My Escapade Through Hell

Reader Reviews

Wow – this is good stuff Kristi.

If you get tired of my impressions let me know and I'll stop sending them but I'll read on for sure.

Jim
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I am in awe. I am in total awe of your brave heart, your struggle. Your ugly step-father, I would love to kick his ass. I am in awe of the poetry [and] the emotions [they invoked] in me. I love you. I don't know you, wouldn't know you if I met you on the street, but I love you. Kristi, this is so beautiful. I can't even imagine the pain it must have cost you to write it. Please keep writing it. You have a brave and honest life here. I am so honored you asked me to read this; I had no idea the bubbly little editor girl had such a real side to her. Damn girl, I admire you. Please know you are loved. I can't say that enough!

Hugs,
Michelle
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Wow. What a shock. My hat is off to you and I commend you for overcoming what you have. I didn't read it all but enough to know you must have an understanding of hell or something close to it. [It] makes my writing seem pretty trivial in retrospect.

Monte
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I just had to acknowledge your victory, and let you know how proud I am of you! Your story is one that I know will be a literal life preserver to many who struggle with any addiction.

My utmost respect,

Nancy
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Thank you for sharing your pain in the hope others may learn what to avoid or to get away from. It is a very scary place and oh so sad to see and hear of good life being so easily thrown away.

All the very best,
BrendaVN
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I love this memoir. You did a great job. You don't get bogged down in the details, rather the pace is swift. The points that you make are riveting. You have survived so much! I have cringed while reading some parts, almost cried while reading others ... and I am not even halfway finished yet!

Blessings,
Marlo
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Very powerful stuff you have written here. I never thought that so many well written poems could be derived from one subject. Your story is one that should be told to [our] youth to discourage drug use because it is very real and at times very frightening and sad. Glad to see that you made it out alive! Oh, and very clever acronym for the title. I am very happy that I stumbled upon your book.

Crimz
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I started reading your book and did not stop until I finished it.  The book is very good and the poems are great.  You are very talented.  I am so sorry you have gone through some of the bad things in your life.  As they say, going through hard times just make us stronger.  Please keep yourself straight and you can have a great future.  You are still young with many years of life left to live.  Let's make them the best years.

My thoughts and wishes are with you,

Mike
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I think this memoir would be enlightening to teens and adults alike.  Too many people see drug addicts as scary, bad people, not victims that should be helped.  You're an inspiration. Kristi!

Caroline
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FOREWORD

I read a lot. I keep looking for answers to questions that I'm too messed up to know to ask. I do meth because my most profound insights into all of life's queries seem to arrive as I sit atop the summit of a high from which I must inevitably come down. Which is to say that I'm perpetually too messed up or too tired to act upon the brilliance of my drug induced enlightenment. Which is to say I'm wasting my life and my God-given gifts smoking shit and cursing myself for doing it day after day yet continuing to do it all the same...hence, the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over each time time expecting a different result.

We all know dope is bad. How do we know this? Well, by God, our parents and teachers and preachers and holier than thou good neighbors have all self-righteously told  us so. Right? No! Bullshit! Dope is bad because it destroys us from the inside out. Dope turns our normal lives into chaos which eventually becomes normal to us. It allows us to notice other people looking at us strangely and wonder to ourselves, "what the %@$* are they looking at?"  Dope numbs us to the reality that our reality is not normal!

There are no magic books with magic answers and there is no magic pill or prophetic powder that will turn our lives normal again. All we have is each other and our own story of how we got to this place and maybe...just maybe...the ability to be honest with ourselves, then each other, then the rest of the world who truly wants to help if only we were to ask for it. Perhaps there is a place for us beyond our closet walls that we have become so comfortable hiding behind. Perhaps beyond those closet walls lies a universal truth...an answer...which will bring us all home again, were we just to know to ask for it.

                                 

"We don't receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves
                                    after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us."

                                                                                                  -Marcel Proust

Complete your journey by choosing another path, there is a great big world out there just beyond walls we hide behind, ready and anxious to welcome us back...to welcome us home.


Theresa C. Clemmons
Recovering Meth Addict

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I knew her then and I know her now ...

Then she was a slave to the dope, the very dope that would appear to create her demise but instead gave her the will to rise above.

She was scheming and dreaming everyday – how to turn money into that bag of joy for her but yet still make a profit to get that next bag.  Constantly running Mach 3 or beyond, her head so clouded it was an amazement in itself that her schemes and dreams seemed to work.  Back then you never knew what you were going to get when you came to her and I do not mean the quality of the product.  It was usually one of three personalities.  The common thread in all those personalities was the high, that continuous high that kept her going until her body just crashed - but only for a day or two.

On a good day she was smiling, full of wit and smartass remarks, constantly moving and talking a mile a minute, cleaning the house while wheeling and dealing and still taking the time to indulge with almost every client.  Bitching about the difference between addicts and fiends, believing there really was a serious difference, and that as an addict one was somehow better off than the dope fiend.

On a bad day she was complaining about everyone while carrying bags under her eyes as evidence of each day she had gone without sleep or any sort of nutrition.  Her head would be spinning so fast she couldn't keep track of who was where and what they wanted and if one dared to remind her she lashed out with her tongue.  Her head space would be spinning so fast that even the veteran doper could hardly keep up.  On these days she was more likely to be handing you a pipe saying, "hurry - get it and get out" all the while indulging alone.

On a bad, bad day she would come from the back of the house, if you were lucky, only to sit and partake with a select few, not saying a word and certainly not smiling.  The transparency of her eyes showed years of pain - both physical and emotional.  She hung around only long enough for one to see how she was hurting and how the dope, though it appeared to be a numbing agent, was wreaking havoc on her heart, soul and mind.  Then she would retreat to the back of the house alone.

Now, rather than being a slave to anything, she OWNS life.  She has taken the bull by the horns and is enjoying the ride.  One doesn't have to question which Kristi they will get from day to day.  She is a constant source of positivity.  She is a true example of how people can rise above the odds stacked against them.  She has developed the power from within herself to not let anything, or anyone, take her down.  She is rising above and there is no telling how high she will go.  Though she may talk a little slower than her prior days, she has sped up her pace of life and has an increased focus on all things important and meaningful.  She has left no room in her life for the naysayer or for anything negative.  She is bright and cheerful without being an annoying bottle of sunshine.  Most importantly she is consistent.  She is consistently thankful, consistently positive and consistently free of that, which at one time, enslaved her to a dark world that many don't find their way out of.  Kristi D'Ann has defied the odds in the dark world of methamphetamine addiction. I assure you, the world has not yet seen the peak of this woman's life.

I, too, was a slave to the very same dope.  I was her customer and her friend.  I remained a slave even after trying multiple treatments to rid my life of the evil that had taken control of it.  I tried to "mind over matter" my addiction and I tried out patient drug counseling, I even went to a 30-day residential drug rehab program. NOTHING seemed to give me the power to completely overcome my addiction to meth.  After learning I was pregnant, I was able to clear my head for what could have been the first time in my life.  I was faced with two options: continue the path I was on and let meth take me and my baby, or suck up all my pride and move home to Virginia with my family; I chose the second option.  I have not regretted my decision for a single second.  I was able to get the counseling that I needed, use what I had learned from my 30-day rehab stay but never applied to my life and I was able to stay clean - not only for my pregnancy, but ever since then too.  I have a life now that depends on me.  Everyday I thank God that He gave me the courage to move back with my family and that He gave me this little life that I call Hunter, for he is my constant reminder of why I choose to live my life without meth.


Melissa C.
Recovered Meth Addict
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When I began writing this book, I primarily intended for it to be my personal tool toward leaving methamphetamine and the lifestyle which goes with it far behind.  At first, it was going to be a book filled with poems dealing with addiction – not only from my own perspective, but from the average addict's perspective as well.  Somewhere between the fifth and tenth poems, I decided to include my personal escapade – what I have done and what I have seen. By definition, an escapade is an act by which one breaks loose from the rules of propriety or good sense, thus, my life to this point.

Through my overwhelming desire to expose my 25 year addiction to meth, I must deliver the urgent truth that escape from its evil clutch is easier than the daily user believes. At the same time, I hope to help mothers and fathers understand why their sons and daughters fail to recognize this truth and continue to trudge on while losing chunks of their once ambition-filled souls every day.

I want to prove through my mistakes that meth is only as powerful as the addict allows it to be. I am fed up with the slavery and I refuse to lose one more thing, be it an ounce of self-worth, a collection of antique dinnerware, a car, a home, or a loved one.

My memoir of survival will appeal to the masses, not because it tells my story, but because it tells the story of millions nationwide who are just like me. This book will engross every reader from every background with its abundance of captivating, raw emotions and has been written to grab the hearts of those who can relate - and the majority of readers, if not all, will be able to relate.

During the time it has taken me to transfer my memories and thoughts to paper, I have accumulated a large and very diverse group of eager readers. Within my immediate surroundings, thos holding a major interest in my book include substance abuse counselors, probation and parole officers, and of course, drug addicts. One layer out from my inner circle, my reading audience consists of those incarcerated for meth and meth related convictions, correctional officers, and parents and siblings of meth addicts. Furthermore, my extensive network of author friends, both published and non-published, fully support and encourage the creation of this book and its message.

The first chapter is a short synopsis of my life in general – a partial, mini-autobiography which touches on the major events and tragedies I have undergone.  The remaining chapters describe the life I have lived under the direct influence and control of meth.

This book will undeniably pull me through my own war against my addiction to meth.  It will serve as my crutch, my backbone, my determination and my reminder of a life I no longer wish to live.  Nothing on earth could make me happier than if my book reaches the many who are fed up with their heads being in a perpetual cloud of smoke, as well as those who no longer wish to chop their breakfast on a mirror or infect their bodies by pumping it through their veins.  For those who have reached that point, I have included ways to find the help needed or wanted.

While the names mentioned in the mini-autobiography are real, most of the names in the chapters that follow have been changed to protect their identities and to keep their anonymity rights in respect.  My book is not meant to harm anyone, rather it is meant to help.

Success stories are my favorite, so please share yours with me.  Any questions which may arise throughout my story are warmly welcomed, as are any thoughts, comments, opinions, etc...


Me – Kristi D'Ann

This chapter is just that – a chapter – and is not to be misconstrued in any way as my autobiography.  Although it may closely resemble a partial, mini-autobiography, it is indeed far from the entirety of my life's story.  Therefore, the main purpose of this section is to offer the reader an opportunity to become more familiar with my personal background and history.  This chapter also allows room for understanding the reasons why I made some of the wrong decisions, wrong turns, and mistakes I have.

Some areas of my life will be delved into a bit deeper than others.  However, this is not the result of an attempt to cover anything up, nor an attempt to make light anything 'heavy'. I wish to point out that my mother and I disagree on some of the "truths" in regards to my memories. With nothing but the utmost respect aimed toward her, I feel I must tell my story as I remember it, not as she does. I have asked her to include her version of "my story" as seen in her eyes in order to give us both the benefit of doubt.

I have done my best to deliver this in chronological order, but may have strayed from such structure from time to time.  Just like all of my belongings, my life events have a strong tendency to be nothing but scattered – from city to city and attic to attic – and most definitely in the attics of addicts.


A Rebel is Born

June 13, 1970 – Irving, Texas – 8:20 p.m.

The entire time my mother was pregnant with me, it was firmly believed I was not in there alone.  During each visit with her doctor, the stethoscope reported two heartbeats so the conclusion was drawn that I would not be making my grand appearance to this all but ready world in a solo type fashion.  WRONG!  It was only me in there – no doubt raising enough hell for two!  My poor mother has asked a million times, "Why did I get stuck with the evil one?"  Mom, I'm sorry, but I do not have a clue!

The ideal birth of a couple's first child, or any child for that matter, comes complete with both the mother and father being present – no doubt to capture and seize the miraculous moment.  It will soon become quite apparent that "ideal" was grossly frowned upon by those in charge when they created my family.

One could correctly make the assumption that my mother was present during the delivery of her one and only.  The same assumption would be incorrect as far as my sperm donor, her then husband, was concerned.  Who knows, and who really cares, where he was at the time or what he was doing.  Beside the first five weeks of my introduction to this world, I did not become acquainted with that man, if one dares to refer to him as such, until after my 21st birthday.  Still, I did not become acquainted with him, as the time it takes the Dallas Cowboys to play a game is not adequate "become acquainted with someone" time.  I believe it took me a couple of minutes, maybe even three, but certainly not four, to realize I was much better off without this person in my life and forever placed him in the "sperm donor" file locked away in some rusty, forgotten about filing cabinet.

According to my mother, I was a delightful baby, apparently saving my deviancy for a later, non-expected date and time.  I could fill in this white space with grand episodes of how I used to eat June bugs, as well as my own poop, but really now, what kind of stories are those to share?  Furthermore, if I were to divulge such information, I would be forced to toss in how many millions, okay – hundreds of thousands, of my infant and toddler brain cells were horrifically destroyed by my mother's self proclaimed famous farts.  But, as I have already determined, such stories would only serve to taint the reader's image of such a delightful baby girl.

Skipping over all the "good little girl" days, as they make for quite boring reading, I will fast forward to the good ol' Ken days.  But not without first giving a huge, loving shout out to Dean, my mother's second husband – my father.  Too bad their marriage did not turn out to be as blissful as they had both hoped.  Dean loved me and I loved him.

We still keep in touch – about once every ten years or so and we only live about 10 miles apart.  Such a pity and disrespect for all things which should be cherished in life.  Note to self: stop taking the only things that matter for granted.  It is highly immature and even more so distasteful.


The Ken Era

The Wedding

I think I was eight when they took their vows in the living room of Ken's parents' old farmhouse in Sherman, Texas.  I vaguely remember being the lovely flower girl – showering rose petals with a silly grin on my face in my pretty yellow summer dress.

I prefer remembering my duties as a flower girl with a little bit of Stephen King like imagination thrown in – just to add a bit of flavor to special moments such as their wedding.  Allow me the fun of being the flower girl this particular wedding was so deserving of.

Ahh, yes .... the lovely flower girl – elegantly waltzing down the aisle in her shit-brown chiffon dress, ripped and dingy petticoat draping out from underneath, bombarding all the fake friends and even faker loved ones with thistles and thorny stems from dead and dried out black roses that were grown in manure.  Yes, I prefer that conjured up memory much better.  Instead of Carly Simon singing, "Nobody Does it Better" we could have AC/DC belting out, "Highway to Hell"!

Looking back, I perfectly understand why my mother fell in love with Ken. Besides having a great paying, cushy job at United Parcel Service, he was just as competitive and adventurous as she was. There was no end to their outdoor enthusiasm. Sailing, camping, water skiing, snow skiing, horseback riding, dirt bike riding, quail hunting, elk hunting, and the list could continue for another mile, were all things they did religiously. It is clear that she saw in him what she wanted for me once I was old enough to marry. Mom was forever instilling in me how important it was not to settle on being a housewife who was entertained by activities such as crocheting or baking cookies. So, I grew up learning the importance of digging a trench around the tent to keep the scorpions at bay when camping out in the rain. Likewise, at a semi-early age, I was made aware of the century old tradition of having the blood from your first kill smeared across your face.

Just as they enjoyed all of these outdoor sports, so did I. We each had our own dirt bike and went riding quite frequently. Mom still finds pleasure in reliving those days – usually at my expense; I suppose I was quite the spectacle to behold.

One of my earliest memories, and probably my most enjoyable, was when he helped teach me how to ride my bicycle without the training wheels. We lived in a nice house on Clover Trail in a peaceful middle-class area of Richardson. I had adjusted to the two-wheel way of riding quite well and became overly proud, releasing all caution to the wind. In doing so, my attention wandered, which inadvertently caused me to lose control and crash to the hardness of the pavement. Closely observing me from the front yard, Ken rushed to the scene of the accident and scooped me up in his arms, leaving the bicycle near the middle of the residential street where it had landed. I wailed pathetically while he gathered the hydrogen peroxide, Mercurochrome and Scooby Doo band-aids – all the necessary items for skinned up, bleeding knees. Within minutes, I was miraculously able to walk again but was leery of getting back on the bike. Ken accepted the responsibility of teaching me that I had to get back on and had to ride it back to where it belonged in the garage. Oh, what a horrible man, I thought!

