toward
darkness.
Withdrawing from Heroin
Is a whole lot worse.
When you OD, you have no idea
you’re tumbling toward death.
When you withdraw,
you have no doubt about it.
It’s like being underwater,
and really, really needing to breathe.
You swim as hard as you can,
but you’re too deep
and it’s taking too long,
you won’t break the surface
in time. If you inhale,
you’ll drown, but there’s no oxygen
left and your body’s on fire
and your lungs ache with trying.
Then, there’s projectile puking
and green water squirts.
Your joints throb and there’s no relief
for three days because you can’t sleep
without help from the poppy.
It’s all you can think about.
Just one more rig to kill
the pain and rescue you
from the black depression,
knowing you’re helpless,
smashed flat into the ground
beneath the feet of the Lady.
Unbelievably
The person helping me weather
those first few days
was the very woman I blame
for chasing me away from home
and into the arms of the man
who would become my pimp.
I expected my mom’s scorn,
not her apology. Oh, Whitney.
Thank God you’ve come back
to me. I’m so sorry. If I had
lost you forever, I don’t know
what I would have done. Please,
Whitney, whatever your reasons
for leaving, for . . . for . . .
She couldn’t finish, could
not bring herself to put into
words the things the cops
must’ve told her, the awful
things their evidence showed—
that I’d been turning tricks
in a stinking apartment
in a disgusting neighborhood
in America’s filthiest city.
I still don’t feel even close
to dirt-free five weeks later,
despite the pristine living conditions
here at Clean Slate, a five-star rehab.
As Rehabs Go
I doubt you could find a better
one, or one with a higher
maintenance fee. That’s what
they do here—maintain our sobriety.
You get what you pay for, yes
you do, and as the Clean Slate
brochure describes this place:
The buildings are sleek modern,
with big, open rooms flooded
with natural light gleaming
against polished ceramic tile
and walls painted in rich earth
tones. Client bedrooms are all
private, with windows that open
to invite the Pacific breezes inside.
Right. For a quote-unquote
lockdown rehab, the shackles
and bars are mostly invisible.
Clean Slate is close to the beach
near Santa Cruz, which used to be
where I lived. Those Pacific
breezes smell like home, and
the perfectly manicured grounds
remind me, too often, that I’ll go
back there once they decide
I’m capable of reentering
mainstream teenager-hood.
My Day
Consists of group and
individual therapy.
Schoolwork to catch me
up to where I was when
I nose-dived into the bottomless pit.
Exercise, to keep my mind off
the ever-present craving
for the Lady. Exercise!
Man, after doing little but trolling
for johns for so long, my body
was slack. I chose yoga,
and have to admit it’s helping
both muscle tone and relaxation.
Everyone on staff here, from
teachers to trainers to therapists,
looks like they stepped out
of a TV soap—cute, fit,
with pretty smiles they offer freely.
Most of the residents match
that description, too, minus
the smiles, which we’re stingy
with. Of course, drugs of one kind
or another are largely responsible
for our collective willowy-ness,
which for many is exacerbated
by eating disorders.
Drug-free but fucked up—
that’s the umbrella we share.
I’m Told
By rehab regulars that some
facilities encourage the use
of maintenance meds—
methadone or suboxone,
which allow substitute euphoria
without later withdrawal.
But Clean Slate expects
a total system scrub.
As Guru Naomi says,
Relying on a substance
to keep you off another
substance won’t make you
self-reliant, and that’s our
goal. Weather the pain,
the gain is greater.
I am currently one-on-one
with so-cute-she-gags-me Naomi
who, if her looks accurately
represent her age, must be
right out of Therapist School.
Not the smartest woman, but
I think she thinks she cares.
Can we talk about why
you first started using?
Too much stress at home?
Unrealistic expectations?
Why your perceived need
to escape reality?
Perceived?
Escaping reality wasn’t
a choice. It was necessity.
I’ve avoided opening
this box of memories,
but now that I can sleep
again, nightmares visit
regularly. Maybe talking
about it will help.
