunshine and I am not turning back. I have people that love me and don't want to hurt me. I don't need the darkness of the cave to protect me and I don't need to get high to survive the sunshine.
I will live how I want, and I do everyday.

I don't even know if 'they' are going to come out to join me and play in the gorgeous sunshine that I share with you now.

But I began my true recovery the day I realised that I didn't have to make them come out and that I didn't have to save them.

Life is a miracle . So live it.

From the gutter to the stars.. One truth at a time...

Your HG

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

If you want something done...

Writer's Block Final

"Writers Block?" Original Digital Art
© Heroinegirl 2004
Heroinegirl is in the middle of a huge marketing push ! I want as many readers as possible to raise the profile. If you read me - please link me in a permanent link on your blog as soon as you remember.
This is the nicest compliment to pay Heroinegirl - you don't have to ask - just link me up and that means I can write more memoirs and not have to do so much marketing !
Thank you to all the linkers -
Your rewards are all signed books
yeah !

Monday, November 22, 2004

Kingdom Come Kingdom Go

Memory plays strange tricks on us. I write this memoir after yet another incomplete moment of longing , that happens when I recall my childhood.
What a fabulously important chapter of our lives, sometimes I think about it and wonder - when will I ever be able to put it behind me - to the past where it belongs?

At the age of 13 my family (Father, Stepmother and her eldest son from her first marriage, and Little Sister and Little Brother and yours truly) was forced to auction off the childhood home and relocate to a rental home in the poorer area of town. My stepmother always told us children that my Father's excessive drinking proved a higher priority to him than the mortgage repayments; so it was his fault that we lost the foundation that explained our existence as a family. It was a tragedy for the young children to begrudgingly release all that we knew to the clutches of strangers. This hostile takeover none of us could truly accept, we never met the new inhabitants so they would remain faceless and ominious beasts but the fuzzy images would still haunt us regardless.

It's with unspoken awkwardness that we hold my Father's alcoholism accountable for losing the house. Things never could never be the same for them as parents nor for us as children. It made us all reassess what would could offer each other. What we learnt from this horrible loss was to pack up and move on if you made a mistake. We learnt nothing was safe and we tasted defeat very young. My father blamed himself and his drinking only got worse. Then my parents started fighting and then they never stopped.Everything got worse.

When huddled in my new bedroom I wondered whether this "faceless family" dared to eat in the same rooms as we did, I tortured myself with images of them shuffling within those sacred walls of my childhood kingdom. As adults we may wander unchallenged within these same walls; but only in recollection now, as we can only remember this environment of alternating love and trauma. Most rooms become incomplete in the sequence, missing doors and incorrect symmetry. Yet we venture there in our minds, forever searching to find feeling of who we are and what we thought we would be.
We are left to only second guess who sleeps in certain bedrooms now. Folding their linens into my candy pink wardrobe festooned with stickers and child graffiti which are now scrubbed clean with the indifference of someone that does not comprehend the personification of myself upon those shared walls.

Would the new children sleeping in our bedrooms, sense the heartbreak embedded into the carpets whilst resting their innocent faces upon the tear stained pillows. What were they doing now? What would they make of the window above my bed? Its frame bowed in the centre from where Stepbrother would clamber into my room from the yard outside, save waking our parents. Third room down to the left. If those walls would ever talk - would they speak of only happy memories contained within their creaminess?
Maybe it's only myself that cannot lay to rest it's sordid secret.
I was a victim of incest from the age of six through to the age of nine. Now, I am a survivior of incest. When I was child though, I was defenseless against him. He was twelve through fourteen. Three years of pain for everybody involved. I am the one in three children that has suffered from sexual abuse. But I am no statistic. My name is Heroinegirl and this is my story.

Predominantly poor, my parents will always struggle with the fact they will never own another house. I have given up trying to make things any different.
Maybe the past can only resolve itself when it remains in the past? It shouldn't be replicated, but I can only wildly assume this is how it should be.

Because in reality, life goes on regardless of your topography.
So much of my substance is linked to that house, the floorboards that we crawled upon, then toddled along the beams. We walked, skipped and lived through its welcoming embrace, only to leave it all behind along with the paradox that existed there - it was bittersweet.
More than a house, a home is a integrated history of complex feeling and associations. A tangle of household anecdotes and inside humour, cluttered with irrational emotion and personal epiphany.

But what a home it was. The hallowed hallways of my childhood have tapered with time, the pathways I could walk in inky darkness to get countless glasses of water are now dreamlike, best traced with your eyes gently closed. Each room holds cherished memories of family lore; punctuated with sentimental trinkets and precious things that initially meant nothing as infants, but as we learnt to name these ornamental memoirs as entirely our own - we committed them to us and in doing so they became us.
As we grew up we became inamoured with our own sticky fingerprints, drawn back to them like magnets we begin to covet "things" formulate our identity based on what we have, and what we don't. How early on we begin to grow.

The darkest places and forbidden grottos of the house became the darker parts of your pysche. The confined space under the house or the far reaches of a forbidden place; the distance only measured in heartbeats spent wondering how much longer you could withstand the spider web spreading it's stick goo across your face. As you crunched upon all fours to cram your curiousity into places that you knew you should not be, the air formed thick with the dust of the forgotten. I would play amoungst the upended kitchen drawers crammed with knick knacks , odds and ends, discarded treasure buried amoungst partially-broken and pairless items. The delicious loot would earn a place in these drawers of 'junk' until it had a definable place in the world again. My favorite pastime as an infant was to sort though the unloved wonders , as only I truly understood how that could feel. Twisted amoungst the feathers, broken silver chains and mysterious keys to places that I never knew, I could explore and elaborate upon thier existence, of what they used to be, before they were broken and rejected.

My first bedroom is a place of mixed emotion. I remember sugar days of dolls and games and rocking horse, or better still Christmas time when Nana would sleep on the trundle bed across from mine . I remember one time when I would cry softly into the night, the cool air laced with her sweet talcum scent, the only sound being her soft snores as she dozed into the twilight, oblivious to the messages I longed to tell her. I would wonder at her curlers tucked deftly within her oddish hairnet as she slept .When I could confirm she was fast asleep I would hop out of my bed in the silvery moonlight, daring myself to fish out her false teeth , magnifed to Monster Jaws in the water glass she kept beside her spectacles. I was a curious child.

Then I remember nights alone as that's when The Stepbrother would come to me. Clambering through the window his black silhouette cut strange shapes in the night, peeling back my nightie through the covers. How many times in certain situations, even now, I have been transported back to the land beyond the pink ruffles.
Dolls upon the duchess staring at me with pretty painted eyes, bound to their plastic smiles forever as he slithered on top of me , wandering his hands upon my innocent flesh.
Just pretend you're asleep for now. He will be gone soon.