I also recall the time he had to render aid while snow skiing in Colorado. I was probably 9 or 10 and had just learned how to take my time getting to the bottom of the slope instead of bomb diving immediately after getting off the ski lift. This new form of skiing meant leisurely gliding from one side of the slope to the other, gradually making way to the bottom.

A much more experienced, trick skier rudely interrupted my unhurried venture to the bottom of the slope when he incorrectly executed what is referred to as a Hot Dog - more generally known as a "spread eagle". With a combination of misjudgment on his air time and landing spot, he collided with my unsuspecting body; his left ski partially separating my left ear from my head – his right ski doing the same damage to my right ear. I toppled heels over head for approximately 75 yards down the ski slope. Both poles became dislodged from my wrists, my toboggan lashed from my head, both skis yanked from my boots, and splatters of blood following me to my landing spot. The trick skier stopped long enough to pat me on the head a couple of times and then disappeared. I half expected Ken to chase him down and still wonder if he chose not to do so because he was a coward or because he felt rendering aid was more important. Either way, he did help me to gather all of my ski equipment and helped me to the Oasis where my ears were cleaned up and bandaged. 


Reliving the gross details of the Ken Era is not my idea of an intriguing way to spend an evening, but aside from the damaged brain cells throughout my infant and toddler years, this era contains the majority of events which led up to my twisted and tangled way of viewing not only life, but the world.  My rebelliousness sprung from this root, planted here, in the Ken Era, rather than in June of 1970.

Even though I am one of the most compassionate persons this world has ever known, or ever will, I hope on a daily basis this gutless bastard suffers in the pits of Hell for all eternity and beyond.  Not necessarily for the pain he inflicted upon me; no, not even for the sadistic beatings he forced upon my mother.  But primarily for the cold-blooded, selfish murder of Bandit, my baby raccoon, on July 31.

The one and only murder I have witnessed still remains fresh and in the forefront of my hardened mind.  But my heart, unlike my hardened mind, still weeps and mourns for my precious baby girl.


Bandit

When a grown man elects to kill a pet baby raccoon for climbing on the kitchen counter, red flags should immediately rise. I remember it so well. It was July 31 which was Ken's birthday. I am not quite certain of the year, however, I know that it was the summer that Dolly Parton, Lily Tomlin, and Jane Fonda teamed up in the hit comedy 9 to 5. My mother had purchased a baby raccoon for me - the occasion I don't recall.

It did not take longer than a couple of days for Bandit and I to bond. As she was still quite young, it was necessary to bottle feed her, and she loved the honey water blend more than anything. We slept together every night and in the morning I would awaken to her chipper purring sounds in my ear.

Bandit never took much of a liking to my mother or my step-father. I don't know why she did not like Mom, for it was she that would place her shiny diamond rings in about an inch of water in the bathtub for Bandit to play with contentedly for hours. I knew why she didn't like Ken; he would always make her get out of the huge, fake rubber tree my mother had in their bedroom. Ken could not just grab Bandit out of the fake tree, for she would have torn him a new one! He had to wear extremely thick gloves and wrestle with her for a few minutes before he was the victor.

My precious baby never had the opportunity to live past three months. As raccoons are very curious, she liked to get up on the kitchen counter and check things out. Knowing this, Mom relocated the bread and bananas to a spot out of Bandit's reach in order to preserve them for us. Bandit didn't cause any problems by being up there.

On July 31, Ken told me to go to my room as he slipped his ugly hands into the familiar thick gloves. I pretended to follow his instructions, but turned around and headed back toward the kitchen. As I neared the entrance, I got down on my belly and crawled the rest of the way to the corner where I was able to peek around. There he was: Big Man gonna teach tiny animal who was boss. I watched Ken back hand my baby causing her to go sliding backward on the linoleum. Bless her heart, once she found traction, she snarled and lunged toward him with full intentions of attacking. God, how I wish she had been successful. He pulled his right arm up close to his chest and as she neared him, he swung his arm out and back handed her again. Her little body went sliding across the floor just like before; only this time she didn't regain traction. She came to a stop when her head collided with a handle of one of the cabinet doors. Instantly, blood filled the area where my baby laid dead. The only thing I remember after that was Ken ordering pizza and trying to joke and have fun with me through dinner.

I still have pictures of Bandit and still remember how much fun she and I had playing Hide and Seek. She wouldn't give up seeking until she found me; had she only known that I hid in the same spot behind the Grandfather Clock every time, she wouldn't have had to spend so much time seeking!


Love Me

"You need to go change clothes," Ken instructed during a commercial in between Gilligan's Island segments.

As I hung upside down on my mother's gravity bar, I replied, "I really don't wanna ride right now.  It's too hot."

"I said you need to go change clothes.  And I'm gonna watch."

For three years he had teased and embarrassed me by making that grossly absurd comment each time I went to change or dress.  This particular time was unlike all the others.

Swinging back to an upright position, I prepared to do as Ken had told me to do; I already had enough bruises from him and didn't want to be beat again.  It would soon become clear that his intention of me riding horses was my misunderstanding.  On the way to my bedroom to change, the phone rang.

"Hey, Kristi, it's Jackie.  Wanna come spend the night?  I already asked my mom and she said it would be fine."

"Kristi, hang up the phone," Ken demanded from around the corner.

"Jackie, can I call you back in a little bit?"

"Yeah, sure.  I'll be here."

I hung up the phone and stepped out of the built in telephone booth in my mother's house.  To the left was the entryway of the front door and to the right was a short hall that led to my bedroom.  Directly in front of the telephone booth was one of the two archways which provided an entrance to the huge, sunken living room; that is the direction I should have gone.

Instead, I walked out, looked to my left and there he stood – naked in the entryway – holding his white shorts behind his back, staring scrupulously at my vulnerable innocence.  Why did I turn to my right and walk to my bedroom?  Why?  Wasn't it obvious to me what he had in mind?  Even at the age of eleven, I knew something was up his sleeve.  Wait, he didn't have a sleeve – he was nude.  And ugly.

He followed me into my bedroom and sat down next to me on my full sized canopy bed.  I cried while I asked him to leave so I could change into my riding clothes.  At that moment, he took my right hand and placed it upon his ugliness.  Crying harder, I asked him why he was doing this.

"Because I want you to love me like you do your mother and your grandmother."

I have blocked out the rest of what happened in my bedroom that summer day.  I do remember another one of his comments, but wish I could block it out as well.  Everything he said to me and everything he did to me that day has prevented me from being able to be part of a normal relationship.  Because of him, I am unable to view sex as a beautiful way to express and share love.  To me, it is nasty and animalistic and the notion of making love is nothing but a myth existing only in fairy tales; it is all about the man getting his nut – nothing more.



Living with Ken meant living with bruises. He utilized every opportunity he came across to lavish us with his hatred for life. Our weekends, which I despised more than anything, alternated between being spent in Sherman with his parents and at home. The weekends in Sherman were not that bad; his parents lived on a farm so I could get away from him by playing with baby calves or messing around in the storm cellar. I used to get lost in their many gardens for hours, playing with those neat spiders and their even neater zigzagged webs.

His mother would spend all day in the kitchen preparing us a great meal out of the ingredients from her garden and the beef from their cattle. A lot of times, we would eat the deer or elk meat that he and Mom had killed and processed themselves. I was not much of a fan of the deer, but I did like the elk, as long as it was the steak. Ken never would allow me to have anything left on my plate unless we were in Sherman where his mother was in charge and he had no say so.

Meal preparations at home were quite different than they were on the farm. It seems we had to have a salad with every meal and we all had our specific roles in the creation of them. Mom was responsible for dicing the tomatoes and I diced the onions and grated the cheese. I believe that the salad creation was a fiasco every other weekend. One story stands out above most.

"What's wrong with that tomato?" Ken questioned.

"It's squishy," Mom replied.

"There is nothing wrong with it. Put it in there."

"I don't want it in mine, but I will put it in yours if you want."

"You will put it in all of them," he commanded.

With that, Mom took her knife and stabbed it into the wooden cutting board. Ken then wrapped his teeth around her thumb and chomped down, forcing her thumbnail to turn blue and purple for the next couple of weeks. That was not enough, though. He also had to kick her in her thighs with his pointed cowboy boots, rendering them the same color as her thumbnail.

Then it was my turn. I was kicked with the same pointed boots because I diced the onions too small and ate small chunks of the cheese while I grated it. Somehow, we always sat down as a family to eat our dinner while enjoying episodes of Love Boat and Fantasy Island. Funny thing is I still eat small chunks of cheese when I prepare a salad, sometimes laughing aloud.

There were so many occasions when he would force his pent up aggression on us both. Looking back, I am sad to say that most of them were considered "normal", at least I thought they were normal. However, some were worthy of remembering in case I ever decided to write a book.


Never Again

"Tell her what to do with that thing, Gloria!" Ken yelled.

My right hand began to tremble as my mind raced back and forth between the gun and the way he was looking at me. For once, pure terror was beaming from his face, rather than mother's, or mine.

Get control of yourself, Kristi. Now is not a good time to be losing it.

"Blow his mother fucking nuts off," my mother screamed.

Only a few feet separated the two of them from me. I was quite worried that my mother was standing too close to him for me to pull the trigger. If she would only move just a little forward, I could drop him right where he stands.

We had just returned home an hour earlier from our annual snow-skiing trip in Winter Park, CO. I was busy with my schoolwork that was a week behind and due the following day when the familiar screams from my mother began penetrating throughout the large house.

He was beating her again. This time, I was determined to end it - this time would be the last time. I had made a promise to myself the time before while I very gently held an ice pack on my mother's jaw. Never again would I have to wear colored hose to hide the bruises from his pointed cowboy boots. Never again would I be hit on the top of my head with a hammer because it wasn't the exact one he had ordered me to retrieve for him. Never again would these atrocious sounds coming from my mother pierce my eardrums - never again.

A strange calmness encircled my body as I headed in the direction from which came the shrill, agonizing screams. I knew what had to be done. As I approached the war zone, I braced myself for the worst - prepared myself for the bloody sight that awaited my entrance.

The door to their bedroom stood wide open, enabling all the walls in the house to take part in the horrendous one-sided battle. I walked in and headed straight to the tape recorder I had hidden behind their full length brass mirror. I hit Play and Record and then proceeded to the nightstand next to their bed. My presence was still unknown as the bedroom was over-sized and had a separate dressing area which was where the beating was taking place.

Seconds later, I had the safety off and the hammer of the .38 cocked, bound and determined to force him to admit that he had molested me the previous year. While contemplating whether or not it was safe to shoot him without also hitting my mother, Ken jumped me and we wrestled at the foot of the bed for the gun. In the process, my right thumb was sliced nearly completely off by what I assume was the hammer of the .38. The struggle ended with Ken keeping his life and me being whisked off to the emergency room for stitches. This incident was never brought up and I pushed it to the furthest region of my memory in an attempt to forget it. I was too young to know that it would come back to haunt me later in life and force itself to be dealt with.


From Texas to Tennessee

Within one month of celebrating my 18th birthday, I packed what little bit of clothes I thought I may need, broke into my mother's house, stole a few items, pawned them, and moved to Tennessee.  I am still not sure why, but I did.

Prior to this 680 mile move from Wylie to the Tennessee River, I was under the impression that hillbillies only existed in Beverly Hills, you know – Jed, Jethro, Ellie Mae and Granny.  Boy, was I wrong!  They actually existed in Tennessee – real, live hillbillies – I should know, I married one.

The details of the seven year massacre, I mean marriage, should be enough to provide some necessary background information of why I resorted back to using methamphetamine – I was obviously on a mission to go straight to Hell – no curves, no bends.

He was eleven years my elder and a pussy.  A red-headed pussy who never fought a man or even a woman his size (210 lbs).  But he certainly enjoyed beating the hell out of me (95-100 lbs).  It was my stupidity, I admit, to have entered into such matrimonial bliss.

The Wedding

Our wedding was cool. We took our "lies" in the comfort of our blue jeans in front of a stone fireplace in a very nice A-frame house high atop a hill on Cove Road.  My best friend, Beth, did my hair and make-up and I was beautiful – except for the choke marks around my throat from a couple days prior to our meaningful moment.  Never, I repeat, never put diced onions in a hillbilly's omelet; it's a big no-no.

We had an awesome live band, two or three kegs of beer, all our friends (most of whom were totally valiumed out), and Doug Michaels. Doug was never anything but sloppy drunk the entire seven years I knew him.  But what hillbilly wedding would be complete without the town drunk dropping his britches and relieving himself within a mere few feet of the guests?  This was definitely one episode in which my worse half should have thrown his weight around, but he did nothing because he was a 210 lb. pussy.

The Beatings

Over the course of those miserable seven years, a calculator's batteries would run out countless times trying to keep track of and tally the number of beatings I was subjected to.  Granted, each one was my fault.

"I would have only punched you in the mouth once, but you couldn't leave well enough alone.  I've told you not to ever call me a bastard."

Beating me with his fists and choking me were not his only methods of inflicting massive amounts of pain upon me – he used firearms as well.  Like the time my head slammed hard against the rear window of his '66 short wheelbase Chevy truck after backhanding me with the barrel of his .357 magnum.  Instantly my right eye swelled shut and I commenced doing what I knew better than to do.  Wasting no time, he quickly pulled the truck to the side of the road, jumped out, ran around to my side and began teaching me my lesson – his eight year old daughter inside the truck screaming for him to stop the entire time.

The same .357 was called into action on another occasion – one quite a bit different than the previous time; it was one of the first of the many times I left him.  I went about four miles south from where we lived, to the town of Graysville; I stayed with my friends, Paul and Sable, along with her mother and their five children.

My first night staying with them went well until barely after 2 a.m. when the bars closed.  I had already planned on some type of "disturbance" happening and borrowed a neighbors phone to alert the local police.  I explained the situation and asked them to please be on watch at that particular time and location – not for my protection, mind you, but the eight innocent occupants of the house, primarily the five children.  The police assured me they would make a point to patrol the area during the specified time and told me not to worry.

Not being much of a fan of any local police, I put little trust in their ability, or their concern, to truly protect and serve and went to sleep with both eyes open.  At precisely the time I had suspected trouble would arrive, 2:15 a.m., it did, along with the bullets from the .357 whizzing and ricocheting throughout the living room of my friends' home.

This one-sided shootout continued for ten to fifteen minutes, during which time the police never lived up to their promise.  In between the several rounds of gunfire, my loving husband bashed his Budweiser beer bottles against the front door and the outer walls of the living room.  Some of the beer and broken glass actually made it inside via the holes made by the .357.

Just as I was about to surrender, so my friends and their family would no longer be at risk of bodily injury or worse, the bastard finally ceased fire, went home, and passed out face first in his plate of food.  What a lovely sight that was to behold when I snuck in for the rest of my clothes.

Then there was the time he actually stuck the .357 to my head as he ambushed me in the woods where I thought I was hiding.

"Please, David.  Please don't!" I begged as I reached up, grabbed the gun by the barrel, and pulled it away from my head. Every finger on my right hand was burned from the heat of the hollow point bullet traveling through it, within three inches of my head.  I am  rather ashamed to admit that I urinated on myself at that precise moment.  I suppose I have both adrenaline and 10mg Valiums to thank for saving my life that night.  The adrenaline caused me to bolt away from the scene and the 10mg Valiums disabled him from being able to keep up.

These were not the only times this pussy utilized firearms to frighten me, break me down, or beat me.  He found it quite amusing to hold his .9mm pistol against my right temple, forcing me to wash the dishes by hand instead of utilizing the dishwasher.  There were also the several times I would lay face down in the tall grass, holding my breath, while he searched for me on his four-wheeler with his sawed off .12 gauge shotgun.  I will never know how I managed to remain unseen as he rode within just a few feet from where I was hiding.  Again, I suppose I owe the makers of Valium my life, who knows.

I was hospitalized on two separate occasions because of his aggression towards me, however, I only recall one of those times. Can you believe the pussy bastard actually came to visit me and brought me flowers?  Even more difficult to believe is hospital personnel strapped me down after I whirled the glass vase at his head.