“I didn’t use before I went
to Vegas. Well, a little weed
and alcohol, but everyone
I knew got high once in
a while. No big deal.
It was just having fun.”
But it became a big deal,
and when it did, it almost
killed you. Do you think
you might’ve made better
decisions had you avoided
substances completely?
Ack. I hate when she asks
questions with obvious
answers. I know I shouldn’t
respond, but my resident
interior smart-ass (RIS) has
a big mouth. “Do you avoid
substances completely?”
No, I don’t, Whitney. But I’m
thirty, not fifteen, which is how
old you were when you embarked
on the journey to nowhere,
right? Fifteen years makes a huge
difference, as does experience.
Thirty? No way. Talk about
well-preserved! “What do you
want me to say? Of course I
would have made better decisions
had I not gotten high to begin with.
Or was that a trick question?”
Shut up, RIS. You aren’t
being very helpful. “Look.
I wasn’t hooked on weed
or booze. I don’t even have
an addictive personality or
whatever. You can’t not get
hooked on heroin, you know???
?
Some people can use it once
or maybe even a couple of
times without developing
an addiction, but it’s rare.
Obviously it didn’t work like
that for you. Are you ready
to talk about Las Vegas now?
I Look at Her
All goofy-eyed and pertly
ponytailed. How can I admit
to her the raw things I’ve seen,
the slimy things I’ve done?
She only wants to obtain
my confession because it’s her
job. Wonder if it will earn
her a bonus. Still, what have
I got to lose? It might even
be fun to freak her out.
“What do you want to know?”
She looks surprised. Everything.
According to the police report,
you were likely prostituting
yourself. Is that accurate? At
my nod, she asks, But why?
“For love, at least at first.”
I reward her with a shortened
version of how I met my former
pimp outside the Gap. How
he rescued me from a party where
my so-called boyfriend was groping
another girl. How he promised
to put me to work modeling,
convinced me to run away
to Vegas with him, set us
up in an apartment. How
modeling segued into sex
in front of a webcam, then . . .
I think I’ve heard this story.
He needed you to earn some
money so you could have
a nicer place. “Just once,
for me. Oh, and try a little
taste of heroin. That will make
everything easier.” Before
you knew it, you were hooked,
and doing whatever you had
to do to keep supplied.
She has heard this story.
How many girls like me
there must be in the world!
And some of them leave it
in awful ways. At least
Bryn didn’t hurt me, not
physically, the way some
pimps do. “That’s pretty
much it,” I admit. “Then I
found out he kept a whole
stable of ‘models.’ I was just
another one of his girls.”
That stings to say. And while
he never beat me, he scarred
my heart. I doubt I’ll ever be
able to trust a guy again.
As for love, what’s the point?
I Don’t Expect Sympathy
Okay, maybe a little. Instead,
Naomi’s jaw stiffens like cement
setting up, and her eyes take
on a serious chill. Total
transformation. Let me ask
you this. Why would you leave
a cushy life in a nice home,
with a family who supported
you? Why would you let them
worry for months that you might
be dead? A little selfish, yes?
Whoa. She can be downright
mean. Come on, RIS, think of
something to say. “You don’t
know anything about my family.
All my mom cares about is her
country club and taking my sister,
Kyra, shopping. All my dad cares
about is work. They probably didn’t
even notice I was gone for a week.”
And Kyra no doubt threw a bon
voyage, good riddance party.
Sometimes there’s a decent bit
of distance between perception
and fact, especially when it comes
to teenagers and their parents.
Did you ever stop to consider
you might have been wrong?
Not until Mom’s barrage
of apologies in the hospital.
Of course, Dad showed up
all pissed and disgusted.
And Kyra, my loving sister?
All she cared about was
her reputation. How could
you do this to me? What
happens if my friends find out?
So, “No, Naomi, I’m pretty
damn sure I was spot on.
No one noticed me when
I was there. Why would they
miss me when I was gone?”
The universe doesn’t revolve
around you. Me, me, me.