Invisible borders of privacy dominated the home, for instance the parent's room complete with the impressive king size waterbed was a landscape of mystery and conjecture; always neat, the threadbare bed sheets of fading tea rose comforted me yet were imposing all the same. The Stepmother's french-perfume bottles lined up neatly on the teak dresser like forbidden jewels, twinkling with temptation. Whole sections of the home were forbidden by parental law to touch or enter unless invited ; the enchanted tower of my Stepmother's best crystal in the display cabinet that presided in the fancy living room. The Good Room, kept vacant entirely for 'show' was maintained in an awful state of glitter to remind the children constantly of the wealth that we would only admire in snatches - never good enough drink from those crystal flutes of prosperity, as part of everyday life.

Hiding spots I needed where at the back of the house. Past the Good Room. Past the light and frivolity of the household. I favoured the cupboard - of dark and dank - which housed the water tank, its hot copper tentacles from which The Stepmother would hang our school uniforms to dry whenever it was raining. I would hide here sometimes if my parents would leave me at home with him, which was often. Once they were gone, I would hear Stepbrother coming to find me to "play" with me. His games hurt and never were ones I chose to play. I tried to hide from him. I would be standing so still with the pipes burning into my skinny arms, yet dare not flinch or murmur as I can hear the soft muffle of his footsteps just outside now. In fear I would accidently sniffle from the dust or jostle my aching feet - then without fail the door would open and he would find me, drag me to the bed, laughing that laugh that echoes in nightmares.
I don't always recall how it happened or what took place before it, it was so many times and the pain never changed. There are no clocks in this place of darkness, time stretched unlimited with pain and heartbreak. There was no language only heartbeat. Abuse is a nightmare landscape of twisted fate. It chooses you.

I could fly. I mean, not really. In reality , I was down on the bed with him, a place much, much worse. In my mind though I was free. I floated on top of the ceiling untouched, I wanted to explode through the windows of the bedroom in my mind. I did not understand why he was doing this to me . I did not dare to tell anyone our 'special secret'. It swelled inside me with delicious evil, in different shades of shame. I knew it was forbidden to discuss 'down there' or the things he was doing; what confused me no end was how it stung at the start but then gradually it could feel good. It felt strangely good? I did not want this, I wanted to be a child. But as I would realise what was happening as he roused me from my sleep, I went numb and then I floated away.
I must be a bad girl. He whispered this in my ear and I think I believed him. Even 'down there' started to look different to me. I wondered if he had broke me as I stared at 'down there' in the mirror.
It stung so much that sometimes I couldn't run for the bus to school because it hurt too much to rub my little legs together. Sometimes I would eat alone in the playground and just cry to myself because I was so tired and confused about what to do and whether I was to blame. The ages of seven and eight were very hard.

"Just be quiet about it as we don't want to get in trouble."
That's what was safe for me to do. My birth mother was long gone and Dad was drunk all the time. Everybody was worried about money and bills. Nobody asked what was wrong, so maybe it was not a big deal.
Besides, I don't want to get sent away to a children's jail.

That is what he told me would happen if I told anybody. This terrified me as a little girl. I would even put up with him and what he did to me , rather than leave Daddy. He was all I had to call my own.
He told me that he would tell my daddy that I liked it and that I asked for more. Lies daddy! All Lies! I hated it. Please believe me Daddy!

One day, it should stop. Just keep telling yourself that, even after the abuse is over. But it never , really and truly stops. You just handle things better or worse.

I can still remember the precise angle that you needed to lean into my cupboard to overhear my parents discuss family business, the real news of the day - as they squabble into the night, after the children are supposedly fast asleep. My room was right beside theirs so I wonder why they never heard him. I wish they had. I am angry Daddy did not know. I am angry nobody asked me. I am screaming inside and no one knows. This makes me ball my little fists and pummel into my pillow. I am so angry I am nearly not afraid to tell you now. But, I am still afraid of him.

You hand me my lunch for school and you don't notice the bruises on my arms? You don't notice how tired I am at the age of seven?
I am tired. Just ask me what is wrong.
Just care about me why don't you!

Many, many times I would want to run screaming into their bedroom and tell them what was happening in mine. I wanted to cry into the comfort of their chests , suckle my thumb and tell them everything and more. I wanted to be soothed, loved and protected and I never wanted to go back into that bedroom until he was gone. Yet now, he is on top of me and he is so strong, I can hear my parent's television as he held his hand over my mouth and he pushed deep into me. I could hear my parents , so close yet so far. I think they are laughing. I start to float to the ceiling instead as it was when he was inside me, that I knew I had no more places to hide.

The family home was expansive and set in brick, roman pillars along the front patio with creeping vines coving the sides. The house itself divided between the lush acre of tropical gardens and rolling hills creating the front and backyard. Separate lands of exploration. The acre of land was a lush paradise, I would spend hours upon hours in tattered play clothes, fingering the exquisite blossoms and playing nonsensical games with my siblings. Most times, I would play with my imaginary friends and escape far from the house and the horrors of the abuse. The stepbrother never ventured into the gardens, due to his age, so it was my Garden of Eden, it had everything I could ever dream of and more.

Reluctantly I return to the house on dusk at request of Stepmother before Dad arrived home. I always recalled the smell of stale beer on my Father's breath as he entered the 'Court' of the dining room entrance. His eyes world weary and wrinkled behind dusty glasses , his hair peppered with plaster flakes. We carried on with him, eager to be his cheerful minions, clambering onto his back as he piggybacked us into the bathroom to clean up before dinner. Laughter abounded in those precious moments of love - we hung onto every word that he spoke and celebrated every rough and tumble, as children we gleamed in his eyes and he shone in ours as our fabulous father. How much that can change as we realise they are only human. Dinnertime would be a feast of information and activity.

We would sit at the table amongst the chipped china and great conversation and delight in our dreams as he spoke of grander plans for us in the future and we would all try to believe in him, only because it felt nice to do so, even though we knew it could never be. Stepmother would smile and I would look at them and want to be them, they were our everything and the only people to please.

In those moments I would be one of them, for once a part of the family and I didnt miss my Mum so much, so it seemed silly to mention my night time terror.
He was across the table from me every dinnertime and I imagined he would lean over the roast beef and stab me viciously if I mentioned what he did to me. I was so scared of him. So I ate my vegetables to keep the stepmother happy ,I told my father about the great mark I got in English to keep him happy.
And I kept the secret to myself - to keep everyone happy.
It just had to be like that until I was sure that he would not kill me.
I was worried that no one would protect me from this . In my mind as a little girl, I already was being voilated and if my protectors could not even sense this.
What hope could I ever have at being safe? It was up to me.

Meanwhile The Stepbrother has been staring at me the whole time through dinner, probably counting down the moments until he can creep back into my bed and fiddle with my mind and everything else. I just know it. I want to blurt it out right now.

"Mummy and Daddy do you know he makes me suck his penis? "
I want to hear the cutlery clatter against the plates. I want them all to listen to me for once.

Not just themselves and thier own problems. I had problems too.