I decided to press charges against him and while sitting in the police station, signing the papers, a police officer handed me a phone.

"Hello?"

"You sign those papers, bitch, and you die!"

I hung up the phone and walked out of the police station without signing "those papers", the police there – not protecting me and oddly serving HIM!

Graysville Mountain

If methamphetamine was available in Tennessee during the 90's, I was certainly not aware of it.  From what I could tell, downers were the stars of the scene.  There was, however, the occasional shipment of cocaine, maybe once or twice a year, that was obtainable.

Prior to moving to Tennessee, I had snorted coke several times, but did not find much "glamour" in it so I stuck with crank.  My hillbilly, pussy husband changed that when he introduced me to the needle and the spoon – something I swore I would never be a slave to.

One time was literally all it took; I wanted to do it again and again and again.  I did not keep up with how many times I allowed a needle to be stuck in my arm, but I will forever remember the last time – 18 years ago.

Sitting Indian style on my bed, I hungrily watched him put some water in a spoon that already had some powder in it.  He pulled some of the filter from a Marlboro Red, rolled it into a small ball and dropped it into the mixture.  With eager anticipation, I watched – knowing the bump he was drawing up was mine.  I prepared the veins in the bend of my right arm by squeezing my bicep with my left hand and pumping up the veins with my right.

When the needle found the gate to heaven, hell was released; I got more than expected. For no less than 45 minutes, the buzz-of-demons filled my ears-my heart raced-its beat increasing with every breath; I could think but could not speak or move. The demons shouted, "OVERDOSE! OVERDOSE!" as I awaited my heart to explode, silencing the buzz.

My husband noticed that I failed to go about my usual routine of grabbing a piece of bubble gum, a cigarette, a Dr Pepper and heading outside to walk around in the fresh, open air.  But he was unconcerned as he was much more focused on getting his fix.  I suppose his next words to me came shortly after the freight train in his ears stopped roaring.

"You know if you'd a died just then, I would've had to throw you off Graysville Mountain, don't you?"

Honestly, I do not know whether I replied to his ludicrous question or not.  But I am sure that was the last time a needle was ever near entering my veins by him or anyone else without a PhD.  It was also the last time I ever did any cocaine.

I finally left him for good in 1995 as my New Year's resolution.  I moved in with my friend Kim, her five kids, and her brother in a run down trailer in Dayton.  We did not have electricity for the majority of my five month stay, but damn it, we had each other!  Right around my birthday in June, I moved to Atlanta, Georgia with my... umm... not sure what to call him.  He was not really my boyfriend, but he was more than just a friend with perks.  Oh boy, I had it bad for Billy Joe because he looked so damn good in those white Levi jeans – especially when he went shirtless.  Anyhow, our friendship lasted longer than I expected but not as long as I would have liked. By September, I moved back to Tennessee, without Billy Joe, only this time I went further east to a different part of the beautiful volunteer state.

Within minutes of Gatlinburg, Knoxville, and Pigeon Forge, I found myself settled at the foothills of The Top of the World.  The natural beauty of the Great Smoky Mountains is unbeatable.  I bathed alongside the mountain road in the natural springs where the water just does not come any cleaner or more refreshing.  But as October neared, the water turned drastically cooler and I was forced to seek shelter elsewhere.

I moved to Maryville, Tennessee on the outskirts of the Smokies with a girl I had known for about four years.  Like most of my living arrangements, it did not last long – maybe 4-6 weeks.  It came to an abrupt end on September 25th, the same day I experienced my first traumatic, life-altering event.

Hot Pursuit

Just as it is a big mistake to put diced onions in a hillbilly's omelet, it is just as grave a mistake to put a drunk female hillbilly behind the steering wheel of a vehicle – especially a female hillbilly with a major attitude.  Buckle your safety belt for this ride – it will become very dangerous and within inches from fatal.

Jumping over the finer points of this story, as actually none exist, I will move straight to the guts where all the action is located.  Knowing already that my roommate, Doris, was drunk, had an attitude, and was seated behind the steering wheel of her four door Nissan Sentra should set the scene accurately.

Late Saturday night or early Sunday Morning, some lady I had never met set in motion the ruination of my life.  One obscene word directed at Doris was yelled by this woman while we were attempting to safely leave the bar's parking lot.  If ever at a bar off Highway 411 in Maryville, Tennessee, do not jump in the car occupied by a drunk driver with an attitude who has just been called a whore.  Why not?  Because you will more than likely not appreciate the outcome.

Racing down the highway in hot pursuit of this unknown slanderer, I pleaded with Doris to leave it alone – turn around and let's just go home.  Each one of my pleas fell upon deaf and drunk ears as the car in front of us suddenly pulled off the highway into an empty parking lot.

Obviously enraged about who Doris had been spending her evenings with, the lady flew out of the passenger side door of an old Lincoln Continental and quickly made her way to the driver's side of the Sentra.  She began pulling Doris through the rolled down window by her hair.  I exited from my side of the car, removed my leather Dallas Cowboy jacket, tossed it in the back seat and ran around to the other side.

All I really had in mind was to stop the fight before someone was hurt.  Very nicely, I grabbed the lady and pulled – harder than I had intended.  We both toppled to the ground ending up at the rear of the Sentra.

With both my legs out-stretched in front of me, I placed the palms of my hands on the ground to push myself up, but was halted when the bumper of the Nissan slammed me in the neck, followed by the rest of the vehicle running over my body entirely.  No sooner had the tip of my nose come in contact with the concrete between both my legs, Doris rapidly shifted out of reverse and drove back over me.  My friend then drove off, leaving me in a parking lot with strangers.

The driver of the old Continental witnessed the entire "accident" and was simply beside herself with shocked disbelief.

"Oh, my God!  She ran over youins!  She ran over both o' youins!"

Somehow able to rise to my feet, I began walking toward the hysterical woman, all the while knowing I was on the verge of dying as it was more than extremely difficult to breathe.  I calmly informed the young woman that getting us both to a hospital might be a good idea.  She did – and she did it very well.

Upon arriving at the emergency room of some hospital near the Tennessee River, the driver began helping me out of the backseat of her car.  The moment my feet touched the pavement, I knew I was going down and told her I was about to pass out.  Bless her heart, whoever she was, for throwing her body against mine and pinning me between herself and the side of the Lincoln until emergency room staff appeared and took over.  I never saw that woman again.

Within a matter of a few minutes, it was determined that my neck was broken, all the bones in my back were crushed, my spleen had ruptured and I was bleeding internally.  Shock immediately set in.  Luckily, the preliminary diagnosis was wrong; my spleen was intact and there was no internal bleeding.  However, the rest of the diagnosis remained accurate, plus a couple of my ribs were broken along with the very tip of my nose. I have always found it quite ironic that the "person" smiling down on me found it necessary to crumple the majority of my body, but leave my nose perfectly straight. However, this many years later, I am no longer sour and am very appreciative that the original structure of my nose was saved.

I vaguely recall being transported to an open field by ambulance where I was placed in a helicopter to be air-lifted to the University of Knoxville Medical Center.  The emergency technician who rode with me in the belly of the 'copter was very nice and helpful as he kept my pain at bay with heavy doses of morphine being injected intravenously. 

I remained in the hospital for a little over a week, I think, and was released into police custody for a bad check I had written months earlier.  I left the hospital with a prescription for Vicodin, but was not able to have it filled until the following day when I was released from jail.

Less than five months later, my grandmother walked out of my mother's back door, removed the white sweater she had on, folded it and placed it on the back of the lawn chair that she moved from the patio to the grass.  She sat down in the lawn chair, stuck a .38 pistol to her forehead, and pulled the trigger - rendering my heart forever in pain.

Between the beatings I took and the suicide of my 75 year old grandmother, I battled cervical cancer at age 19 and won, suffered through a miscarriage at 22 – never to become pregnant again, was put through temporary menopause by my gynecologist at age 24 and endured the excruciating pain of endometriosis from 19 to 25 at which time I was run over.  Less than one month passed from the day Granny took her own life and the day I returned home to Texas.  My divorce was finalized on Halloween of 1996.  I do not have a clue if any of the people mentioned are still alive – I left them all behind – even the ones I loved.


The Introduction

Some of you may not know me
while some others know me well.
Allow me to introduce myself
before we journey straight to Hell.

My name is Methamphetamine
but you may call me Meth for short –
Watching you while you kill yourself
happens to be my favorite sport.

No, I won't let you die too soon
for that would ruin all my fun
of wreaking havoc in your life
and tripping you when you run!

I'd be lying if I told you
that there is no way out
but it is so much fun
filling your head with doubt.

Now that we have officially met
let's begin this treacherous trip.
Don't you worry – you won't get lost –
I have chained you to my hip.


In The Beginning

Methamphetamine – the only component of my daily routine since March 1996.  Over the past 13 years, with the exception of a combined five months spent in various detention centers, I have been a user, a dealer, a cook, or all three.  But my relationship with the monster dates back before 1996.  Let's travel back to 1985 – the good ol' crank days.

Back then, it was the ether-based dope.  The kind that would literally cause you to gag as it drained down from your nasal passage to your throat.  It was also the shit that made you grind your teeth relentlessly the entire four or five days you were awake.  Even worse was the completely accidental, but all too often, chomp of the inner cheek.  It was like a tooth grind gone horribly wrong.  Within a few hours, the inside of the mouth looked like it had been put through a meat grinder a couple of times.

I was a speed freak even before my crank days.  Rewinding back to 1984 will take us to the beginning of my downhill slide.  Who knows where I would be now and what I may have accomplished had I never discovered the brown leather case full of vitamin bottles belonging to Ken – my then step-father.

Each vitamin bottle contained the same "vitamin" – white crosses aka diet pills.  If my memory serves me well, the case was equipped to hold nine bottles and my best guess would be each bottle contained 250, maybe even 500, pills.

I do not recall my exact method, or if I even had a method at all, but I ended up selling the pills at school for $0.50 each.  My lucrative business flourished for about a year but abruptly ended when a close friend, who did not desire partaking in the vitamin business, snitched me out.  Without hesitation, the vice-principal kicked me out of school, forcing my mother to send me to the other side of the world to live with my grandmother.  Okay, it wasn't to the other side of the world, but was to the other side of Texas.  Welcome to Monahans, home of the Great Sand Dunes and tumbleweeds.

After about a year at Granny's, I convinced all whom needed to be convinced, I was "better" and my mother allowed me to move back home to Wide Awake Wylie, a tiny suburb of Dallas.


Scared Straight

Almost immediately, living life in the fast lane re-entered my world, and with a vengeance.  I continued my attempt at catching up for lost time for about a year.  The first day of Spring Break 1985, my mother snatched me up and, at her wits end, drove me to a warehouse located just east of Central Expressway and barely north of Arapaho Road in Richardson.


Full Speed Ahead

Love me now
in the end you'll hate my guts
I'll stand by your side
dragging you through the ruts.

It won't take me long
to become your way of life
It will be my greatest pleasure
Overwhelming you with strife.

Don't look back now –
It's full speed ahead.
My purpose is not fulfilled
until in your grave you lie dead.



There were no signs on the building indicating what type of business operated behind the closed door; all appeared normal when we entered the office setting of common cubicles.

The name escapes me. I recall a, round, pudgy face, which appeared early to mid 40ish, sitting atop a plump 5'8'' 200 plus lb stake. A horseshoe of dark brown hair plunged as it found the back of his head and contrasted with bushy, wooly-booger, eyebrows accentuated by extreme magnification eyeglasses.

"So tell me, Kristi, what drugs have you used?"

"Would you like 'em in alphabetical order?" I retorted.

"Oh, it really doesn't matter.  Whichever way makes you happy."

I had barely reached the drugs beginning with the letter "C" when I noticed my mother, who was sitting to the right of me, clutching her chest.  That did nothing to slow me down.  Not even the tears streaming down her cheeks caused my gears to down shift.

I was in absolute disbelief when she stood up, walked out, and drove off in her yellow Cadillac Biaritz.  Surely, she will be right back.  She is just gathering her composure and then she'll be back to get me.  WRONG!  Welcome to Straight, Inc.


Because I Love You

Out of the 24 hours in a day, I believe 16 of them were spent in the warehouse.  The remaining 8 hours were shared by sleep time, drive time, preparation for bed, and breakfast.  Other than the drive time, those 8 hours were spent at a "host home".  Host homes were owned by the parent(s) of "inmates" of Straight, Inc.  Before a home could qualify as a host home, it had to be properly equipped with a security system which was at the financial burden of the home owner(s).  To the best of my knowledge, each host home could house from four to six "inmates".  I also believe the cost of all food was the financial responsibility of the home owner.

The majority of our time at the building was spent in the actual warehouse area where stories from our "druggie pasts" could be shared in a co-ed environment.  A specified time of each day was set aside in which females would go into a separate room and share their "female only" stories.  Most of these stories were horrible at best and should have remained secret.

Because I Love You

Oh, Mother, just leave me alone
can't you see I know what I'm doing?
No, I know that something is up
I can tell from all the gum you are chewing.

Why can't you just let me be?
I'm old enough to do what I please.
Because I love you – you're my only child
and you don't need to be in possession of these.

What have you been doing?
Going through all my things?
This happens to be my house, little girl –
start respecting me for a change.

How about if I just move out?
Then you won't have to worry anymore.
You don't understand – probably never will –
my heart breaks when you walk out the door.

For instance, the one story which stands out above the rest was one narrated by a twin from Midland, Texas.  Of course, I didn't have a clue as to which twin was which, so both became tainted as far as I was concerned.  Most of the intricate details of the story have either been erased from my memory all together, or trapped inside a locked dungeon in a deep recess in my mind.  However, the main plot of her allowing her kitty to um ... lick her kitty still lingers in the "Huh?" section of my brain.

Knowing this was not the place for me, I decided I would leave rather than graduate. However, I realized in order to execute my escape I had to enter Second Phase.

So, I did what it took to have my belt loop released (literally).  I flapped my arms wildly in the air, so wildly, in fact, my chair would scoot across the concrete floor and bounce into chairs occupied by fellow "Motivators".  The more maniacal one was while motivating increased the chances of being selected to tell a story, which in turn led to being bumped up to Second Phase.  Looking back from a different perspective causes me to imagine a sea of Helen Keller's groping wildly to see.

Ahhhh....  Second Phase.  I am finally allowed to walk by myself and no longer have to ask for permission to speak.  But along with these "all too often taken for granted" luxuries was a price.  Instead of being led by my belt loop, I was now the one doing the belt loop leading.  I was also stationed to stand guard at a particular door in case a First Phaser tried to make a run for it.  Little did they know .........

I actually escaped twice – the first time was a complete spur of the moment event and was instigated by the girl who led me around by my belt loop.

On our way to her host home one evening, she saw her "druggie" boyfriend outside of a convenient store on Buckingham. Memories rushed in on a tidal wave of strong urges and overwhelming temptations. It was a Wednesday meaning her mother would be going to church and taking those that wanted to join her. Not being churchgoers, Cristina, my host parents' daughter, and I elected to stay home.

Frantically whispering a plan, we listened for the snoring; her father frequently napped in the living room in his comfortable recliner. We had to be fast, as soon as we opened the front door, the alarm would sound.

Her neighborhood was as unfamiliar as an African jungle. I had to rely on her directions; losing her meant losing my freedom, they would catch me in minutes.

We hid behind shrubs, we jumped over fences, and we laid face down in tall grass. For hours, we ran from the hunters – narrowly evading capture numerous times. The next day, Cristina and I went to her friend's house; she was certain he would be there, he rarely went to school. From there, I could call a friend to come and take me back to my section of jungle.

Once I was back in Wide Awake Wylie, my friend, Stewart, drove me out to East Fork Park on Lake Lavon and dropped me off at Jodee's house.  I wasted no time in breaking all of the rules that Straight, Inc. had recently incorporated into my life.

First thing first: snort a huge line of the pink ether based shit. One line had me chasing my tail; it had been a couple of months since I had any. While grinding my teeth and chewing up the inside of my mouth, I put on a bikini bathing suit, a cut-off Led Zeppelin T-shirt, and some make-up. Jodee set the scene by cranking up Metallica's Master of Puppets followed by fixing us both another line – as if we really could get much higher.
Several hours later, Jodee and I jumped in her father's old, beat up truck to accompany him to the dope house to re-up.  I never made it to the dope house.

