Traffick

  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.