Instead, I stare back at him though the condiments, and we stare and stare and stare - willing each other to break and confess our sins. We are obsessed in our hateful stare out. Both parents try to get us to resume our dinner but it becomes a moment of unsuperseded tension. The yelling fades into the background as my eyes now sting with my stubborness we continue our childhood staredown - locked in a moment of terrible truth - that is unravelling in the formidable distance. Anyone could break at any moment. Yet forever the coward, he looks away first , throws back his chair and runs to the saftey of his room. Run, while you still can !
My father yells at him to return, but lucky for him he doesn't.
I smile to myself as I know the end is nigh and I have found his weakness. He has begun to fear me and this makes me happy. For once I am not so afraid.
My stepmother slaps my arm. It smarts with the suprise.
"I'll give you something to smile about missy" her spit lands on my cheek, she is so close.Through the sting and humilation , the familiar well of anger builds and rises like the red welt spreading on my skin but I swallow more pain and try to understand it for one more day.

I want to spit on her and tell her about her terrible son and how much I have hated them both. I want them dead. I want them to leave me alone.I want to run like he does , I want to be safe like he is.
Instead I just go to my room and record all of this is my diary, it's seams bursting with horror and confusion, I write all of my horrible thoughts and evil sins until my fingers cramp and my eyes are tired. I place the book under my mattress as my father comes in to kiss me goodnight.

"Sweet Dreams My Pretty-Pretty" He says with a whimsy of sadness. Does he know?
When I encircle my little arms around his neck, I become his precious pendant and I inhale his smell and safety for one more moment. Protect me daddy, I say to myself. He will be here soon. I know it. He will make me pay.
I know I want to tell him so much yet before I can do this he switches off the light.
The last thing I see is his smile for me , and as we plunge into shared darkness he never sees the tears that fall from my face because of it.


Friday, November 19, 2004

HeartShaped Box

Memoir - final edit

We were "smack bang" in the middle of a heat wave. That's how I found myself standing barefoot and bikini clad on the cool tiles of the milk bar, sand from the beach dusting my body with its summery sugar. I watch keenly as a big breasted woman scoops a generous curl of Strawberry Ripple from the frosted bin, cramming it into the sugar cone. Plumes of heat tangle my hair into ringlets, I rattle my change impatiently as the mother behind me is nudging my ass with her gaugantuan pram. Outside the glass windows I can see the Ex pacing to and fro, obsessing in his own world of inflated importance lost amongst the throng of tourists and squealing children. I avoid catching his eye - I already know this has taken much longer than it should have. The gear and fits were in my backpack anyway so I knew he would have to wait. Apart from heroin, my other weakness is icecream so as we head off to find and isolated spot, I plunge my tongue deep into its cool creamy core - that's what makes me happy. The Hoop Pines in the distance look promising so we begin to make our way to them. He has taken my backpack now , striding ahead and I let him go. He is sick and I am still stoned - I had an extra shot with a new friend - but you know - I wouldn't mind some more ?

By the time I arrive at the Pines shading the soft white dunes, The Ex already has the spoon perched, rather precariously on my backpack. Its amber contents swirl into the barrel of the syringe. His hand is shaking as he flicks the air bubbles out of the syringe, holding it up against the sunshine. His chin holding back his sleeve, he pushes the steel through his track and slides the plunger down. I sit down beside him gently - careful not to disturb anything - as I shield the remaining gear from sand particles. I threw away my ice-cream but I lick my fingers in anticipation. I notice the air tastes salty and sandy upon my lips. In the silence only a good stone will create - the breeze blows its salty breath across my sunburn and I close my eyes as I enjoy the sensation for a moment. I look across to my partner and I see the pleasure flow through his body like wind rippling through a field of grass. I could do with some of that, is what I think.

Of course I don't need to tell him this, he is already pulling the rest of the gear into my syringe. My eyes scan for anyone watching; at the waters edge I see a family basking in the shallows, the parents intertwined as their children frolic in the whitewash below them. I smile at the little boy's sand stained bather bottoms then I turn my back to them as I flex my right forearm to find my vein . I sense they are wondering what we are doing so deep in the dunes - yet common sense tells them to avert their eyes. We wait until they do and then he injects me with only the sound of waves crashing around us. My skin almost sighs as it sucks in the steel. I remember as the sky exploded with it's cloudy shapes; as the sand shone like diamonds - in fact everything was so intensely clean it was like being born again, delivered onto the white hot sand with the glittering ocean to baptize me with it's blue. Summer never felt so good.

The family on the shore had started to walk back in our direction so I closed my eyes to them rather than smile and act straight. Remembering common sense, I put the sharps inside the backpack and as I did, I leaned over to kiss him but he was not breathing. In fact he seemed blue and sprawled under the hoop pines like a rag doll. I rub my eyes and look closer at him. This was the first time I had ever seen someone unconscious. Surreal. His face was patched with purple and his mouth blossomed with blue in the moments that my eyes were fixed upon this unfamiliar face. His eyes were total whites - so still and final - yet turned towards the heavens above.

The beach seemed out of place now. I remember my mouth agape with shock - a second rolled by - then another second later - I wanted to do something. I fact I knew I had to or he would die. So, I am leant over him and I slapped his face as hard as I could bear; trying to raise a response but getting nothing. The prickles of morphine were fading fast as my adrenalin broke through the Heroin. I feel the Strawberry Ripple make an encore appearance as I vomit into the sand beside us. I hope I don't go under as well. What the hell was happening!
I scream out to the people , to anyone that will listen
"I need a phone to call an ambulance." I shout as hard as I can. To anyone that can hear me - he must not die! I have to find a phone. I prop him up gently beneath the pines and I race towards a young couple enjoying a picnic in the shade. An older man sensing my distress is running towards me however talking into his phone. Thank God he doesn’t judge us. He is going to save a life today. He runs alongside me as I take him back to the Ex, still against the pine like death’s puppet. I beg the man to show me CPR and he refuses to perform it on him as he is a drug addict. With not a moment more to waste , I will do the best I can. So, I feel my boyfriends lifeless mouth beneath my own , the slackness as I breathe all my hopes into him. His chest swells on cue and tears meld our faces together. I don’t know if this is how you do it. I saw it on a television show. I will do whatever I can though. I keep blowing in air to his lungs and in the distance I can hear sirens nudging their way through the weekend traffic. A couple of cautious onlookers have gathered around the Pines although nobody came forward to help me.
I think I have done this for about four minutes. I hope I am saving him. As I blew my air into his mouth , I could feel it circle inside his chest then as the swell of his lungs faded, I would hear the air escape his body, making a rattle sound that chilled me to the bone. Was he gone?

Although I can sense bystanders gathering in my peripheral - in that moment it is just me and his expanding chest - That is all I care about. His body was limp and lifeless – his face sagged with the onset of death. He looked really ugly dead. A man wearing board shorts and a singlet tan flags the ambo down : the ambulance humps the gutter and drives through the park, sirens ablaze. People are scrambling to find shoes, picking up plastic wares and picnic baskets. People are screaming and waving. Then the tires are beside me - engine growling -the grille at my face.