Jodee's dad pulled up to a stop sign leading to the street my mother lived on – Parker Road – lo and behold, guess who just so happened to be driving by?  My mother spotted me and immediately turned around.  I jumped out of the truck and ran over to a nearby dimpsy dumpster, climbed up the ladder, and dove in.  Just as luck would have it, a city policeman was in the area.  My mother flagged him down, informed him I had escaped from a drug rehab the previous day, and that she saw me run in the direction of the big dumpster.

Long story short, they found me and took me to the old police station located right in the heart of downtown Wylie where I sat grinding my teeth until a representative from Straight, Inc. could arrive.

After spending the next month or two as a "Misbehaver" I decided to temporarily straighten up, act right, and progress to the next phase.  Once I graduated to Second Phase, I waited for my mom to have her house turned into a host home before I followed through with my next course of action.  I knew it would make things more difficult for her once she was responsible for the other Straight, Inc. occupants and my escape would prove successful.


Scared Straight

We welcome you to your new home
We hope to scare you straight.
Plan on staying with us a while
as we determine your fate.

To earn a visit with your mom
you will have to cooperate
in order to share a story with us
you must learn to motivate.

By flapping your arms wildly
and being chosen to relate
you will get to see your mother
on the days we designate.

You must also sing our silly songs
if you plan to graduate
In other words become a puppet
so that we may dominate.

You will have to learn how to obey
instead of trying to deviate
'cause we have methods of controlling you
and plenty of drugs to medicate.


My Name is Meth

I stand before you
As your enemy – not your friend.
It's my strongest desire
To drag you to your end.

Along the way I'll cause you
To lose everything you own
I'll laugh out loud, rejoicingly
While you twist, writhe, and moan.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
Why forgive me – my name is Meth.
Don't you think it's beautiful?
The way it rhymes so well with death!


Inside

So you've been up for three days
and haven't eaten in four or more –
I find it quite amazing
you can walk across the floor.

Look at yourself in the mirror –
do you think what you see is cute?
Honey, you're nothing but skin and bones
with less curves than a flute!

On those days when you feel happy
be sure not to smile too wide.
Your addiction is more than obvious
with just one glimpse inside.


Shade of Gray

All that mattered in my life
has up and disappeared
while Crystal Meth stood by
and whole-heartedly cheered.

         Whispering in my ear
         telling me nothing but lies
         easily backing each one up
         with convincing alibis.

                   "Follow me, naive one,
                   into my tempestuous land.
                   Right beside the Gates of Hell
                   Where life is all but grand.

                             Just one taste of my special sauce
                             will bring you to your knees.
                             Give me just half an hour –
                             you'll do anything I please!

                                       Begging me for just one more
                                       each and every single day
                                       until everything else in life
                                       becomes a darker shade of gray."


Hide -n- Seek

Shadows lurking around me in the night
playing Hide -n- Seek with me
I try to catch them with all my might
but just a glimpse is all I see.

Who are they?  What do they want?
Do they come and visit you too?
What would they do without me to taunt?
Don't they have anything better to do?


Dope-Soaked

While nothing could be truer that each one of us has peculiar ways of doing things, some people and their peculiarities deserve more attention than do others.  It is not my intent to claim that strange behavior exists only inside the dope world, as people and their oddities come from all points of the earth and from all walks of life.

As you read the following true stories, I urge you to keep in mind these two facts:  1) all of the people mentioned in this chapter were under the influence of methamphetamine, and 2) each one believed she was acting completely normal.  So without any further ado, I bring to you this chapter of strange people and their behavior.

Part 1                    The Aliens Have Landed

Prior to my days of being involved first hand in the whole process of cooking dope, I was involved first hand with the couple that was cooking dope.  At the exact same time the aliens were landing on earth in a vacant field off of Highway 79 in East Texas, Bobby and Nadine were preparing a batch in the laundry room of the house I was renting.

Within moments of finishing that batch and just moments before beginning the next, Nadine made the decision to go visit her son who was serving time in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice for stabbing a man, in self defense, of course.  Both Bobby and I supported and encouraged her decision and off she went – with the promise of returning later that Saturday evening.

I am certain, had Nadine been aware of the most recent landing, she would have postponed her trip and remained safely nestled in the comfort of a more heavily populated East Texas location until hearing of their departure.  However, for reasons probably best left unknown, their arrival remained a secret and her travel plans ensued.

Bobby and I grew concerned; Nadine was an hour late returning home. We did not know that the two-lane, barren stretch of highway had become E.T.'s chessboard and Nadine was their pawn.

I must express my sincere admiration for Nadine's courage. Despite her dope-soaked mind, she was able to steer her little red car into the parking lot of a closed filling station and use the payphone.

"Hello?"

"Kristi!  Oh my God!  I don't know what to do!"  she loudly whispered into the handset.

"What do you mean?  Are you okay?" I asked with distressed concern.

"Well... I have to be quiet.  Oh shit!  They just pulled in the parking lot!!"

"Who did, Nadine?  Where are you?"

She offered no words – only heavily panted breaths of pure terror.

"Nadine, WHERE ARE YOU?" I shouted, causing Bobby to poke his head out from around the corner of the laundry room threshold.

"I... I... I'm not sure.  A gas station.  Oh my God, Kristi!  What do I do?"

"First, you need to calm down the best you can.  Then, without hanging up the phone, just dropping the receiver, you need to get back in your car.  Are you parked right near the payphone?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, get back in your car – run if you have to – lock the doors, and burn rubber out of there!  But, Nadine?"

"Huh?"

"Make sure you DON'T HANG UP THE PHONE – so I can hear what goes on, okay?"

"Okay ... yes ... I can do that."

Click.  I can't believe she hung up the phone!

Before my tail had a chance to catch up with my head, or vice-versa, my phone rang again.

"Hello?  Nadine?"

"Kristi, they're following me!!  What should I do?"

"Tell me who is following you.  Where are you?"

"Aliens."

That was all she said, followed by more terror-filled, quick, shallow breaths.

"Aliens?"  I repeated.

"Yes, aliens.  Here they come!!"

Click.

Nadine's nonsensical call left me waiting.  And waiting.  And pacing.  And waiting.

What seemed to be weeks, but was more in the neighborhood of forty-five minutes, transpired before headlights finally shone through my living room window.  Leaping out through the front door, glancing quickly in the direction from which Nadine had just traveled, somewhat expecting to see a UFO on four tires following close behind, I ran out to ensure my strange friend had not yet been abducted.

Skipping the details of the descriptive horror my friend experienced with the East Texas aliens, I will jump to the all important moral of this strange, but true mind you, story.  If ever being followed by aliens, one's best bet is to rely on the ability to smoothly outsmart and/or out-maneuver them as Nadine has ever so bravely demonstrated can be done!

I offered this humorous occurrence first, because this next one is a real doozy!  Please take this moment to re-fasten your safety belt, as I am not to be held responsible for any reader falling out of his or her seat.


Part 2                    Chocolate Chip Cookies and Mascara

This strange but true story pains me deeply as this lady remained normal until close to the end.  Barbie happened to be one of my all time favorites for more valid reasons than just one.  She was very unique in the fact that she was real; she was true and unlike any other person I have ever known, myself included.  She refrained from spreading vicious rumors and indulging in disparaging gossip.  Barbie was not a friend of conflict or turmoil and always nonchalantly disappeared anytime trouble presented itself.  I do not know of one person she ever inflicted any pain upon – be it physically or mentally.  Forever she will remain one of my role models and I shall think of her often – always with a pleasant smile.

At this point, before I begin to narrate the difficult to explain story of Chocolate Chip Cookies and Mascara, I feel it is my obligation to profess my ignorance in the area of life science.  I am far from educated in the many goings on that any one human body is capable of cultivating.  Furthermore, the majority of all internal goings on are a complete mystery to me – meaning all things are possible.  Please allow me to share this story with all benefits of doubt in my friend's favor.

As I mentioned just moments ago, this one is a difficult story to tell, mainly because I do not understand it.  Honestly, I tried to.  I even gave my best effort at researching it via the Internet, only to come up with a little less than nothing with proper keywords being the main issue.  I did not have any – keywords that is, and really, neither did Barbie.

It seems to have all started when she and a mutual friend, Mikayla, went to Downtown Dallas and had the top of their earlobes pierced.  Well, I'm not exactly certain if that is where it began or if it was shortly thereafter when Barbie's hair became wrapped around her earring and tangled up in the sunglasses atop her head.  The action of tugging on the sunglasses, I guess, caused a single hair to be yanked through her scalp and somehow traveled internally down to one of her big toes.  Once there, the hair commenced to wrap around itself and then traveled upward to her neck where I think it tried to escape, but for some reason unbeknown to me, wasn't able to.  This hair which was trying to break free, the same hair that was wrapped around itself, continued to wrap around itself while traipsing about inside her body – no doubt looking for a door to exit through.

If you find yourself to be confused, return to the beginning of when it all began and start over.  You may do this as many times as is necessary for you to understand before we proceed on to the real baffling parts.

Barbie's internal hair mystery was starting to unravel, no pun intended, in her mind.  No, the hair was not unwrapping itself inside her mind; rather she apparently believed she was figuring it all out.  Now try to stay with me, here is where bizarre enters the picture!

One day while eating chocolate chip cookies, she noticed something on the tip of her finger (I forget which one – as if it really matters).  Upon probing further, she discovered as she ate her chocolate chip cookie, it would almost immediately depart her body through her fingertip.  All because of the hair that traveled to the big toe, all because of the piercing on the top of her earlobe.  Are you still with me?  I hope so, because there is more – remember the title of this particular story, please.

I am unclear about the intricate details, because they made even less sense than the details I have already disclosed.  Therefore, I am not certain if this next event occurred the same day, or same week, but I do know she had a witness (identity of said witness has never been made known to me).

This episode closely resembles that of the chocolate chip cookie one, only mascara and eyelashes are the featured stars, with a, or the, fingertip as the co-star.  Yes, you have guessed correctly.  No sooner than Barbie could apply the mascara to her eyelashes, it would vanish and then reappear moments later escaping through her fingertip.  The major difference between these two episodes being that Barbie didn't happen to notice the disappearing mascara act, her friend did.

"Barbie?"

"Yes?"

"Didn't I just see you apply mascara?"

"Yes."

"Well, where did it go? It's gone!"

Instantly, Barbie knew to look elsewhere other than a mirror, and there it was, coming out of the tip of her finger.

I find it unnecessary to mention the dime-sized mole located on the right side and lower portion of her back which would increase and decrease in size, depending on whether the spiraling hair was currently trying to make a run for it there or elsewhere.  I think you have been given more of the picture than you bargained for already.

I admonished myself from the meth environment before this mystery was unraveled and I, we, shall never fully know the outcome.  However, I am very interested in learning more about other instances such as these, if any exist.  If you are personally aware of similar goings on, please forward them to me – they will remain your property, as I have no desire of obtaining any ownership rights – just knowledge.

This next story is not necessarily strange, but the actions of the girl should persuade anyone entertaining the thought of becoming a meth addict to consider becoming a circus side show freak instead.


Part 3            Shelly Mae

Shelly Mae, a 32 year old mother of newborn twins and a circus side show freak, I mean, a pipe addict.  I have seen a lot of weird things and I have known a lot of weird people, but this one takes the cake.

Before hitting the pipe, Shelly Mae was normal. She was clever, she was funny, and she cared about people. However, let the flame of a torch meet a bowl, and she will change before your eyes. Literally, in less than five minutes she will transform from Shelly Mae into "Hell to Pay", and everyone she knew paid.

I lived with Shelly and the twins, oh yeah, and her boyfriend, Mark, who was there as infrequently as possible.  I moved in after spending five months in an Arkansas county jail for Possession of a Controlled Substance with Intent to Deliver (story in a different chapter).  I was released a couple days after Thanksgiving which meant the twins, who were born the first week of November, were almost a month old.  I stayed long enough to watch the boy from the coed pair learn how to crawl and peek through the blinds.  Before learning how to climb up on the couch in order to peek through the blinds, he developed the ability of crawling to the floor vent and placing his ear to it to listen – no doubt for his father.  Hundreds, if not thousands of times, he watched his dope-soaked mother do the same thing.

There is no doubt that Shelly Mae had the most extraordinary sense of hearing, as she could hear the hum of Mark's truck from over ten miles away.  Her vision was out of this world phenomenal too, as she saw all of Mark's girlfriends – even knew their names although Mark had never met a one of them!  She saw them in trees, behind trees, on the ground under parked cars, walking down the street seven miles away and around four sharp curves in the road.

God forbid she would discover one of my hairs loose in my bedroom. She knew who it belonged to – that whore who cashiers at the only convenient store in Tatum, Texas and even knew how and when it got there.  Strange thing about that was she never left the house; nobody would actually allow her to go to town because she would cuss every woman she saw for sleeping with Mark.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not convince her that the hair was mine.  I stopped trying immediately after she accused me of trying to cover for him and the whore.

One of my favorite episodes was when she made me walk out front with her.  They had a dirt, circle drive with about 50 feet of thick woods in the middle, and one of Mark's girlfriends was camped out in the middle of the woods in the middle of the circle driveway.  The girl had even built a fire and was just chillin' – in broad daylight.  This was an amazing fire as it produced absolutely no smoke and was of no threat to any of the other trees or brush on the ground.

After about three minutes of trying my damndest to locate this girl or the fire, I gave up and walked away.  I turned back one time and hollered at Shelly to come on back to the house.  As I approached the front door, I heard her scream at the girl.

"Mark says your pussy stinks!"

Well, that's giving it to her straight, Shelly!  I bet she will put out that fire, pack her tent and go home for sure now!

Put the pipe down, Shelly.  Please!


Phantoms

Voices coming from the other room
but I know nobody is there.
In the distance they always loom
like phantoms hovering in the air.

I get up and go take a look
but nobody is here – just me
They continue like a babbling brook
dragging my sanity out to sea.


The Meth Myth

Ahhh... the good ol' meth myth!  It only takes one line or one bowl to become a firm believer in its lies.  Even worse, it only takes a couple more to become its sponsor – wanting to share it with everyone – in some sad cases – even with one's children.

It must be the grandeur of it all:  rotting teeth, incarceration, congestive heart failure, poor vision – all so alluring.  But wait, it wasn't any of those offerings that magnetically drew me in.  It was the sheer thrill of going against what I knew was right.

My self-destruction mission began early in life so I would have plenty of time to go back if I happened to screw up.  For instance:  graduating high school, making my mother proud, becoming somebody, etc... none of which were on my immediate "To Do" list.  My personal list was not very long; near the top was "Fuck Things Up" and right below it was "Go Back and Fuck Things Up Some More".

I can proudly brag that I don't recall ever persuading a single soul to indulge in the use of dope.  Instead, I have always encouraged everyone to stay as far away from it as possible.  Geez, I even fucked that up each time I passed a pipe, chopped a line, sold a bag, or cooked a batch.

The stereotyped "lowlife" dope fiend is another myth.  People from every social class use meth – more than likely every day.  Meth followers range in I.Q. from very low to extraordinarily high and it is not partial to any one particular career.  From dumpster drivers to rodeo clowns to policemen, meth maneuvers itself into the lives of many.  A rare few may be able to maintain a normal life for years, while others quickly buckle and dive in head first – unable to stave off the seducing power of the drug.

It is just as likely that the bum living on the street is as addicted as the wealthy penthouse dweller.  Truck drivers, professional athletes and Sunday school teachers are all suspected users.  Even 65 year old grannies do a line or two every day.  I know because I have sold dope to them all.  Mailmen, air-conditioner repairmen, security guards, dental hygienists, landscapers, engineers, graphic designers, lawyers, pilots, waitresses, congressmen, carpenters, plumbers, physical fitness trainers, hair stylists, mechanics, senior citizen activities directors, pharmacists all partake, and the list does not end there.

The odds of one's spouse secretly hitting the pipe are high as is at least one of their children.  Meth is everywhere – nationwide – worldwide.


Slingin' and Jugglin'

Every day it's the same ol' fuckin struggle
Slingin' dope to the masses is a major juggle
No doubt that your bank account will double
Keepin' it that way is the lost piece of the puzzle.