Tiresome. I’ve talked to your parents,
and your sister. If you’d died,
they would’ve been devastated.
Did you know your mom spent
hours and hours e-mailing
your photo to law enforcement
agencies? That’s how the police
knew who you were when they
found you, lying there frothing.
Had you been just another hooker,
who knows how hard they would
have tried to resuscitate you?
Derailed
By dimpled blond Naomi.
So much for sympathy.
So much for trying to justify
the dumb moves I made.
I’ll try to pacify her, paint
my face with contrition.
“You’re right. I was totally
selfish, and I’m sorry I hurt
my family.” As the words
fall from my mouth, I realize
they’re maybe true. “I’m just
a stupid girl who fell in love
with the wrong man.”
Tell me about him. What
was so special about this
guy that made every ounce
of common sense desert you?
“Br—Bryan is to die for.
Cute. Smart. Drives a cool
car. Mostly, he treated me
like I was the most amazing
girl he’d ever met. He swore
I was beautiful, and made me
believe it. No one else has
ever done that for me.”
Okay, that sounds lame. Totally TV.
I Don’t Out Bryn
To Naomi—I call him
Bryan. Bryn is a peculiar
name, one that stands out,
and even as hurt and pissed
as I am, getting him in trouble
(he could go to prison
for a very, very long time)
isn’t on my “to do today” list.
Don’t ask me why not.
Part of me would genuinely
enjoy seeing him locked up
in a cell with some beefy guy,
looking for a little action.
I’d probably pay to watch.
Despite that, the biggest
piece of schizo me remains
head-in-the-clouds in love
with the bastard. How is that
possible? I’ll never forget
hours and hours, curled up
in a corner, stomach knotting,
body shaking beneath beads of salt
sweat, waiting for him to bring
powdered relief, cursing the day
I met him, weeping at my need
for him, screaming into the silence,
“Please come, Bryn. Please
come and make love to me!”
A Poem by Eden Streit
Screaming into the Silence
No one to hear
the brittle cries
but shadows thrown
against the walls and
I
burrow my face into
the quilts to shut out
the demon dance.
This nightmare I
can’t
escape walks and breathes
beyond the confine
s
of sleep, and with it
a monster impossible to
forget,
grinning. Leering.
Whispering lust-infused
ballads through serrated
teeth. He carries in
his
hand a perfect strawberry,
offers it like treasure,
and when I bend to taste
it, he smashes it into my
face.
Eden
Walk Straight
Was a godsend to me, maybe
even literally. I’d been sleeping
on the streets, crashing behind
Dumpsters, offering myself up
to passersby for meager money,
barely enough to eat. I would
say “survive,” but that requires
being alive, and I was one of
the walking dead when I threw
a plea skyward, “Please, God,
please, if it’s your will, show
me the way out.” It wasn’t God
who actually answered, but
a priest in the Catholic church
I had sleepwalked into.
How can I help you? he asked,
trying not to look disgusted by
the odor clinging to the awful
Salvation Army clothes I wore.
I didn’t know how he could help,
but once he had no doubt about
my circumstances, Father Gregory
knew exactly how. He sent me here
to Walk Straight, a rescue for teen
prostitutes intent on a better life.
Teen Prostitute
How can I ever reconcile that
title in front of my name? It’s so
contrary to everything about me—
the straitlaced daughter
of an evangelical preacher and his strict,
overbearing wife. Mama. At least
she was until she sent me to hell on earth,
a reform school of sorts called
Tears of Zion, where they isolated me
in a tiny room, only a Bible for company.
Barely fed me. Rarely bathed me.
Forced me to meditate on my sins—
chief among them falling in love
with Andrew, the Catholic boy with
attitude and spiritualistic belief beyond
the ken of my hellfire and brimstone
parents. With love as my sin, it was
only proper that my redemption
would come at the hands of a devil,
my savior Jerome, a Tears of Zion
apostle with a sick appetite for sex
with young girls like me, who he wanted
to own. I did what he required in trade
for an escape route across the desert—
my path to prostitution when I fled from him.