"I'm so sorry" I offer to the officers when they push past me with their red vinyl bags and oxygen tanks. It was all I could offer them. It seemed the generic response to everything lately.
"Has he had any drugs, Maam ? " They all lean into my sphere of sadness.
I can only manage to look up at them my sad blue eyes. I shrug my shoulders. There is no more shame left.
"Yes, we have both had Heroin"
My voice broke and I stared at the ground as the lip quivers with fear. That was the clean first person I had admitted this to.
How serious it sounded now, amplified by the sad look the ambulance gentlemen give me. I cannot bare to look at him anymore so I burn my eyes into the horizon. Those waves continued to crash and pound in the distance, the only constant in the landscape. Was its threat to wash our future away with it ? I watched the ambulance officers spread The Ex out on the lawn dragging him from the tree and laying him out like Sunday lunch. They move so fast and I float away from the panic picnic. Just please save him. Please. He really is a good person. You will see.
In the middle of the park, they placed an oxygen mask over his slack jawed face then after no response, proceeded to inject him with Narcaine. Meanwhile all I can do is sit on a park bench praying, just hoping this is not the end. Not today. Please God No. I don't want this to be the last time we ever spoke to each other. I want so much to tell him I love him. I want him alive. More than anything I have ever wanted in my life. In that moment I felt I could love him back to life. Just let me do it. I will never do Heroin again. We will never do Heroin again.
The Narcaine is shot directly into his chest -pure adrenalin to stimulate his heart- he responds immediately. The first thing that he says is my name. It breaks over the crashing sound of the waves. It finds me through my tears and then it just grows louder. Over and over . I push past the officers and stretchers and I find him. He is lying dazed and confused on the lawn. Tears leak down the sides of his sand soaked face. We grip each others hands so tight.
I am so angry I cannot speak. I am so relieved I cannot cry.
'I'm sorry Bub" I stare at the sucker pads on his chest. I am still in shocked that this happened to us.
I shush him. The crowds slowly disperse and the ambo's offer to take him in for observation. We would have to talk about this later. For now, I just wanted to love him. I convince him to go to hospital. To be safe.
And for the first time, he let me and in that moment , I let him have all of me.
In the back of the ambulance we held hands in silence all the way to the hospital, hearts heavy but beating at least, for now.
"She eyes me like a pisces when I am weak
I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks
I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap
I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black"


I'm so horny. But that's ok - My will is good
resized kurt

Digital Art Originally Composed by Reuven Cohen

Monday, November 15, 2004

Happy Endings ?

"It's going to be bitter-sweet at best and very sad at worst," said Sarah Jessica Parker reagrding the finale, screening tonight in Australia for the first time. I could not of said it any better - SJP . At least, I will be watching along with all the fans as it happens, together we walk to the end of Fifth Avenue. One last time.

I was reading the local paper and of course everyone ( who is female) is talking about tonights final episode !! I have definately decided that I am watching it - no concert for me !
How could I even think of bailing on my sisters ! How could I call myself "Carrie Bradshaw" anymore, with a blemish on my adoring fan record this large. No. It doesn't end like that !

"For a generation of viewers, saying goodbye to these women will be a tearful task. I don't think I'm alone in saying, finally, "I heart Sex and the City."'
Just reading more stuff on the net - great now I am crying again. I know - lame.

Thank you so much for your kind advice - it did help. Just making such a big deal of it, proved to me what was the right thing to do. I just thought, I know where I have to be at 9.30 tonight.
Not at a B lister concert getting VIP drinks and shmoozed. No , I need to be at home bawling and itching my nose with choclate hands so I end up with it all over my face.

SJP , I need to finish this thing we started six years ago.
To make sure I am a super fan I did this quiz on the australian website. I got 100%.
Then I started crying again and stuffing blocks of chocolate in my mouth at an alarming rate. Good news too - The BF has also come to the 'party of understanding' of my emotional needs ( took him long enough) and is taking me to the shops soon to stock up on all the goodies. He knows not to call when the show is on ( of course) but he is going to call me from the concert to give me updates. So, that is that ! I am so excited - I just need to settle on my favourite takeout. Let the countdown begin ! Guys ( as gender specific ) you might as well like come back tommorow. It's all downhill from here.

Heroinegirl starts to practise her silly little dance I do when the opening credits come on (picture lots of jumping and clapping and shimming of hips, culminating in the chaa chaa chaa bit at the end )

Ahhh... Who needs drugs - when I can make myself this happy
I Love you guys XXX

Friday, November 12, 2004

%#@$ !!

From : BlogExplosion
Sent : Friday, 12 November 2004 4:30:00 AM
To : Heroinegirl's Lair of Ill repute.

Subject : Banner not accepted at BlogExplosion
HeroineGirl Banner


Reason given:---Exessive profanities in the blog---

Sincerly Crap,
BlogExplosion Team

Hmmm. I found this "elaborately worded' email in my junk this morning and I just sighed again. Another search directory rejection because my material is 'offensive' or for extreme language. This is the first excessive profanity related one. I was a bit embarrased to read it, to be honest. I like to think I am a lady. Normally the needles and sex work attribute to Heroinegirl rejection slips - but there is always a first for everything.

The dumb thing was I was already accepted on blog explosion and enjoying the slight amounts of traffic. It was only when I realised yesterday my banner was lame-o , that I decided to redo a banner , for something to do other than my memoir. Then, as per usual I couldn't be bothered , so I attempted to put my banner back into circulation.
*sounds of sirens and red flasing lights*
Yes it seems this morning, I was pulled over for excessive profanities. So in summary - I am not on blog explosion anymore. ( gay dumb ass thing anyway, yeah I don't need you popularity seeking assholes)

I mean, do I swear that much ? Tell me the truth. Don't count this post. I am deliberately cussing. I don't only swear, I also write beautiful things and put alot of effort into things. Earlier in my blogging career I would email back a retort and emotional reply - now I just flip em the bird and keep on blogging. I will get there, from the gutter to the stars one blog at a time - without thier help if need be. If that's the way it has to be - so be it .
*flips bird*

Seriously, I am more concerned if I am offending you guys, my lovelies - instead of them. I have only said "cunt" like three times and it was well deserved.
I think it was the "F-Bomb" guys...
I recall dropping it a few times in the last memoir ( because that is how agressively I thought, at the time) A memoir - which I might add with a fair pinch of huff -took me six hours and a reasonable amount of blood , sweat and rasberry lemonade. That shit don't just come easy. *bangs hand on table to make point*
Well, blog explosion - you hoighty fuckfaces - Tony Pierce encourages cussing, (as long as your content is edited well as not to lower the overall affect of the writing itself;) And his blog rates. He gets more traffic than you.*
(ok this statistic may be totally made up)
You missed out on having some serious talent, (well, I know what shit blogs are, I see them all the time surfing for points through your shitful program*). Not to mention I was rated five out of ten. I did find some good blogs and if you made it here from Bog Exposure , oops Blog Explosion then welcome.
I won't throw rotten fruit at you and shout cuss words. I am a nice girl. Honest.

I bid you farewell Blog explosion, you judgemental and niave cunt.

*Shockingly Provincial is not included in this - poor thing he sent me to them so now I have to make him hate them as well. Otherwise , I just don't know if we can be friends. Joking, your a traffic slut (like me) so I can say this - I know that you live for page views and referrals - but you can shun them - I will personally visit your site every hour , do away with these fatcat trolls. Begone! I should link to you about here..