Better watch your step or else you'll stumble
That bank account along with your life will crumble
Straight behind bars your ass will tumble
"I knew this shit would happen", to yourself you mumble.

No time to pull your homies in for a huddle
Last night was your last chance with your sweetie to cuddle.
Now you're spreadin' your butt cheeks – no time to be humble.
They caught you with your guard down – holdin' a bundle.

Meth and Jail

Incarceration as a result of living life in the meth lane is pretty much inevitable.  Granted, some users remain just outside the reach of the long arm of the law, but most will, at least once, take up temporary residency in some local county jail.  Furthermore, a large majority of those will find themselves to be known by a number rather than by a name in a state penitentiary serving 2 to 20 or more.

At present, I am writing these words while sitting in my 8 x 10 single man cell in the Rockwall County Detention Center.  I have been an inmate at this location for two months while waiting to "pull chain" to a Texas Department of Criminal Justice unit somewhere in this over sized state.

This, however, is not my first stint in jail.  Just ten days after an explosive 4th of July celebration in 2001, I landed in an underground, dark and damp cell in Arkadelphia, Arkansas.  I have never seen such an antiquated structure that was still suitable for use.  Thank the powers that be that I only had to stay there for a day and a half with a 17 year old girl charged with a capital offense and facing the death penalty before being taken to Camden for my arraignment hearing.  The judge set my bond for a first offense Possession of a Controlled Substance with Intent to Deliver at $150,000.  Needless to say, I did not post bail and was transported to a facility in the tiny town of Hampton.

Almost five months later, I appeared before the judge who convicted me, sentenced me to three years probation, and released me.  Hooray!  Free at last!  Well, kinda free.  As I was merely visiting the state and knew not a single soul, I had only one option as to where to spend the night.  Yes, I was taken back to the jail and allowed to stay until the next day when my friends, Tony and Nora, could arrive from East Texas.

The story of how I was caught is a fairly simple one to tell.  My boyfriend and I had just rented a motel room in Camden, a city in which we had chosen by way of the Wal-Mart road atlas.  Camden had a Super Wal-Mart, meaning we could easily purchase Equate brand antihistabs and Diamond brand matches during all hours of the day and night.

This particular Wal-Mart was in the same small shopping center as Kroger's Grocery store which meant double the pills and double the matches.  It would not be long and another batch would be underway.

Upon entering the parking lot, we both noticed an older lady having trouble with her little red Nissan truck, no doubt trying to push start it.  It was near noonday and the sun was aggressively forcing an abundance of heat upon all who were not indoors reclined in front of an air conditioner.

While my boyfriend was busy seeking out an available parking spot, I informed him that we could not go about our shopping without first assisting the woman.  He agreed and steered our black Chevy Blazer in her direction.  While he surveyed the troubles she was having, I went inside Kroger's to purchase us each a cold Dr Pepper.

While I'm in here, I may as well get some pills and matches, I thought, and quickly found the corresponding aisles.  Against my better judgment, I scooped up four boxes of 24 count antihistamines instead of the regulated maximum of three boxes.  I then headed over to where an estimated 10 – 15 boxes of matchbooks were located on the top shelf.  I gathered all but one as it was too far from my reach even when I climbed up on the bottom shelf for extended height.

Once at the cash register, I placed the items on the conveyor belt and grabbed two 20-ounce Dr Peppers from the little refrigerator at the entrance of the check out line.  The middle-aged, bleach blonde cashier scanned each item without saying a word – patiently waiting for me to gather my purchase and leave so she could immediately notify the police of the transaction.

My arrival back to the area where my boyfriend was helping the lady with her truck was timed just perfectly with him turning the key in the ignition and the engine cranking up.  Very pleased, we all three shared smiles as we wiped the sweat from our overheated brows.  The lady drove off and my boyfriend and I reverted back to our original plan of gathering the necessities for the next cook.

Within two minutes of loading our Wal-Mart purchase into the Blazer, we were completely surrounded by Ouichita County deputies.  The blistering heat from the overhead sun never showed us any mercy until enough time passed forcing it to set and then disappear beyond the horizon.  Eight hours after my venture inside Kroger's, we were both arrested and whisked off in separate vehicles to separate jails.  That last batch that was never cooked was the last batch we ever never made.

For the most part, I stayed out of trouble, only through sheer luck, until the day after Valentine's Day, 2006.  About three minutes after leaving a friend's house in Rockwall, I was pulled over for stopping my vehicle past the stop sign.  At that time, the officer discovered I had no insurance, my registration was expired, and there were problems with the validity of my driver's license.  He was actually going to allow my friend to come get me, but was having my car towed since it was not legally able to be driven by anyone.  In order for him to have it towed, he was responsible for taking an inventory of all the items inside my little Ford Escort.  That is when he found several separate baggies – each one containing a different amount of ice and another baggie holding eight to ten Ecstasy tabs.  Suddenly, the plans changed and I was handcuffed and transported to jail.  The following morning, the judge set my bond at $55,000 and I remained locked up for seven days until my friend gave a bondsman almost $6,000 cash to have me released.

The following July, I plead guilty to both possession charges and was sentenced to five years probation.  For nine months I was on time for my monthly appointments, but not once did I stop using.  I tried – honestly I tried.  When I arrived for my appointment in May 2007, my probation officer announced that it was time for a urine analysis; I informed him that would not be necessary as there was no way I could pass.  He had me sign a piece of paper, set my next appointment and allowed me to leave.  I never went back.

Consequently, I was on the run, looking over both my shoulders every turn I took.  During this time, I could not repair my driver's license without being immediately taken into custody, so I risked my freedom with each bag of dope I delivered.  That type of lifestyle is not one worth living and I finally realized that in November 2008 and made the decision to commit myself to a drug rehab.

Making a long, drawn out story a little bit shorter, I was "captured" before a bed became available at the rehab and taken to jail where an empty cell sat awaiting my arrival.  Three weeks later, I was in front of the judge, pleading guilty to a probation violation and accepting a sentence of four years in prison.

My mother took the day off from work so she could bear witness to how the judicial system works.  She cried nearly the entire time and even had to leave the courtroom once to gather her composure.  I assume it is not at all easy to see one's only child handcuffed to a chain around the waist and shackled.  The transport officer was very kind in allowing us a final moment together in an adjoining conference room where my mother hugged her daughter who was not capable of hugging her back due to the handcuffs.  As painful as that episode was for me, I honestly cannot imagine the heartache my mother endured.  Almost 40 years old still wreaking havoc on her feelings and emotions.  Who do I think I am and what right do I think I have to bestow such grief upon an innocent person who unconditionally loves me so?

How do I feel about going to prison?  Actually, I have a small mixture of emotions concerning my fate.  One-third of me is excited, as I have always wanted to be involved in reforming the penal system; first hand knowledge and experience can only prove to be helpful.  The second third of me is angrier than hell that prison is the desired "go to" place to punish addicts.  Why not make a genuine attempt at rehabilitating instead of turning addicts into criminals?  The final third of my feelings is one that over-rules the other two-thirds – I have finally found a break consisting of enough time to rid myself of methamphetamine.  I have day after day after day to further rationalize a better, more promising future.  I now have plenty of time to consider and reconsider what truly is important to me.

What exactly IS important to me?  I am.  My mother is.  My one and only life is – at least what is left that I have not yet destroyed.  Taking an active role in helping others just like me is equally as important.  Changing the current sentencing laws from imprisoning addicts to rehabilitating them in order to incorporate the powerful love and support of family members who otherwise feel helpless is also important.  Another valuable importance is substantiating the fact that escape from the evil powers of methamphetamine is more than possible – and even more so rewarding.

Unstructured Structure

We left Rockwall at precisely 4:10 a.m. and drove south until we arrived near the middle of nowhere at the Linda Woodman State Jail in Gatesville, Texas. I was accompanied by two others: Jayne from Plano and Slim out of H-Town. In the backseat of the county's Crown Victoria, the three of us quietly chewed our stick of spearmint gum while we discreetly formed a bond based on our immediate similar fates.

During the same time the sun began to bless the sky with its radiant energy, reality punched me in my gut, bringing to life the butterflies that had been resting patiently for the three hour drive.

Turning left in the direction of the innumerable acres of orange prison housing lights, my breathing became noticeably shallow and more rapid. Slim's naturally prominent doe eyes widened out of sheer disbelief at my obvious "excitement" as we drew nearer and nearer to the chain linked fence topped with razor blade barbed wire.

"This is prison," Slim matter of factly, but calmly, informed me.

With an honest attempt at regulating my breathing, I naively uttered, "I know."

"This is prison!" she jabbed again with a punch more solid than the first.

After the third repetitive statement, I realized the positive outlook I had convinced myself to have was in dire need of being re-evaluated. Unlike Jayne and myself, Slim had previously taken up residency at TDCJ - a four year residency, in fact, at age 19.

As I looked into Slim's distraught, experienced eyes, scenes from prison documentaries engulfed my mind, sending terror-filled chills throughout my soul. I am certain I even felt Jayne's demeanor flinch one second before she concealed any fears under the protective armor she brought along for her two year sentence.

The pure, unadulterated meaning of the term "bi-polar" made itself very much a part of the 16 or 17 remaining hours of my introduction to the Texas Penal Colony. I was like a hyperactive six year old on a pogo stick. Slim was to my right bringing my high strung, nervous energy to a debilitating low while Jayne's stand-up, comedic personality on my left was shooting it up and over the moon. I was a mess - a complete mess.

In a world brand new to me, where fear can easily consume an otherwise fearless person, I was forced to find a happy medium and did so, strangely enough, by allowing the me deep down inside of me to breathe. I held on to the sparse, optimistic emotions I had churned up through the hilarious, witty remarks made by Jayne while keeping both eyes focused and balanced on Slim.

Having always been very much an extrovert, I have no doubt I would have adjusted well in any cell I was assigned to. However, I could not keep from hoping the three of us would remain together, steadily increasing our bond by intertwining our individual strengths and ideals. Hopes as such, in the prison system are not realistic.

With the prisons being overwhelmingly overcrowded with drug addicts instead of real criminals, actual dorms were difficult to come by. The overflow of new offenders was housed in the"dog pound". The only differences between this dog pound and the real ones were our food was not placed in a stainless steel bowl upon the ground and we were given a toilet to use rather than defecating on our concrete slab of a floor.

Almost 12 hours after arriving at the Woodman Unit, we were finally assigned to bunks inside the dog pound. Slim and I were bunkies in K12 and our funny friend was placed next door in K11. I must admit I was disappointed in the partial breakup. I did my best to position myself next to her in the chow line so I could get my daily supplemental value of her jovial nature, but was rarely successful.

After four days in my assigned kennel, I became stressed. The tension in the air among eight females of various ages, serving different lengths of sentences for different mistakes was thicker than a 10 lb. slab of unsliced meat. But the maturity level between us worked in our favor and nothing more than a few words were exchanged between those who were most stressed.

On the sixth day, the computer advised the officials to move Jayne to a dorm but failed to offer Slim or me a room with a T.V. or a window; we were both left in the dog pound. As excited as I was to witness our friend from county move on, I couldn't help but feel sad. Jayne had already served 30% or the required 25% of her sentence and deserved to be progressing through the system at such a rapid pace. I hoped the same for myself since I had 75% of my time behind me.

In every aspect, the prison experience is a major life altering event. At any moment, built up tension among cell mates can become volatile. Personal insecurities give rise to spontaneous, irrational outbursts which bring about senseless confrontations and unnecessary feelings of turmoil. It seems as if every female in the system makes the claim of not being there to make friends, yet friendships are formed daily and addresses are exchanged freely.

According to the estimated computations of the girls in my cell, meth convictions make up at least 35% of the inmate population. An even greater percentage of the inhabitants have been convicted of meth related offenses, such as burglary, in order to afford the addiction that most refer to as just a habit. With something in common from the free world, namely meth, these girls bond. For days, weeks, and months, stories are swapped and memories are related. The realization of just how small the world is comes by means of casual conversation. One person takes a chance at throwing their dope dealer's name out just to see if anybody else reacts. Eight out of ten times, at least one person in the cell has purchased dope from that connect.

Personal vows are spoken aloud to never return to the destructive way of meth life. Support from cell mates is offered in abundance while realistic doubts are stifled. I vocalized my fears of relapse in the hope that someone with more knowledge could offer me methods of overcoming the boredom I expected to suffer at some point after my release. One would think that six months away from the shit would be sufficient to kick the addiction. I suppose it comes down to each individuals place in life and just how fed up with the 25/8 grind he or she truly is.


Others Like Me

Possession

What are you in here for?
Let me guess - possession.
The system is oozing
with the deadly infection.

27 years old
serving 2 to 10
this is the 2nd time
meth has brought you to the penn.

Living with 8 women
within a 20 foot space
obeying all the rules
so you don't catch a case.

Saying "yes, Ma'am" - "no, Ma'am"
to a power starved guard
kissing a person's ass
has never been so hard.

Your addiction to meth
must come to an end
use this time wisely
to fully comprehend

that life behind bars
is no life at all
you can turn it around
and stand proud and tall.

Throw down your pipe
toss the razor blades too
You owe it to yourself
to live the life meant for you.


Joni

Joni was young, energetic and a wealth of informative prison do's and dont's and was serving a 10-year sentence for possession of meth. At 27, it broke my heart to discover this was not her first go 'round in the prison system. This mother of a precious daughter is also the daughter of a loving mother and has a twin sister in the dope scene just as deep. Although I do not believe that prison is the place for drug addicts, I can not change the fact she is there and I hope this 10-year "set back" will prove to her that she deserves much better than what meth can supply.

Our relationship was very similar to one between a lioness and her toddler cub. Although I had eleven years on her in life, she was my mentor from the very get go of my arrival. She not only had "a" answer for every question I asked, she had "the" answer. I hate to admit that a large portion of my questions could have remained un-asked had I utilized a smidgen of common sense. But Joni's unwavering patience made her an absolute champion in my eyes.

The entire intake and diagnostic process would have been quite an unpleasant experience for me had I not been blessed with her hip-hop, hilarious and helpful nature. Again, although I was over a decade older than she, I respected her and took full advantage of all the insight she had to offer.

One week into the intake process, we were scheduled for Orientation – a five hour event filled with extremely out-dated and boring films. Just prior to 5 a.m. Joni made me promise to refrain from asking questions which would inadvertently extend the torture produced by the not so informative films. I was instructed to sit on my hands to prevent me from raising one to ask the officer in charge any question that Joni was perfectly capable of answering once we were back in the dog pound.

I found myself to be quite impressed by her level of maturity, let alone her high level of intelligence (primarily common sense). But don't let my mention of her maturity fool you; she was fully capable of "throwing down" and I could plainly see "party animal" written all over her young and fit self.

After sharing the same stainless steel toilet for two weeks and discovering that we could actually grow to be friends, we were removed from the dog pound, separated, and housed in completely different buildings. We passed each other on "the street" a small handful of times but were unable to engage in any chit-chat – meaningful or otherwise.


Melissa

Even after consulting with the thesaurus, the best words to initially describe this hoot of a woman are gorgeous and charming. From her gold-spun, barely below shoulder length hair to her innocent and pure country twang, Melissa was above and beyond priceless. Even when at her worst, physically sick from detoxing off methadone, her inside beauty could not be hidden or surpassed.

I met Melissa my very first night at Woodman and for the next week I assumed a role in assisting the other ladies in forcing her to eat. We started her off slowly, with a saltine cracker or two and then progressed to half a snickers bar – a day! There may have actually been a couple of times that she consumed one handful of M & M's, but certainly not two handfuls. The next rung up on the ladder of her recovery was a difficult one to convince her was necessary – going outside for some fresh air. But after all but dragging her out of the dog pound, she noticed the effect was a positive one so coercing her over the days that followed became easier and easier. I was amazed at how quickly and how distinctly noticeable her natural color returned.

Still, she had to be watched over intently, for she had no qualms in tricking us into believing she had eaten all that we had put in front of her. I would recommend any person aspiring to become a Hollywood movie star to take lessons from this first class actress, as I have never seen a sick person recover just for the moment of getting us to leave her alone as well as she.