Now get your snilvelling little banner off my template.

~ my assistant whispers ~

Oh , I have to do it.
Great ! More fucking shit to do for these fucking shitfaced cunts.
Goodness, that is four times.
( To my younger readers, I don't swear this often.)

This post is a protest to people who never will read this , lol, and don't really give a yahoo about what I think. But I am a female so I need to emotionally purge and rant and rave until something better comes along ( like a new pair of shoes)
Though this post is now getting MUCH longer than what it should have been. I guess I am totally finickerty about how HG *insert unpaid for trademark symbol here, is treated in the "media".
Yes finickerty means pedantically emotional - you can use.
Say it , it is fun.
Faa-ni-kerr- tee !

Oh well as the great strongbad says -BALEETED.

Crapfully yours,

Biggest and Most Awesome Cusser
"Blogging mean stuff and cussing about shit-all - until the end of time."

P.s Slight housekeeping ; Memoir "The thrill of the chase" featured below is now finished and final edit done. You will notice mutliple editing changes and a better sounding story - as I am submitting this piece for an interview. Your feedback is appreciated.

The Thrill Of The Chase

3030 word memoir - comments appreciated - makes it worth it - blah blah tired !

When you’re trying to grow up as a teenager addicted to heroin , it ain't easy. You become even MORE selfish and indulgent, bitter and resilient to anyone or anything that comes between you and the drugs. I've never been told by my parents why saying ‘No to drugs’ is still considered a powerful personal choice. Rather, I have been thinking all my life , that saying "No" to drugs is what you had to do to please others, a way of conquering the fear of choosing to be someone different. Someone who would try Heroin. That was me. I wish I learnt that saying No was ok, early on in my life and got my thrills from other less life threatening persuits. Sometimes, I wished I had played sports, learnt how to drive or persisted with my ballet lessons. Maybe, things could've been a lot easier. I always reveled in (and always will) taking the road less traveled. A result of this being that I have ended up in some pretty desolate places - places that no matter how much I describe , in detail, the smell or the sights - you are lucky not to know them.
You really are.

When I was in love with The Ex, I always held on to hope.

I would hope, with as much as my naive heartstrings could carry, that everything would turn out ok. So we took a wrong turn. But then we grew up into even bigger problems. However, the Ex and I thought that if we could fumble our way through the motions of an ideal existence - it would find us for real. Ambitious (yet totally deluded for being so ambitious) the Ex and I tried to maintain our dignity in other ways. We made rules in the sand that we could never break. Lines that could not be negotiated - no matter what.
We would never steal.
We wouldn't rip off people whom we knew didn't rip off others.
We respected our dealers and would never harm them.
We would try to pay the bills.
We would try to pay the rent.
We would not cheat on each other.
We would not leave each other.
We would always try to retain a sense of self.

Yet we drew up these rules of engagement and crossed so many, in that same shared sand. With only high hopes to guide us , we fell short of this list on many occasions. Situations unfurled in a madness that we could’ve never foreseen. Sleeping outdoors so we could afford a hit, then begging his parents and pretending that he was dying of blood posioning. They lived far away and would wire us cash which we would turn into dope. We could only do that a couple of times. A lot had to happen before I chose to get better. In fact, it wasn't until every single bridge had been burnt in my life, that we could salvage any self worth. I found my sense of dignity and respect smoldering, whipped into a frenzy by the whistling winds of the greatest denial.

As addicts, we denied love in all shapes and mutations (unless it was tapped into our veins from the needle) Love, and the all the gamut of emotions it required became too painful to own and too precious to give away. We loved the drug so much, that it took everything else along with it. We were stupid. I won't pretend that we weren't. It seemed to those who cared about us, our sordid demise was inevitable. The stepmother never understood what was more heartbreaking for me, as a young girl, was the gradual descent of self-love. I tried to believe that the drug was just trying to help me love myself. It didn’t. I wanted to be ok with not hitting the big time, I wanted to have a chip on my shoulder and then it became all of me.

Just before I rehabilitated, The Ex would stroke my face to sleep on the nights we were forced to sleep on the streets of the city. I would be fading away before him, in total trust. He could let me sleep as he kept a watchful gaze over his princess, his vigil made easier by the nightmares that stopped him from sleeping. With the traffic as our endless lullaby, we fell into a fitful concrete-clad sleep. Other times, he slept in hallways and doorways. Wherever he could find somewhere soft and warm.
They fight over places to sleep you know?.
What would you do to stay out of the rain ?
Keep in mind, The Ex was not a loser. We both went to university and we both have different endings now. He slept on the streets to save s money. It was what had to be done. He just slept "outside". It was the only way I could afford to feed us both. I managed to avoid the homelessness, being a girl. I guess you could call it lucky.

Even junkies who knew both of us, were saying it.
"You guys should give up" Working Girl suggested many times.
"We're going to soon, ' I said.
Or maybe it was the Ex that said it?.
"We're going to get married, you know?"
No that was definately him.
I blush. I lick a stream of blood from my forearm.
"One day.." I say to nobody in particular.

The Streetwalkers took our images in, with those world weary eyes. Makeup caking in the dismal expressions. Clown like faces against the saddest expressions.They want to believe you, and believe in the chance that two junkies may kick together - but these street warriors look fifty for a reason. They had seen it all. I wondered if I could just leave it at that ?

We were grappling with survival, trying to understand this all encompassing need for dope that started every day of your waking life. It was almost too much to comprehend that somehow we were supposed to dredge up love as well. However much I wanted to be girly and pink, prissy and polite - it was all a grand illusion. My veins were like engorged rivers that brought warm and seductive bliss onto the glacier of my heart. I thought maybe I could love heroin and keep all the plates spinning. No one would have to know that I could not cope with being 'normal'
I was wrong.

Everyone tried to tell me and I guess I just wouldn't listen. My parents invited The Ex and I over for Sunday Roast. How apt. Normally dinners and family get togethers would usually arrive at a crashing cresendo - someone usually in tears and more shouting and screaming ensues. Tonight was not going to be any different. So the tension struck, just as dinner was being served. Roast chicken, my favorite. Mind you, the situation that unfurled wasn't helped by Dad. The ex was falling asleep at the table, on the nod, when my Father shouted from the bathroom.

"You left your spoon on the bathroom sink, you fucking dirty junkie"

The next thing I see, is my father barreling down the hallway and I anticipate that he wants to hit my boyfriend, so I juxtapose myself, in between them. He pulls up, slightly. I know that my father is livid, he is not an aggressive man but I feel things have reached a “crisis point’. Why is there never a good shrink around when you need them? My father flashes his teeth as he speaks, yet he is not smiling. His jaw is squared off in anger; his eyebrow’s knitted and squirming like hairy caterpillars. I find it distracting. I have never seen him this mad before. We are in a new age of reason.
My initial reaction was anger. That never lasted. Instead, I just felt afraid.
I mean why did he have to go and shoot up at my parents place??
Fuck Man. I know he said he couldn’t wait. But he should’ve waited.
The ex is remaining quiet and he looks like he is about to run. I feel his torso stiffen. Maybe dad is mistaken. I try to negotiate.
I looked to see if Dad was up to this way of thinking and I saw My Ex's face burn red in the deafening silence. The silence said it all. He did it. The Stepmother dropped the corning ware into the sink, chicken juices and ceramics shattering over her feet and hands. We all jumped yet the diversion did not reach to rescue the tension. The Ex took this as a chance to barge past me and my Father and run off into the night. We were in the middle of the 'burbs – but I knew that would not worry him.

I really, really should have let him go.

Love is blind and so we all blunder on. So I chased him through the streets, with dad chasing me and then Mum was chasing Dad. All of us united in the thrill of the chase, we wanted to catch some understanding. We all wanted answers to our own persuit of what was right. My dad is slowing behind me. I hear his raspy breath. I keep on running. I think about Dad and how he is getting on a bit, and he really shouldn’t be running. But do I stop running ? No.
I won’t give up on my love just like he won’t give up on me.
My stepmother catches up to him. I think she hurt herself running. I only notice then how far we are from home.
I am still running though, as the Ex leaps into the forever expanding darkness ahead. He never looks behind him, not once. The Ex is pounding the cement relentlessly with his constant steps , the noise of his joggers slapping the bitumen, ricocheting of the sleepy suburban houses.

“Please ...stop running !” I shout to the figure in the distance.

I manage to gasp, my insides overcome with spasms.
"Who are we running from?!" I gesture into the vaccum of midnight. He stops running and we stare at each other, greedily gulping in the air between us.

I move towards him and soften my tone. Maybe the Ex was running from his own demons. I did catch him on that night, we had run so far and so fast - that my parents silhouttes were mere dots in the darkness. I remember when the exact moment , when I hard my father stop running. I remember how lonely my own solitary footsteps sounded.
I remember the mixture of sadness and guilt as I kept on running. As they faded into the background of my life .that I was running from, they could do nothing anymore but let us run towards what we wanted - each other

It was our fourth year anniversary dinner, The Ex and I .
What a love story? I just saw less of my family after that. I have always been a deep thinker and this is why I am able to record the memoirs, I lived and breathed every moment of them. Images so crisp, I can paint them with words..in a way they are too beautiful to forget..

It is sunset and the very cusp of winter. We would go and sit on the windy sand dunes until our eyes stung in the salty breeze. Seagulls squawing in the distance, seaspray dotting our cheeks. I remember searching the horizon for hope or salvation, then we would kiss like lovers and hold hands like everything depended on that single moment in time. I would tuck into the threadbare sweater that he loved to wear, as the sand scattered winds buried us with time. We stayed there many times, alone in our thoughts but together we braved them. He felt warm and comfortable, even without the sweater. Even if we were stoned at this moment, our guts were churning with sadness and fear. I clung to him harder and tried to block out the howling winds as it crowded through my brain. I still smell that sweater and I still hear that howling of the winds , I still remember the shock I felt when I realized it was him.

I tried to hang around people that were straight, I wanted to be like them - care like them and act like them. I wanted to give a hoot about fuck knows what and who's doing who. I would perch upon the lounges of intellectual types and fancy dandy scholars and make feeble conversation about the latest sporting event or real estate. I would delight and tease all the gentlemen and collect business cards like candy. I would weave elaborate stories of who I was and what I was going to be. I embellished not only for them, I did it for me. In reality, the brutal truth was I was a junkie who slept with a lot of men to get high. I didn't want them to choke on the vole vents.
To compensate for "their lack of knowledge" I become adept at omitting details and manipulating conversations away from potential "moral minefields" of sex work and drug addiction. I became two entirely different indemnities. The Working Girl and Me. I started to meet and date men who were succeeding in life and it made me question things like never before.

You see, all along I wanted to be in a honest relationship with The Ex without the drugs , to see which one I could love more. Was I with the Ex, just because I was co-dependant on him - like many other things before him? Why do I always have this massive need to make someone so intoxicated to me, I am not happy until they are quivering with the fear of losing me?
It is not like I am the poster-girl for emotional stability. I was working 18 hour days, with no respite in sight. I wasn't sure anyomre if he was entirely as helpless as he made out. I wanted him to expose himself as a user of not only heroin but me and everything he had ever loved. Then I could leave him and not feel bad for it. I never got to find out if I really was the girl he wanted to marry. How much I wanted him to treat me with love and respect - not just because I supported his habit - but because I was worth so much more than that.
Everyone told me he was using me for the gear and I guess I just refused to see it. I wanted to hope for more. Instead I just shot up more, to make the doubts disappear. Pale skinned and precious, I made many secret attempts to leave him.
I admit to you though, that I only left him to see how fast he could chase me. I knew I was addicted to him and the comfort of this will do.
I knew in my mind, I deserved better but my heart was willing to settle. So a fool, alas in love, we become. I tried to sever the ties in the meantime; I would go and stay with friends I had met on the game. He was very good at finding me. I was his life. I was his ticket to a better life. I started to realise that maybe, we were destined for different paths and I was becoming a little tired of being a 'free ride'.

I wanted very much (perhaps too much ? ) to be the girl who made him love himself again , and maybe in turn love me? I wanted to be his happy ending. I did not wish to abandon him. He feared being alone, the most. He would chase me down, hysterical and in tears. He would slash his wrists constantly. Stalk outside my motel rooms, and call my cell phone endlessly. The Ex would bail up my friends and then the dealers. He knew my dealer personally, for a start. He also knew that he was the only one who could shoot me up at any time, every time.
He knew that I would need him again, some time too soon.

Sure, I had girlfriends that tried to shoot me up, but I was demanding, impatient and outright rude. I was used to the Ex and the way we did things was so second nature. I missed it, immediately.Sometimes I would be so demanding that Working Girl would panic and inject the gear into the wrong vein. Instantly my arm swells like a gigantic and morbid sausage filled with blood engorged muscle and paralyzed tendon. You have to wait about two hours for it to sink in. In the mean time your arm is paralyzed and engorged with fluid. It is extremely painful. Not worth wasting the hit, so I would go back. Without heroin, there was no point to dreaming forward.I would try and convince myself and any one else who would listen , that I was just going back to him, 'to get things sorted and then maybe the rest would work itself out.' Then you wake up, nine days later and you realize your habit is bigger, your poorer than ever - you love each other yeah , but so what? Who the fuck cares about that?

When the gear was great days could blend into weeks and you rode the wave whilst you could. Sold your jewelry to get more, worked the highway instead of waiting for the jobs to phone in. Work in an agency and on your own. My earnings started off fabulous for two years then slowly petered out as I became more sick and complacent ( jaded) Plus, I was no longer the new girl on the block and I let a lot of my clients get fucked around, not only by me but by many other young junkie girls. I would sell them to the highest bidder and absorb the profits. I was always one step ahead of some street girls that had meager educations. I looked after them as much as I could, but I made a tidy sum for the task. I was ruthless. I met attractive girls hooked on the shit and I knew that as long as they were sick they would need me and I would need them. I worked with many girls like that, some got better - some died. Life happens. Eat less. Take valium. Take Rohypnol's. Send your man out to beg for money. Yeah, the Ex started to think that maybe he could sell himself too. I knew he never would though, because he never could. For me, the legs were open - but the mind was closed. Lines in the sand, gone forever.