Personally, even though I know the withdrawals from methadone are real, I believe she rather enjoyed being pampered and tended to. But, truthfully, I can not think of a more deserving individual, let alone one who would have been any more appreciative than her.


Pamela

Oh, boy! There is not another blond Cherokee like her in the world. Her small 5'2" frame was packed full of Godliness and dynamite. My first impression of this young 52 year old from Fort Worth was one of a unique nature for me; a very real woman who was sure of who she was and where her life was going had just moved in to the bunk down and across from mine in our corner quadraplex "penthouse suite". I was excited about her arrival because I was in need of some mature, albeit fun, companionship.

In prison for the second time due to possession of meth, she dove deeper into her bible than she ever had. Her true desire to fill her soul, mind and body with the word emanated from every pore and every orifice. What I loved most about her was the fact that she did not use her religion or spirituality to convince anyone that she was perfect or higher on the social food chain. She was the first to admit when she acted in a manner she believed went against God's standards for her and actually utilized her wrong doing in bettering herself.

It seemed every night after the lights went out was her time to come alive. The only trouble with this was my inability to laugh quietly. There is no doubt the lady born as a Pisces/Aries cusp had a major funny bone and for that I am forever grateful. Her dual Pisces nature saved my sanity multiple times by breaking the monotony of prison life. We never allowed ourselves to forget where we were but she easily converted the environment of confinement into something resembling a slumber party.

My bunkie below me, Linda, learned quickly to protect her panties from slight accidents brought about through Pamela's antics by using maxi pads. Moments before the officers turned the lights out for the evening, Linda would traipse off to the bathroom with a pad in her hand, for she knew it would not be long until Pam would have at least one leg up in the air or her two front teeth out telling "Bubba" type jokes.



The Officers

Before I offer my personal thoughts about the mentality of correctional officers as a whole, I want to be fair by implementing the timeless truth of there being two sides to every story. As an inmate, I am ignorant to a lot of the rationalities behind being chastised, humiliated, and criticized. As a human being with a normal functioning brain, I am unable to comprehend the logical reasoning of such justified rationales. Screaming at me with the gruffest, most deranged voice to eat faster will do nothing to help me alleviate the anger I have festered throughout my body and mind. Comments from male guards such as, "You all belong on milk cartons," are absurdly unnecessary and should do nothing other than reflect on the lack of intelligence on his part. The sad reality is that these types of disparaging remarks whittle away the little bit of self esteem already hanging on by a thread in most inmates psyches. To leave the Big House a victor, confidence must be mustered and nourished, not knocked down and stomped hard into the ground. Who really is to blame when a convicted felon returns to prison within a year or two of his or her release?

And how is it right to employ a convicted felon as an officer while he is on felony probation for possession of crack/cocaine? I am all for employing ex-felons, however attention should be paid to the crime committed and the position applied for. For instance, a bank robber should seek employment somewhere other than a bank. A person convicted of prescription fraud should not be given a position as a friendly neighborhood pharmicist.


Using My Time Wisely

It seems all my adult life has been prioritized bass-ackwards. No matter how hard I honestly attempted to do some things correctly, I failed. I believe some of those failures were the result of a lack of common sense while others were the result of a subconscious disregard of common sense. The remaining failures were nothing less than self-inflicted.

After my ass landed in prison, I concluded that I had self-destructed and made the decision to change my life's pattern by doing just the opposite of what I had done thus far. Sounds easy, huh? I suppose it's all in the depth of one's particular rock bottom along with the amount of piled up problems that have been too long ignored.

Every prisoner chooses to serve his/her time in a manner that coincides with their current attitude/mentality. Some are more than anxious to return to the exact lifestyle that landed them in the system. A percentage of others are just as anxious to completely turn things around. Alongside these two distinct groups of inmates are those who do not have a clue - who appear to be stagnating in a state of limbo - sometimes teetering from one side of the fence to the other.

By definition, prison is a building for confinement of criminals - not an institution intended for aiding in the reconstruction of destroyed lives. In order for a prisoner to return to a civilized community, he or she must make a conscious effort to dismantle old habits and long used ways of thinking. Taking a deep look inside one's soul is imperative, albeit frightening. In my opinion, this is where most tend to run in another direction and hide behind the first foolish wall they quickly construct.

My personal walls of protection were built long before my arrival to Woodman. Both the reality and the realization of this fact deserved to be met head on and face to face with a determined force of vengeance. With the decision having been made, the next step was to devise a plan of action, keeping in mind that none of my previous plans of action won any battles. Knowing that willpower had always been one of my biggest downfalls, I opted to begin working on defying it. So, I made the choice to remove meat from my daily diet. This may sound silly, but I like meat! I figured if I could successfully meet and achieve that set goal, I would in turn create a solid foundation on which to further strengthen my own willpower with a higher level of confidence.

Omitting meat from my daily "chow" was almost like a punishment rather than a goal. TBC...


Mind Boggling Concepts

It is absolutely mind boggling to sit back and take note of the massive amount of power that is packed into each speck of methamphetamine.  Not power as in horsepower, but power as in mindset.

I always negated the fact that persons addicted to meth did not undergo physical withdrawals once they stopped using.  I concluded such an idea as completely preposterous as I could not possibly quit without physically hurting.  Just as quickly, if not quicker, I accepted my belief and used it as my forefront excuse to keep the habit as part of my daily routine.

Having been confined behind metal bars or thick, electronic locking metal doors, I know the truth; there are no physical withdrawals.  I cannot, and will not, deny that physical cravings are possible, even likely, but actual withdrawals are simply not a part of the quitting process.

The most difficult aspect of kicking the meth habit is removing oneself from the meth domain.  It is a miserably comfortable environment in which we bond with other miserably comfortable addicts.  We then find comfort, maybe even pleasure, in convincing ourselves we are happy and life couldn't be better.

But who am I to conclude nobody in the dope world is happy?  There may very well be some meth addicts totally satisfied with their lives.  I am only here to speak for myself and to share my story, my views, my thoughts, and my opinions.  And I am of the opinion happiness does not find its home in the lives of those who use methamphetamine daily.

As for the urge, I strongly believe it can only be as deep as is the desire.  In other words, when I am behind bars or thick, metal doors, my desire to be fully awake and alert is nil.  What in the world is there to be awake for?  The sleeping pill I am prescribed twice a day?  But on the other side of the thick, metal door, an abundance of activities or chores await.  This is where the mindset is of the utmost importance.

Do I believe I can take the dogs to the vet, have the leaking faucet repaired, wash, dry and fold the laundry, pull the weeds which are taking over the flower bed, have the oil changed in my car and prepare supper all on the natural energy my body supplies?  Absolutely.  As long as my mind is set properly.  How do the many millions worldwide do it?  The same way I can – on the energy my body receives from the powers of my mind.  It really is simple.  As I mentioned previously, the difficult part is removing one's self from the environment where dope resides.

But what about my friends?  My real friends will be there encouraging me to move out of the dope hood, my fake friends will more than likely do the same – because until I am really gone – they all think they are my friends.  Likewise, until I am really gone, I too, think they are my friends.  They are – my dope friends – nothing more, nothing less.  But particularly – nothing more.  That is one aspect that pains me deeply.


The Boggled Mind

I guess it only takes two weeks
to be totally forgotten
I never thought that all my friends
could make me feel so rotten.

I continue to care for them all
it's the dope that's made them weak.
I will be right here for each one
if my support they ever seek.

I find it totally mind-boggling
that meth has so much power
I have seen it make a grown man
tuck his tail and cower.

It just can't be seen from within
everything seems to be right.
Escape the smoke cloud just one time
and the truth will shine so bright.





The Ties that Bind

I am to my friends
What dope is to me –
Out of sight
Out of mind.                    

                                                                     Deep down I knew
                                                                     Why am I shocked?
                                                                     It was easy to see
                                                                     I am not blind.

They helped me out
when things went wrong
but it was the dope
that tied the bind.

                                       
                                                             Where are they now
                                                                     When I need them most?
                                                                     Stuck out there
                                                                     in the daily grind.

I look over here
I look over there
for all my friends
that I cannot find.

Dedicated to all my friends.  Thanks for making this even easier!


My Best Friend

Looking back at what a fool I've been
shames me to the bone.
For so many years methamphetamine
was the best friend I've ever known.

I've spent a lifetime running away
while doing my own thing –
Leaving my real best friend,
in the gallows alone to hang.

I have treated her as my enemy
'round every curve and every bend.
But now I know just how lucky I am
to have my mother as my best friend!


My To-Do List

The most important item on my immediate to-do list is to capitalize on the time I have left with my mother; it is time I allow us to enjoy each other.  For so long I was limited as to the amount of quality time I could spend with her due to my guilt and shame, not to mention all the lies I had to tell in order to mask the guilt and shame.

She will never know how many times a day I thought about her during the months and months I would not call or even reply to her emails.  I doubt she will ever actually understand and I can't say that I blame her.  Until she and I are able to catch up on being apart for the past 25 years, nothing else on my to-do list matters.

How do I plan on catching up for all the lost time?  However she and I see fit.  We can grab our bowls of peaches and cottage cheese, wrap up in our favorite blankets, get comfy on the sofa and watch some scary movies.  We can go bungee jumping, although I would rather not!  We can go to the gym and push each other to the perfect bodies we both know we are covering up (or we could just play racquetball until we pee on ourselves). I believe that learning yoga and meditation could possibly be the best thing we could do to improve the quality of our lives.

We can take sign language classes together – I know she has always wanted to learn to sign.  We can go shopping at the thrift stores until we can't fit another article of clothing in the car.  We could take up wine-tasting or go bowling or, or.....  we can do anything we please.


I Promise

The only thing that matters
is getting your next fix –
Don't you know there's more to life
and other ways to get your kicks?

Like playing volleyball on the beach
or bowling on Thursday nights –
exercising at the gym
taking the kids to fly their kites.

Snap some pictures of the world around you
or become a scuba diver
You can do anything you dream
even become a race car driver.

Don't choose to throw your life away
for a fifty-cent bag of dope
There's more to life, I promise
You just can't give up hope.


Never

What if I'm not strong enough
to stay away from it for good?
What if I can't just say no
even though I know I should?

I've been a failure all my life
I'm afraid I'll always be.
What exactly shall I do
if it's put in front of me?

Will I be weak and give right in
or will I be able to turn and run?
Will it cause me to slobber and drool
or will it affect me none?

I must, for once, believe in me
and allow myself to prevail.
I know it would only take one time
to send me reeling straight back to Hell.

Staying away is what I will do
and I will do that 'til I die.
I make this promise to myself –
never again will I get high.


But What Will I Do?

Toward the end of 2007, the possibility of changing my life by removing meth from my list of daily activities had presented itself; I was terrified – literally terrified.  Looking back a year later, it is more than safe to assume that I just wasn't ready to quit.  Maybe I hadn't suffered enough – maybe I hadn't lost enough.  Whatever the reason, I was not ready to start living life.

I still remember how frightened I was by the serious possibility of putting the only life I had ever known behind me. The questions I allowed myself to hide behind were, "But what will I do?  How will I spend my time?  What will I do with myself?"

In response to myself a little over a year later, I'd like to say, "Please, Kristi.  Give me a break.  You know the list of things you have always wanted to do is longer than both your legs.  So get your pen and paper and make that list, then go back and add more."

I would like to share my list as well as the actual procedure I used in creating it – it was not a one step process.

First, I brainstormed with my pen in hand and my notepad in front of me.  I jotted down every action verb I could think of, even if it was not an action that appealed to me.  Below is an exact copy of my first brainstorm.


Bowling
Hiking
Cycling
4-Wheeling
Jogging
Exercising
Swimming
Hunting
Scuba Diving
Weight Lifting
Sight Seeing
Fishing
Dancing
Hang Gliding
Boating
Water Skiing
Snow Skiing
Skate-boarding
Rock Hunting
Rock Climbing
Golfing
Writing
Reading
Motorcycle Riding
Camping
Star Gazing
Riding Horses
Gambling
Volunteering
Wine Tasting
People Watching
Parasailing
Kayaking
River Rafting
Teaching
Mentoring
Sewing
Baking
Cooking
Farming
Dog Training
Throwing Darts


Second, I added other activities such as the ones below:

Photography
Museums
Libraries
Movies
Plays
Zoos

Third, I included sports:

Tennis
Frisbee Throwing
Volleyball
Basketball
Softball
Soccer
Racquetball
Polo
Badminton
Horseshoes
Air Hockey

Next, I continued brainstorming in general and added the following:

Rodeo
Become an activist
Mentor
Join classes
Lobby for change in legislation
Offer free services to the indigent/disabled
Visit nursing homes

Finally, I completed my list by adding the things I would like to learn:

American Sign Language
Handwriting Analysis
Face Reading
Creating Astrological Charts
How to Write Fiction
Acupressure – Reflexology
Palm Reading
Yoga
Meditation
Astral Projection
Digital Photo Editing
CPR

After completing the list, or at least partially completing it as I add new things all the time, I went back and marked the items I was/am particularly interested in (I would have preferred highlighting them in yellow, but one is lucky to have a pen while incarcerated; a yellow highlighter is considered contraband and is therefore illegal to be in possession of).

I then reverted back to the list and selected my favorites out of my favorites and pulled them out to be placed in their own special list for me to focus on.


My Apology

There truly are no words in the English language that can convey the deep-seeded guilt I continue to harbor in my heart for all the people whom I have hurt.  My actions have been nothing but selfish and egocentric for the past 25 years and there exists no way for me to properly or adequately express my honest and most sincere apology.

Nobody in their right mind should have it in them to believe these words, as they have more than likely heard the exact same thing, or at least similar, from me at times prior to this.  I promise at least half the times (but probably more) I at least halfway (but probably more) meant every single word.  The only guarantee I can offer that this time is different will make itself apparent in due time.

Some may ask, "If you could rewind time would you?"  My answer is both yes and no.  Yes, I would rewind time in order to erase the pain I have single-handedly afflicted upon those who love/loved me.  No, I would not rewind time to erase all the lessons which took me 25 years to learn.  I lived the life I have for a reason, maybe even for a reason with a purpose.  Hopefully, that undisclosed purpose will prove to have made the past 25 years worthwhile.  I honestly hope with all my heart it will prove to be worthwhile to the masses rather than just to myself.


The Reflection

Looking in the mirror
who is it that I see?
The reflection of a stranger
staring back at me.

Although she looks familiar
I'm sure we've never met
She resembles the Grim Reaper
but I'm not dead just yet.


Rock Bottom

I wanna take you there
         to the bottom of a rock.
It's not too far from here
         just around the block.

Most of your friends are waiting
         with pipe & torch all handy
Relying on you as always
         to bring their favorite candy.

The chaos and the dust will settle
         soon after we arrive
The crowd will cheer rejoicingly
         thankful you made it there alive.

But all those people you see
         aren't really your friends at all
See who's there to catch you
         if ever you should fall.

Oh, of course they really like you
         but only for your product.
Next time come empty handed
         most will tell you to get fucked.


Special Spices

A blend of special spices
Thrown together just for you –
Another batch will be ready
In just an hour or two.

I'll prepare a bowl for you
so sit down at the table.
I'll cook enough for 2nds and 3rds
if you think you're able.

Smoke or snort me for your
breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I'll be sure to trim the fat
So you'll get thinner, thinner, thinner.


Infected

Stop it!  Stop picking at your face!
Blood running down your cheek – such a damn disgrace.
Moving quickly from your face down to your arm –
Picking at the scabs – what could be the harm?

Infection – feel it pumping through your veins
Allowing meth to control your reins.
Do you think you're in charge?  Dope rules you now.
Struggling to break free, but you don't know how.

Stick that needle deep into your arm
Feel it flowing smoothly – working like a charm.
Completely infecting you as it goes
From the tip of your head – down to your toes.


Methamphetamine Blues

My torch is full, my pipe is clean
all I need is some methamphetamine.

I called my girl, she called her guy
he said in an hour she could stop by.

She will have to come here first
so I can put some money in her purse.

Here is where the waiting game begins
It could be hours before it actually ends.

I look out the window, I pace the floor –
It's never taken her this long before.