Even by doing some of these ideas - you would only ever get a rather short term "earn" for a day's scavenge. Enough to use for a few more days. As we moved throughout your malls and we hovered in your petrol station toilets, we jacked up and spat out. We rewarded each other bravado for every new trick that could be done, to get more dope. The habit got bigger so we had to get smarter. Tolerance is a bitch.

I was spending at least three hundred a day - on each of us. That is every day, until the end of time. Until one of you dies. That is how bad it is now. So how you gonna earn today? The Ex found out new ways to pilfer change from public telephones , and the racket became so large - they now manufacture public telephones in the area - completely different. I would never tell him how the men would touch me or how many there was. It was just money. It was unspoken. Except when we were sick. Out it came. How it was my fault we were in this mess, because I made it so easy for him to get stoned. I spat in his face. What a sell-out. I might of been able to peddle my wares, but I was not about to start bargaining with him, who would bear the personal cost of our addiction. It was both of us. It was all of us. The gear, we never tried to mention it - when we didn't have it - but we didn't have to as it hung in the air between us, like a giant cloudy question mark.

It was ok for me to start to take my clothes off, because it would be. It would all turn in to normal behavior and it was just easier that way. It paid for me to be with other men, but it didn't pay to think about it. I enjoyed many high-profile clients and the pantomime rolled on through several towns and I definitely was the coming attraction. For a long time I was the celebration of the industry. I was nineteen, educated and uniquely open and engaging. For at least two years we lived like royalty, in the kingdoms of invincibility.

When we got these nice places (before the motel rooms) we were full of hope, it was swish and with a layer of heroin - it was to die for. I refused to spend money on condoms or any props for my customers. I am a natural saleswoman and I was open to ideas. I also make others very aware of mine. Everything extra was B.Y.O. I was fully kitted out in the latest lingerie, purchased by well meaning albeit adoring clients and heeled in the finest of shoes and sundry. I just supplied the long legs and the lusty laugh and The Good Times. I reveled in being worshipped. It was a great fantasy to play and I craved love, from all the wrong places. I snorted coke and had group sex. It all felt kinda wrong though. Even stoned.
I met some wonderful ladies though and I guess I don't regret that part !
I never met a male client that I could've fallen in love with, the Ex was always very worried about this eventuating. So much so, that he became increasingly paranoid and wanted more gear as a result to "handle the stress". He banned me from the agencies forever. I was on my own with him now. No more fancy cheese. I could occasionally oblige him of this lavish treat and let him nearly overdose on the shit. Sometimes, I would wish for it to happen. Things all pretty, were looking quite ugly.

Footnotes and Mentions

In the worst of my days, health supplies were made available to the general public for free by the local welfare. We collected condoms and lube when we got our new canisters of syringes. Kind like grocery shopping for the "bare" essentials. I didn't do a lot of sex as the other girls would do it for me. It was my pay-off for scoring the dope. I did my share and that is all I am prepared to recall, at this moment in time. All the girls used the condoms that the clinic provided. They saved many, many, many lives by making them free.

I hear along the grapevine, the government is always trying to shut down the clinic that I went to due to complaints from the locals about the "undesirables" that congregate outside said "pits of hell". I think if they just lived inside my motel room at the height of my addiction for a few months - they would fund for another two clinics in the city. The clinic was tucked in behind the Methadone clinic and shifty people would lurch like ghoulish doorkeepers and welcome you in the "little shop of horrors" That's what they called it. But for me, it was a place of understanding and safety. I would not need to give personal details and I could just name the drug I was using and then The Needle Exchange would give me the fits. Number One was all you had to say - That was Heroin. Then you gave your age and your postcode. Unfortunately, though that was all you had time for as you had the 'fits' and most probably some fresh 'gear' that could be put away, quick smart. That's why I don't have AIDS, no other reason.

I would say God Bless to the tireless volunteers that work in such important peer education and health "safety zones" - but they don't want that - they just want to be real contributors to society and continue to do what they do - they can and always will, easily do without the accolades and trimmings. To you guys, you helped me. You guys do change lives - like mine - everyday.

What education I garnered from your services, on the safety of ; not only sex work but also intravenous drug use has been a key factor in my survival. I thank you guys from the bottom of my beating heart that I am alive.

I know that you read along and hope for the happy ending, much like I do...everyday of your lives. We hope for a day of improved understanding and support, for us all.

Anyone can be a hero or a heroine ,
And I pass your message on to others that they can live on..

Your Heroinegirl

This memoir is for you.

How did this memoir make you feel ? Your comments are appreciated. Don't be shy.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Internet Challenge

I am curently seeking out any images relating to Gwen Stefani's new video clip, "What your waiting for". I have searched every inch of the cyberspace (found heaps of other things though that I may post about soon) and nutta nothing. If you do find images - I will send you a picture of my boobs ( ok jokes aside) I will seriously be withering in your awesomeness. Now, I want nice pictures ( the golden picture being the one with her inside the house) I would prefer images not screen captures. Although, I am at that stage of desperation, that anything would suffice.
I *heart* this clip very much and want to plan my next template changes around this..

Fly monkeys - fly.


I am working out site navigation for the new people coming to this blog ( ugh that word sucks pene - which is plural for penis I heard somewhere on DM blog - ugh I just said it again) I suck.
Lots of legal wrangling happening at the moment with Certain Ex's - We are drafting documents (ie: putting shit together in Word) and steeling ourselves for the long path ahead. Therefore, I have not had oodles of time to sit spilling yoghurt down my stomach as I punch out memoirs like the true geisha I am. * Bows and exposes nape of the neck* Yeah, don't tell me I don't know how to work a room. Indeed. Yes, this is a rather blahish post, but I am allowed.
I'm going through some heavy stuff, but I am honestly a lot calmer than I was last week when I hit the emotional peak - the rest is a piece of cake. Must go and pick a ravishing outfit darling - I have to serve someone with some rather important documents.

;) Unaccountably yours.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Shoebox Sharing

Hello lovelies.. [final edit]
I am just sorting through my "virtual" shoebox of internet ramblings and poetry.
Amazing what you find and funny too. Have I really been keeping journals and musings for as long as I think ? Wow. God bless the internet !
Feel free to rumage around in the shoebox with me. It is raining outside and I have made you and I a lovely cup of frothy hot choclate.. so get comfy.

Renton finale quote from Trainspotting
RENTON (voice-over): So why did I do it? I could offer you a million answers, all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's going to change. I'm going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm going to be just like you. The job, the family, the fucking big television, the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisurewear, luggage, three-piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking ahead, to the day you die.
One of my first Heroinegirl emails
Hello Heroinegirl

My daughter Dana was addicted to heroin by the age of 16. She had gotten into the drug scene when she was 13 by attending the all night Raves in Orlando. Her drug of choice then was XTC and after doing that over 200 times-she got into heroin. She grew to hate the drug that robbed her of all of her dreams. She never got to have the high school graduation she dreamed of and never made it to a prom.

She tried rehabs and counseling, but she told me drugs were the only way of life she knew. All she lived for was heroin. She was able to get into the Orlando methadone clinic when she turned 18 and was on the highest dose until she was arrested for failure to appear in court, and had to withdraw cold turkey in a Brevard County Correctional Center.

She was so glad to finally kick heroin and methadone and when she was released from jail 44 days later, the first thing she wanted to do was to party. She had planned to party for about a week and then try to get her life together. She died 2 weeks later from a mixture of xanax, valium, methadone, and cocaine.
She died homeless and alone.
She had lost all of the friends she once had and had lost her fiancee 6 months before she herself died from an overdose of street methadone.I did not know she had died for seven days until I was informed.

All I have left of my beautiful daughter are her ashes and my love for her-and that will never die. Please add her details to your memoriam lists and if you could please mention this ; I love and miss you Dana.
I pray you finally have the peace you were unable to find in this world.

Another one;
my boy friend

Thank you so much for sharing your story. I have cried many times reading your posts and I really need to do that sometimes. I'm a girfriend of a heroin addict. He's been addict for about 3yrs. . He stays clean for about 6 months and then relapses all the time. I really scared because this last time he almost died and I'm the one who found him. I love this man a lot and I'm afraid that one day I'll come home and he'll be dead. I dont know what to do. He says this time is diffrent, but I dont know if I should believe him or not. I guess any advice would be good. I would really appreciate it.
[Name withheld]

Diary Entry dated early last year, before methodone treatment
It's 9.52 pm

Tonight I am resting. I feel a quiet inside me. A forced peace. A new kind of brave. I close my eyes and try to feel for signs. Nothing. I am glad to be moving forward. Yet on the back bead of perspiration, I am sliding back into my past. Sliding so fast.
Then I'm there.
I know this because I know this sadness so very well.
I'm crouched around the spoon full of gear , wax candles melting steadily into bile coloured carpet. Blackened foil, lids and blood. Is it real?
Yes , it so is. This is only a memory. So I tell myself. Yet I see it. Often.

I'm standing above my ghost. From behind her face is hidden although I know straight away this girl is me. Her head is bent in concentration over her arm and she is biting her lip as the blunt syringe bends and quivers as she tries to push through the scar tissue. I search the space surrounding her, in my reflective clarity, looking for the angel that surely must of existed, as I am here to type to you, now. So something saved me. Why was I so alone? Where is the light?
I just don't know. Did I deserve a miracle ? I just don't know.

In the flickering candlelight we all hold hands - my older self, my future self, and the angel all intertwined and heads bowed. We hope so much that this will work, yet we are still stuck in this terrible headspace of doubt and fear. I know at the end of this week, I will release the fear , the worry and the hand and finally step out of that circle of darkness....and move towards the light..

Together my current self and my past self, together we weep. It is coming to a close. This time, it has to work. No more excuses.
I'm angry and I'm tired of all this consequence. It is now I realise I must leave this room of sordid past and pain, and begin my own journey of acceptance.
I dont say goodbye, Im too angry now. Maybe one day, I will understand it all. But not now.

A very young HG on a forum that is long gone..

I love falling asleep when all you can hear is the radio, quietly playing into the night . The peace is around you and the quiet is all of you . Yet the soft mumur of the song doesnt invade your thoughts , rather take you deeper into peace. You feel him breathing beside you and both of you lose space and time...and it just doesn't matter at all , at that moment in song as you slide into slumberland.

I love when I'm out on the dancefloor and I hear my favorite song begin to play. All the colourful lights beckon me to dance. I am twirling in the reverred melody and for a moment , I'm the star - yet I don't really care who is watching me. The atmosphere glitters with smiles and bass flows through the room. I feel every word and beat, as goosebumps tingle over me and my body spins ever so lightly..

I love those late night moments when I'm on the internet and I'm as giddy as chips. It's awfully late yet I'm laughing , I'm tired but I'm interested . We both should go to bed and we say this to each other, several times. But I am so excited to make this connection. Whether I'm crying with laughter or helping someones tears of anger or passionately debating my point of view. Friends from all corners of the world. How beautiful you are. You don't know how much you mean.
For people share with me themselves in a way that is truly unique. As the music pours through my headphones , my fingers tap away into the night. As my fingers spell my feelings - great golden bridges of understanding reach out to those I wish to share my story with. You and I are more than cables and keyboards. Take me to places I never imagined, to people I never knew existed. It is a special place, sweet internet.

My first journal entry as a clean and living survivor

I’m having a bit of trouble sleeping.

I explain it to the shrink that it is like a stream of data is constantly going through my mind. Reams and reams of snapshots of people, places and pain. People I feel I have known, yet there faces are blacked out by a mixture of shame or pure lack of information. Huge expanses of blackness lurk in the patchwork of my mind. In the pit of these dark holes, lies the foreboding. What exactly did I do? Surely I didn't. Too many people express the inability to recall, in all detail the particulars of a traumatic period, can be quite distressing. If we can’t recall and live through the pain we floated through when we were on drugs - How can we ever advance? Have we stained the future with caution?

My memories are so real and vivid like sharp glass, enticing me to look closer, but dare not touch it. The feelings catch in my throat and I cannot swallow. I am afraid to write about my memories. Maybe I should just move on. But I want to help others. I think I have a gift. Hmm. I don't know about that for sure though.

I sat on my bed the other day, naked and dazed from the hot shower. Showers used to be, to stop the sweat. To stop the smell. Now, I cleanse my face and pamper myself. It feels so good I might explode.
My skin is soft and supple. My eyes shine bright. I cry less. I smile more. My skin tingles as the terry toweling clings to my steamy embrace. In the steady stream of the shower I peak out into the glorious day in front me. Sunbeams peeling in through wisps of steam. The heady scent of fresh air blowing gently on my face. I hear a lawnmower and I smell coffee. Yet, I am not afraid. I am well.

I look in the mirror and can’t believe the girl is alive to stare back at me. I remember smoothing moisturizer all over my body. I applied a generous amount of a rich body butter to lather my hands then followed them over my blister scarred feet, I worked them up my legs, strong and healthy, further over my now healthy tummy. A gentle swell there from a healthy breakfast. No sharp bones or bumps. Just sweeping curve and satin skin. My. I was proud. I keep looking for signs of my turbulence past. Perhaps skull and crossbones should be tattooed onto our foreheads, I don’t know.

I smooth more cream down my arms, strong arms with a noticeable definition and a healthy glowing tan. I smooth the coconut cream all over my forearms in long, luxurious strokes, the cream pools inside a scar on my inner elbow. That’s all I have left. Amazing. After the huge task of survival, my only mark is two small craters. I move my finger back and forth over my scar and remember the importance of this sacred ground. It’s all that is left. A private reminder. Yet I look at my soft clean body in the mirror and it seems like a gift all over again. I smile. My body is then complete.