I dial her number, she answers her phone
"How much longer?"  I pathetically moan.

"I'll get there when I get there.  Have I ever let you down?"
"No, you have not," I answered with a frown.

Thirty minutes later, there's a knock on my door,
"I got you what you wanted, but there's not anymore."

Not anymore?  How in the Hell will I survive?
She said it might be days before the ephedrine arrives.

Impatiently I wait for the mailman to come through –
So my girl's guy can whip me a batch or two.


Smoke Cloud

Listen to yourself
how pathetic that you sound
it's time to pull your head
out of the smoke-filled cloud.

You're not a little kid
begging momma for a treat
get your act together
before you wind up on the street.

Try to give you kid a chance
to be your biggest fan
you should be his super hero~
why not do it while you can?


The Pit

Out of sight – out of mind
I've left the dope scene far behind.

I have finally reached that place
Where the dope is no longer what I chase.

I never thought I would escape from it
I always thought I'd drown in its pit.

But that's not how it's turned out for me
I've escaped the dope world – I'm finally free!


The Price

Crystal Meth or red phosphorous or ice
Make your selection and pay the price.

The cost is unknown until you choose –
You could get busted – be on the ten o'clock news.

Or you could elect just to lose your mind
As a result of the never-ending grind.

Make your decision, there's no time to waste
I'm on a mission to have your future erased.


Just Like You

Don't tell your kids to say no to drugs
And then lock the bathroom door.
Do you really think they're stupid?
They know what you go in there for.

Treating them like they're idiots
Is not the right thing to do.
Unless you want them to end up
Pathetic just like you.


Sea of Dope

I am lost and all alone
in this sea of dope.
I look in every direction
searching for some hope.

As I continue drifting
further out to sea
it becomes apparent
this may be the end for me.

I struggle each and every day
trying just to cope
praying out loud
for someone to throw me a rope.

Wait a minute!  Could
that be land ahead I see?
Is it possible that
salvation is reality?

No longer will I
have to aimlessly grope
Freedom from this shit
is actually in my scope!


Mindless Troll

For so many years
I've controlled your mind
twisted your thoughts
weakened your soul.

But now you want out
live life on your own
make your own choices
play your own role.

Just try to escape
you're going nowhere
you don't have the guts
you're my mindless troll.

Try to outsmart me
I'll knock your ass down
below ground level
you've dug your own hole.

So lay there and weep
but don't think I care
you've ruined your life
I've completed my goal.


The Master

"Come here to me,"
said the master to the slave.
"I will give to you
that in which you crave."

"Obey only me
by using me each day,
I promise to keep
your loved ones away."

"They hate how you worship me
and tell you to quickly run –
But I'm the one who owns your soul
and I've only just begun!"


The Escape

I've allowed my dreams to be shattered
all my hopes are mostly tattered.

My future appears oh so bleak
because the dope has made me weak.

Meth has convinced me this is the way
I continue the motions day after day.

My family begs me to just say no
but this is the only life I know.

So the vicious cycle never ends
straight to Hell – no curves – no bends.

I must escape – I must get out
this cannot be what life's about.

Help me please – just grab my hand
show me how to make my stand.

Thank you, friend, for pulling me through
it looks like I have some work to do.

New hopes and dreams must be made
now that my strength is no longer frayed.


Almost 40

I've lost everything more times than one
all in the name of dope~
I lost a husband, I lost my dog
alone I was left to grope.

No longer striving to have anything
because I would just lose it too,
I let crystal meth win every time
by smoking another bowl or two.

I have nothing, not even a soul
not sure if I ever will~
I've been nobody my whole life
almost 40 – a speed freak still.


Addiction

There is nothing pretty
about drug addiction.
It's about as gruesome
as a head on collision.

For some it's a state of mind
for others it's a condition.
Some addicts are born that way
while others make the decision.

But for all who are concerned
it is a complete submission.
It never takes too long
to believe in the illusion.

Living life as a junkie
and losing all ambition
is not the result
of a person's intention.

Recovery is possible
I'd like to make mention.
But it doesn't come easy~
it's a major transition.


Problems

Don't escape your problems
by using illegal drugs.
Don't resort to joining a gang
or hanging out with thugs.

By doing so your problems
will just increase in size.
Don't drag yourself down that road –
listen to the wise.

No matter your drug of choice
be it heroin, coke, or ice
turn around and walk away
or else you'll pay the price.

The price could be withering away
locked in an 8 x 10 cell
or even worse – a lifetime
of being miserable in Hell.

Working through a problem
by finding a solution
will undeniably create
a promising conclusion.

Talk about your problems
with a counselor, parent or friend –
Dope is only an answer
as a means to your end.


Accidental Turn

Methamphetamine will ruin your life
you and I both know it's true~
Don't go and smoke every day away
when there are more respectful things to do.

The consequences are, oh so many
don't think you'll never get caught
It only takes one accidental turn
for all you dreams and hope to be shot.

Meth will drag you along every rut
and shove you in mud holes too.
It will leave you alone to hide in trees
it will have total control of you.

Put that pipe down and the razor blade also
throw away the gram you just bought.
You still have time to reclaim your life
rather than sitting in a jail cell to rot.


My Mother's Story

I am the mother of a meth addict.  That is so hard to say and I don't want it to be the truth.  I want to wake up from this long, ugly nightmare and for everything to be normal.  But that isn't going to happen.

My daughter, Kristi, started using drugs when she was 13 years old and she continued to use them until she was arrested a third time for felony possession and given a 4-year prison sentence.

When I found out I was pregnant with her over 39 years ago, I couldn't wait to hold and nurture that beautiful little girl.  I saw visions of my precious baby growing up healthy and happy.  I always made sure to take my daily pre-natal vitamin and I tried to eat healthy foods.  I wanted to give her the best start in life that she could have.

On June 13, 1970 after 18 hours of labor, Kristi D'Ann finally entered this world.  She was beautiful and she was perfect.  I couldn't take my eyes off of her.  8 fingers, 2 thumbs and 10 toes – I must have counted them 50 times to make sure they were all there.  She had long, thick eyelashes and soft, smooth skin. 

She was a good baby and so smart!  We used to play with blocks that, when squeezed, a letter of the alphabet would pop up like a Jack-in-the-Box.  She knew what they were and could pronounce those letters before she could even form words.  The only letter that gave her trouble was the letter "W"; she pronounced it "ba-da-ba-da".  So cute!  And she could make the sounds of so many different animals.  One day while we were shopping at Neiman-Marcus (yes – almost all of her clothes came from high-dollar stores.  She was my little princess), and as I walked around the clothes racks with her in my arms, she was making some of those animal sounds. 
Another shopper heard her and came over to comment on how adorable she was and started asking her if she could sound like different animals.  Kristi knew how to imitate all of them.  Then the shopper said, "How about a donkey?"  Uh-oh.  We had never done that one – she wasn't going to know how to do this one.  Kristi thought for a second, then sucked in a breath (as if gasping for air while making an 'e' sound)  then pushed it out again with an 'aaaahh'.  Oh my gosh!  She did it! 

We left her father when she was only 5 months old.  He was an alcoholic, could not hold down a job and was an adulterer.  I had to steal food for her and myself.  As it turned out, the store manager had been watching me for awhile and had been letting me get by with it.  He later told me he could tell from what I was stealing that I was only trying to feed my baby and myself.  I knew the situation would never change, so I packed our clothes and left.  I tried to keep in touch with her father so he could see her, but he was only interested in himself.  In the divorce he was ordered to pay $60 per month in child support, but he didn't care about her and he never paid.  I finally quit trying to get him to show an interest in her when she was about 1 year old.  She never saw him again until she was 21 years old. 

When Kristi was about 4 years old I was working as a secretary in a one-girl office and I was so tired of not being paid what I knew I was worth.  One day the UPS driver who delivered to my office told me that UPS was hiring and gave me a phone number to call.  I was hired on the spot and gave my boss a 2-week notice.  I was going to be making $3.85 an hour!  I was elated.  That was a lot of money back in 1974.  The work was hard, but was so rewarding in pay and benefits.

I had been there a little over 3 years when I noticed one of the tractor-trailer (called 'feeders') drivers watching me.  It didn't matter what time of day I left work, he always seemed to be waiting and watching for me.  I was not attracted to him and I would peek around the corner of the building to make sure he wasn't there, then I'd make a run for the gate before he could see me, but 9 times out of 10 he'd see me and would want to talk. 

After a month or two, he started to grow on me and he was kind of cute.  He was also interested in the same things I was interested in and I got to where I would look for him after work if he wasn't already waiting for me.  It wasn't long and we were living together!

We got married in 1978 and everything was great, except I had to leave my job at UPS.  We could not be married because I was in management and their policy stated you couldn't be related to anyone in management capacity.    In hindsight, I wish I had made him find work elsewhere and let me keep my job, because when UPS went public with their stock, its value shot through the roof and a lot of managers who owned stock (which I did) made a ton of money off of it. 

Ken was very smart and I don't think there was anything he couldn't do, make or fix.  He was dedicated to his job and never missed work.  He was also dedicated to me and my little girl and never wanted to go anywhere without us.  We'd go on snow-skiing vacations and hunting trips.  We even bought dirt bikes and would go to areas that were set up just for dirt-biking and we'd spend the whole weekend riding and camping out. 

Kristi was about 8 years old when we bought her first motorcycle, a Suzuki DS80.  Ken would ride behind her on it, showing her how to shift gears and how to maneuver it.  She was fearless – and her bike showed it.  The fenders were ripped off so many times that we quit replacing them – especially the front fender.  I guess we were lucky she was never hurt from as many times as she 'crashed and burned'.  Oh my gosh – she was a hoot to watch!

We had a nice 3-bedroom home in a quiet upper-middle class neighborhood, and in 1979 we bought a 30' sailboat that we would spend weekends on at the lake all summer long.  It was so much fun diving off the boom into an inflated tire inner tube that was tied to the side.  The boat had 2 bedrooms, a head and a galley and was equipped with an inboard engine.  Kristi was allowed to bring friends with her on occasion and everything was great – except when it came time to swabbing the deck - she did not like that chore.

Ken treated us pretty good for the first couple years, but then the mental abuse started, followed by some pushing, which gradually turned into punching.  This would usually happen when he was sleep deprived, so I tended to try and overlook it.  He would usually bounce back to his old self after getting some sleep. 

Then I started getting the funny feeling that he wasn't being faithful.  It was a very strong gut feeling that I couldn't shake.  I told him what my suspicions were and he'd just laugh at me.  I told him that I wasn't going to follow him or spy on him –  he would prove it by getting a venereal disease.  My suspicions were confirmed in 1980 when he came home and told me I needed to go to the doctor and get a shot for gonorrhea.  I was livid!  He said he must have got it off of a toilet seat at the truck stop, but I knew better. 

I was too embarrassed to go to my own OB/GYN, so I went to a neighborhood clinic.  I was so humiliated to have to go in and request a shot for the nasty venereal disease he had brought home and to top it off, I had to pay $80 for that damn shot!  After the doctor gave me 'the shot', I questioned him about the venereal disease – Could my husband have gotten it off of a toilet seat?  No.  Could he have gotten it any other way other than sexual intercourse?  No.  He was busted!
When I confronted him with what the doctor had told me, he then tried to say I had brought it home.  The nerve!  Why can't the bastard just admit it and get it over with instead of humiliating me even more.

After getting the shot, how was I to know whether it worked or not?  I didn't have any symptoms before the shot, so what if I still had the disease and couldn't tell?  So I decided to make an appointment with my OB/GYN and find out for sure.  Anyway, I did trust him more than the doctors at the neighborhood clinic.

When I tearfully told him about the gonorrhea, my doctor told me that my chances of getting that nasty disease were very slim because of the hysterectomy I had several years earlier, because I didn't have the organs gonorrhea attaches itself to.  He said it would have traveled immediately to my fallopian tubes and I would have been in almost instant pain.  So, I could now also PROVE it wasn't me that brought it home.  BUSTED AGAIN!

When Ken got home from work I told him, "Tell it to the judge, asshole!"  But I didn't go through with the divorce.  I don't know why I didn't.  I think it was because I was so embarrassed and didn't want to tell anyone about it, not even a lawyer.  Statistics show that women stay with their abusers.  Why?  Why don't we leave?  Do we really think they are going to change their abusive behaviors?  Why wasn't the abusive killing of her raccoon another sign?

Not long after that, we bought some horses, but we didn't have anyplace to keep them, so we kept them at his parent's home in Sherman, Texas, which was about a 2 hour drive from our home.  When we weren't on the lake or on vacation, it seemed like we were always at their house, so we did get to ride them while there.  The horse we had initially bought for Ken was Buck -  a big buckskin Tennessee Walker.  He was huge – 16 hands.  The smaller horse, Misty, was a roan Western Quarter Horse.  She was smaller and more my size.  But, she was so spunky and hard to handle -  I was not comfortable riding her.  Buck was more laid back and so much smoother to ride, so we swapped.  Kristi had an Appaloosa pony named Shadow that didn't seem to know how to run in a straight line – she wanted to run sideways all the time.  We used to joke that she must have been a circus horse prior to us getting her and was used to running around in a circular ring.  Kristi would get so mad at her for running sideways and we'd laugh so hard at her.  She hated that horse.

We decided to look for a house with some acreage so we could have our horses with us.  While shopping for some new snow skiing apparel in Wylie, Texas, I stopped in at a realtor's office and told her what we were looking for.  The second house she showed me was huge and had 3 acres.  It was fenced and cross-fenced and had a barn with 2 stalls, a workshop and a huge hayloft.  And it was only 1 mile from Lake Lavon that had a boat slip that would be just perfect for keeping our sailboat.  When I saw the inside, I was sold on this house.  Not only was it perfect for the horses and the boat, the den was 20' x 40' and would be perfect for our new 58" big screen TV.  We bought the house and moved in – it was now 1981.

Not long after moving in, the physical abuse escalated, but I didn't bruise easily and I thought I needed more 'proof'.  And he started 'taunting' Kristi more, calling her names and making fun of her.  And if she didn't do a chore she was assigned, he would bop her on the head – sometimes way too hard. 

My mother had come for a visit and while here she told me, "He's doing something to her."  I knew Kristi was scared of him and didn't like him, but I thought it was mainly because of his strictness.  I never suspected he was doing anything else to her.
One day while I was sitting on the floor in the entry hall polishing a brass hall tree, Kristi came to me and told me that he had come to her room naked and wanted her to 'touch' him and how he had touched her.  I couldn't look up.  I don't think I was even breathing!  I just kept polishing the brass, not knowing how to react.  I didn't want to over-react and scare her even more – I had to be calm.  But on the other hand I didn't want to hear what I was hearing, either.  Oh my gawd!  How was I going to afford to keep my home with only my salary?  How was I going to pay for utilities and buy food?  No!  She has to be lying!  This can't be the truth – he wouldn't do that!

She told me how he said, "This will make you love me like you love your mother and your grandmother."  And he went on to say "You know that if you tell your mother she will leave me and she'll lose everything."  That is why she didn't tell me for over a year after it had happened.  She was only telling me then because he had just told her he was going to do it again. 

My thoughts were racing around in my head.  Part of me didn't want to believe her because it would be so traumatic – what were we going to do?  Where were we going to go?  Yet the other part of me knew it was the truth.  She was too young and too naïve to have come up with such a story. 

At that time, Ken was out in the barn and I visualized myself getting the rifle, going out to the barn and blowing his sick head off.  Instead, I picked up the phone and called a lawyer that I knew (we bowled on the same team)  –  this was on a Sunday – and he told us to come and talk to him.  I made up some excuse to Ken for Kristi and I to leave the house and we drove to the lawyer's office where he met us.  He told me that I could not have Ken removed from the house until we went before a judge, which could take several weeks.  What were we supposed to do during that time?  How was Kristi going to be safe from him while I was at work?  I worked during the day and Ken worked at night, so Kristi would be alone with him for several hours before I could get home.

When we got home, I told Kristi to get the phone and be ready to call 911, because I was going out to the barn to confront Ken and to tell him I was filing for divorce.  He, of course, denied everything Kristi said he did – she was lying.  I wanted to believe him so badly!  I didn't want to go through a divorce.  I didn't want to lose my house, my horse and everything else I had worked so hard for.  I knew I would never get it all again.  And Kristi was feeling so guilty because, just like he had told her, "If you tell your mother, she will lose everything."  Sure enough, I was going to lose everything. 

After I told him I was filing for divorce, he fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around my ankles and started to cry.  He begged me to believe him.  I was both sick to my stomach over what he did to her and scared to death over how I was going to make everything happen as smoothly as possible.

In the following weeks after I told him I was filing for divorce, he'd bring me a single red rose every day.  When he'd hand it to me I'd immediately turn around and put it in the garbage can.  I hated him for what he had done to her and what I was now going through.  On another day while standing in our bedroom, he fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around my ankles again.  The desperation in his voice while he begged me not to divorce him had escalated.  He told me his life was over if I left him and that he was going to tell the judge that he didn't want a divorce.  It was real scary listening to him – there was so much anxiety in his voice. 

I tried several times to poison him by putting rat poison in his coke – I didn't even think about what I would do if he actually died.  What was I going to do with the body?  How would I explain his disappearance?  None of that even entered my mind – I just wanted him GONE.  I hated him for how he messed up Kristi's life and was now messing mine up.  Bastards like him should not be allowed to live.

Weekends were intolerable.  During the week we could pretty much stay away until he was gone, but we couldn't on weekends.  On one such weekend he and I got into an argument in the master bedroom.  During the middle of the shouting match, Kristi walked in with a handgun, pointed it right at him and threatened to pull the trigger if he didn't leave her mama alone.  Kristi's and my recollection of this occurrence differ greatly.  I remember thinking to myself, "Pull the trigger!  Pull the trigger!"  But then I realized how devastating this would be for a little girl to experience and I quickly told her to put the gun down.  It became more and more apparent to him that he needed to go.  I later found brochures in his vehicle for several different apartment complexes he was looking at.

I had instructed Kristi to not go home when the school bus dropped her off.  She was to go to a neighbor's and/or friend's house until Ken had left for work, which was around 4 PM.  One day I got home earlier than normal and when I walked into the doorway of the den Ken was sitting on the couch and his rifle was leaned against the wall next to it.  My heart sunk to my toes and I thought Kristi was already dead and now it was my turn.  There was no time to run.

Ken looked at me then turned and looked at his rifle, then back at me as he said, "I'm only cleaning it." 

That did it!  I had to get him out of this house!  I called the lawyer and told him how scared I was for our lives.  He told me that for another $180 I could file protective orders and have him removed from the house.  Why the hell didn't he tell me this before?!?!  We were living in such hell all this time and I could have had him removed weeks ago for another $180?! 

Ken was served papers at work and was not allowed to come near the house or us.  We felt safer for a little while.  But then I noticed mail missing – he was checking the mail and stealing insurance reimbursement checks.  And one rainy, cold day I came home from work to find the gate to the pasture open.  Oh, no!  The horses probably got out and I was going to have to find them and it was starting to get dark.  But then I looked up and was relieved when I saw them standing in the barn – they didn't want to get out in the rain. 

A few days later I rounded the curve to my home and something didn't look right up on the roof.  After I parked my car in the garage I walked around the back of the house to find that 4 of the turbines had been ripped off the roof.  It was still raining and cold and I had to do something to keep the rain from going in the holes that were now exposed.  I managed to get 3 of the turbines back on, but one proved to be more difficult, so I had to nail a piece of plastic over that hole.  While heading back to the ladder, my feel lost traction on the wet, cedar shingles and I started sliding down.  I fell off the roof and landed on my left side.  Lucky for me the ground had been softened by the rain soaked ground so no bones were broken, but I was pretty sore from the fall.

Several days later I sat down on the edge of my bed and was going to start getting my tax paperwork ready for filing and I noticed the stack of papers I had gathered the night before was missing.  I immediately looked under my pillow and my .38 Police Special that I had loaded with hollow points was also missing.  I looked under my bed and my rifles were also gone!!  That bastard had broken in and taken my paperwork and my guns.  Now, in thinking back to the turbines, I had initially thought a strong wind from the storm had maybe blown them off, but it was obvious now that he had come over and torn them off and left the gate open hoping the horses would get out.

As the days went by I noticed other things missing; i.e. some semi-nude pictures of me that he had taken, my saddle with matching bridle and breast collar and the remote control to the big screen.  He also took $20 that Kristi had sitting on her desk in her room. 

I immediately called my bank and told them I was going through a divorce and to not let him have access to my account.  They told me I would need to come in and open another account and to leave only enough money in that account to cover checks I had written.  One of those checks was to the divorce lawyer for $3,500.  A few days later I was notified by the lawyer that my $3,500 check had bounced.  I called the bank and asked what had happened.  They told me Ken had come in and stopped payment on all those checks and took the money.  What?!?!  How could they allow this to happen?  Why didn't they call me?  Why was this happening to us?

It was storming that day, too, and I was livid with how he was getting by with everything.  I didn't have any guns to grab to go after his ass with, but I found a huge pipe wrench, threw it in the car and drove over to his apartment.  I banged on the door, but he was not home.  I was going to break a pane out of the door so I could reach in and unlock the door, but it was a double locking door and that wouldn't work.  A few feet from the door was a sliding glass patio door.  I hit it several times with the pipe wrench, but it wouldn't break and I was afraid the other apartment residents would hear me and call the police.  But I wanted in that apartment – I wanted our stuff back.  I reared back with that pipe wrench and slammed it against the glass.  At that same time lightning struck and the glass shattered into a million pieces.  The lightning strike covered the sound of the breaking glass and no one even noticed.  I went in and found the pictures and some of my tax papers, but my saddle, guns and remote were not there.  Then on the way out the door I saw the remote control to his little TV and I took it. 

A few months later I had a friend drive me to the UPS parking lot.  I was going to take his 4-wheel drive Scout.  I was going to make his life as miserable as he was trying to make ours.  The security guard saw us, but before he could get to us, my friend jumped in the Scout and took off, with me close behind in my Cadillac.  We parked the Scout in a parking lot at a grocery store in Wylie.

A few days later the police called me and said I had been named as a suspect in the theft of a vehicle.  I told them there was no theft – it was community property.  I later got scared and told them where they could find it.  I knew I wasn't a lucky person and I'd end up in jail if I hadn't told them where to find it.

It was amazing to me how he was allowed to get by with everything he was doing to us.  But I wasn't going to let him get by with what he did to Kristi.  I had filed a police report and they were going to prosecute.  I told the prosecuting attorney that I wanted him to have, at the least, 2 weeks in jail.  I was told that inmates hate child molesters and they would 'take care of him'.  I wanted that to happen so badly! 

Well .... He got by with that, too.  Since he wouldn't admit to what he had done and since there wasn't a videotape of him doing it, it was his word against hers and he walked out with a Not Guilty decision.

In looking back now, I wish I had not filed the child molestation charge.  I saw Kristi start to change the day she had to sign the summons for court.  She started dressing weird with bandanas tied around her ankle, wearing ratty t-shirts, and not caring about her hygiene.  She would disappear for days at a time and I cried until I thought my eyes were bleeding.  I still had to get up and go to work – I had to keep my job! 

Then it was time to get the divorce proceedings rolling along.  We were in and out of court for over 5 years.  He was fighting over brooms and extension cords!  We finally went before a judge that said, "This has been going on long enough.  We're finishing it today." 

We were in the courthouse until after midnight, but it was finally finalized.  The judge didn't care to hear about the adultery, nor the child molestation charge.  Extension cords, ironing boards and everything else divided up.  I got to keep the house that I had put $50,000 down on (which was borrowed against the house I had before I met him).  He got that house, which was a custom built, 3-bedroom, 2-bath home in Richardson, TX.  He also got the horses, horse equipment, horse trailer, 30' sailboat and the vacation condo in Palestine, TX.  He never had to return my guns or saddle.  I got stuck with all the credit card bills because they were all in my name.  I lost more than him, but he was finally gone.

In the meantime, Kristi was running amok.  She was seldom home and when she was home it was usually to steal something.  Several gold necklaces disappeared, my video camera and video player and no telling what all I never noticed.  Then she'd disappear again.  I finally called the Child Abuse Hotline and told them what I was going through and asked for help – I didn't know what to do.  They referred me to Straight, Inc. – a treatment center for adolescents.  I called them and asked for information and they asked what my daughter was doing.  I gave them a quick run down and they told me she was doing drugs and they could help her.  I told them she wasn't doing any drugs, but I agreed to bring her in for them to talk to her, but I would have to find her first – she had disappeared again.
I finally found her 2 days later and told her we were going to talk to a counselor.  While there, she admitted to using 15 different types of drugs, including sniffing the vapors from the gas tank!  What?!  These kids were even frying Close-Up toothpaste and snorting it.  I'd never heard of such stuff in my life.

They told her to give me her jewelry and anything she had in her pockets and, surprising both her and me, immediately 'enrolled' her into their facility.  Boy, what a ride that was!  She would be spending her days at that facility where she'd be counseled and taught how to cope with whatever was troubling her and at night she would go home with up to 6-8 other troubled kids to a 'Host Mothers' house.  The boys and girls were kept separate from one another. 

To be a Host Mother, you had to have some type of alarm system on your doors and windows and you had to have all drugs, cleaning compounds, utensils, etc. locked up so they couldn't gain access to them.  You also had to put mattresses on the floor in the room they would be sleeping in – all were to be put in the same room.  No other objects were allowed in that room – only the mattresses and bedding.  The closet had to be equipped with a lock and they were to strip down to their underwear for sleeping and their clothes locked in the closet.  If they were going to try and run, they would have to run in their underwear.  The door to that room also had to have an alarm on it.

It took me several months to become a Host Mother and luckily for me, I had a boss at that time who allowed me to start work an hour or two later, because I had to drive the girls to the facility every morning.  I was so happy that my daughter was getting help and she wasn't on the street without me knowing where she was.  But that didn't last long.  One day she was able to get out the door of the facility and she ran. 

A week or so later while I was out driving around looking for her, something I did every night after work, I spotted her walking with Jodie, a little girl she knew from school, and Jodie's father, Bert.  It later turned out his pick-up had run out of gas and they were walking to a gas station – he was on his way to buy more crank for them.  How could a father do such a thing?!  I thought he loved his daughter.  If you love your child, you don't buy them dope!  Kristi and Jodie were 15 years old.

As I hit my brakes to turn onto the street where they were walking, a police car had just pulled up to the stop sign on that street.  I quickly made my turn and stopped by his door and screamed, "That man has my daughter!  She's a runaway!  Get her!"  I then took off in Kristi's direction and, surprisingly, she ran from me!  Why was she running from me – I'm her mother and I love her and only want to help her.  She ran behind a dumpster that was next to a business.  I quickly jumped out of my car and ran after her, thinking, "Oh my gawd – if she runs, I'll never catch her." 

Kristi didn't run any further – she just stood there and I grabbed her, hugging her and asking where she'd been – why hadn't she called – I was so worried.  She didn't fight me, but she didn't hug me back, either.  Turned out she was high on crank.

The policeman put her in his squad car and took her to the station where they started questioning us.  While we were talking she was digging at her left wrist with her fingernail and I asked her what the heck she was doing.  She calmly answered, "I'm digging."  At that time I heard Bert at the front counter telling the policeman at the front desk that he was there to pick up Kristi.  She was living with him.  WHAT?!  I jumped up out of my chair and ran to the front desk and I screamed at him that he would play hell ever getting my daughter again.  I said, "You don't even have utilities or running water!  Your daughter has to come to my house to shower for school!  I'll kill you if you ever get near my daughter again!"  At that time I didn't know they were headed to get more drugs – I thought he loved his daughter and never in my wildest dream did I ever think he'd be doing drugs with her.  I was so naïve I didn't even know HE did drugs.  Several years later I found out he was selling dynamite, so I made a Crime Stopper phone call and told them everything I knew.  I later heard he was in prison, but that it was for possession of drugs.

The police threatened to throw me in jail for the threat I had just made to Bert.  I walked off and got on a phone and called Straight, Inc. and asked for help.  One of the 'Dads' immediately came to Wylie, picked her up and took her back to Straight, Inc.

It wasn't long before she ran again and this time, after breaking into my bedroom and stealing more things that ended up in numerous pawn shops, she took off for Tennessee with some other druggie friends of hers.  She ended up marrying a low-life 'mountain man'.  I was devastated.  And he turned out to be an abuser, too – beating on her and even putting a gun to her head.  She finally left him, but she was still into drugs and hanging with that type of crowd and one night while out partying, someone ran over her with their Nissan car.  I got the call one evening that she had been Care flighted to a trauma hospital in Knoxville, TN.  The doctor told me she was in an upper body cast and he wasn't sure if she'd ever walk again.

My boyfriend and I quickly loaded the car and headed for Tennessee.  When I got there, she was not in her room and I just knew she was either dead or in surgery.  Turned out she was outside smoking a damned cigarette!  I hate the fact that she had taken up smoking – I've never smoked and I think it is such a nasty, stupid, costly habit. 

Anyway, she was in a halo – a brace that is attached to the shoulders so the head can't move at all – and was walking around!  That, other than the smoking part, was such a good sight!  But the happiness of that sight wouldn't last because she had elected to go home with that red-headed mountain hick she was married to.  That was September, 1995.

Right after that, my mother had come to live with me.  Mom was 75 years old, had emphysema and a bad heart.  And she was tired of life.  She committed suicide in my backyard on a Sunday afternoon in February, 1996. 

I made arrangements for Kristi to come to Dallas on a Greyhound Bus so she could attend the funeral and she never returned to Tennessee, but the cycle of drugs, jail and useless men continued until she was incarcerated in November, 2008 and sentenced to 4 years at The Woodman State Jail in Gatesville, TX. for possession of a controlled substance.

I was in attendance the day her sentence was reached and I could not control my crying and that annoying 'squeek' in my throat every time I breathed in.  How the hell could she be going to prison for crimes she committed against herself?  The person who committed the initial crime of molestation against her walked free, yet she was being locked up for being a victim.

But now, that precious little girl I gave birth to almost 40 years ago, is home, healthy and I am so happy!  She is so smart and so special and I know nothing will ever get in her way again. 

Look out world!  Here she comes!


Want help? Need help? Here's help!

Although not true for everyone, as some addicts thoroughly enjoy being held captive to the dope, most know that they want out. Discovering that way out, however, is often more difficult than admitting that there is a problem to begin with. I have put together a list of online resources to aid in the challenging second step of freeing one's self from such a devastating habit. Dialing a number, knowing that the person who answers the phone will already know why you are calling, is not a glorious task. BUT, it is one that must be done. Why? Because you know you don't want to live like this anymore. Plain and simple.

For the addict, admitting they have an addiction problem can be tough. However painful this may be, it must be acknowledged as the first gradient to overcoming the problem. The next hurdle is being willing to seek and accept help from a meth rehabilitation center. It can be hard to confront the fact that one can not recover from a meth addiction alone. Once the individual accepts the fact that attending a meth rehab is necessary, it is time to seek the appropriate professional treatment. Meth rehab programs based on the social education modality are highly successful. This means that individuals who are recovering from a meth addiction are not made wrong for their past indiscretions, but are taught how to avoid future ones. They are provided with knowledge on how to change their lives and how to live comfortably without meth. Research studies show that residential meth rehab programs of at least three months in duration have the best success rates. Three months may seem like a long time, but one day in the life of an individual addicted to meth can feel like an eternity. Addiction is a self imposed hellish slavery. The chains can be broken, people do it everyday.

So, before dialing that number, check out these helpful resources; surely you will find one that appeals to you ~ then dial that number!

http://www.findtreatment.samhsa.gov/
http://www.crystalmeth.org/
http://www.stopmethaddiction.com/  or 1-800-405-8409
http://drug-rehabs.org/  or 1-877-437-8422
http://www.methaddictiontreatment.com/  or 1-800-461-0641
http://www.methamphetamineaddiction.com/  or 1-800-468-6933
http://www.recoverythroughsupport.com/articles/2005/03/meth-addiction-help.html 
http://www.soberrecovery.com/links/crystalmeth.html  or 1-866-481-7983
http://www.methrehab.com/ or 1-866-925-4035