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Letter from a Crack Addict
by Jane Doe

I am a crack addict. I suppose some would refer to me as a poly-user (an addict who uses more than one drug on any given day), but crack is my drug of choice. Today I am in recovery and have not used any drugs in 90 days. I am very proud of this, but it hasn’t been easy; in fact, it has been a long, hard journey.

Seven years ago, I had a wonderful marriage. My husband and I owned our own business and it was not unusual for us to earn six figures a year. He is not the father of my three children, but he was a good father to them. Because our business called for my husband and his helper to travel (we had customers all over Georgia and Florida), it was routine for them to leave town on Mondays and the children and I would join them on Fridays for weekends at the beach. This was the good life and I still think about and miss it sometimes.

About four years ago, my husband began acting strangely. He stopped answering his cell phone when he was out of town and refused to let me know what hotel and room number they were staying in. His excuse was that they worked late and he never knew where they would be staying. He also became very secretive about his credit cards and wouldn’t allow me to have one of my own, stating that they were for business purposes only.

One day about six months after this strange behavior began, I opened one of his credit card statements (he was out of town on yet another business trip; these were becoming more and more frequent). I was shocked to find cash ATM withdrawals of $800 - $1000/day every time he was out of town! I knew it was either a woman or a drug and I know my husband – he’s too cheap to spend that kind of money on a woman, so when he came home, I asked him what drug he was on. He stuck a glass pipe in my mouth and said “ Try this, you’ll like it; it’s crack”. I was immediately hooked.

For the next year, we smoked every day, spending practically every dollar we made on more and more crack. Toward the end of this time, my husband’s helper informed me that when they went out of town to work, the two of them would have prostitutes in their hotel rooms, buying them crack for blowjobs and sex. My husband vehemently denied this, saying that his helper just wanted to get in my pants. Since this was true, I dismissed these claims and defended my husband. Soon after, my husband went back to prison for four dirty urinalyses (he had served seven years of a thirty year sentence for a federal crime under the RICO Act) and remained incarcerated for eighteen months. I remained faithful to him during this time because he insisted on it. I also had my hands full trying to run the business, raise three children, and maintain my crack habit. Two weeks after he got out of prison, he “fessed up” to the dozens of prostitutes he had been with during the year prior to his incarceration. I was devastated and heartbroken. I had defended him to everyone (even on the street where we bought our dope) and I felt like a fool.

Around this time, something strange started happening. Every time we would ride down a particular street to buy some more crack, the street prostitutes would chase the car. Little did I know, but I was about to find out from the prostitutes, that my husband had been picking them up, too! When I expressed difficulty accepting this devastating news, he informed me that I would just have to “get over it”.

Well, I did get over it! The next time he went back to jail (he was caught stealing and his probation was revoked), I hit the street. I decided to become what he seemed to love so much – a prostitute. I would really pay him back and I would also be able to get my crack needs met (my oldest child was grown and my two youngest had been taken from me by DFACS and placed with other family members due to my arrest with a crack pipe during a traffic stop). Little did I know that revenge has a way of biting you in the rear.

I announced my intent to become a prostitute to the other girls. Needless to say, they were not overjoyed and were less than willing to help me in any way. However, one girl said she would help me for half my dope. I agreed, knowing full well I was not about to give her half my dope (I’m a little crazy, but not stupid!). She introduced me to a Macon Police Officer and he was my first “date”. I was off and running! I learned very quickly that no one wanted anything to do with me unless they thought they could get some crack or money from me. Many times they did. I was very naïve and trusting and had to quickly learn “the game” if I was to survive. Thankfully, one of the smokers on the street (I’ll call him “Jackson”) had seen me before and wanted me to be his girlfriend. I knew he only wanted me for the dope and money, but for the time being, that was okay. I needed the help and protection. Jackson and I became inseparable. He taught me everything I needed to know about how to survive on the street. I learned the street slang, the code of ethics among the dealers, and what to wear and not to wear to respectfully represent the gang Jackson was a member of (different gangs wear different colors). We happened to be members of the MOB so black was our color. Jackson always wore black and although I could wear other colors (obviously, to attract dates), I never wore all red or all blue (the Bloods wear red and the Crips wear blue). He also taught me many things about the “dates” in order to protect myself and to minimize danger as much as possible. We fell in love and were often seen walking around hand-in hand. I was on top of the world and thought this must be the easiest way in the world to make money and support my habit. My fun and games were short-lived however, when three months later, Jackson and I were arrested and taken to jail. He got out after a couple of days and by the time I was released several months later, he had disappeared. To this day, no one has seen him and I often wonder what happened to him.

Now I was on my own and life on the street became much rougher. Without a man to watch my back, any male on the street felt he had the right to slap me if he didn’t like what I said or if I wouldn’t give him some crack. Within two weeks, I had to go to one of the bigger dealers to ask for protection. This was granted to me because my husband and I had spent nearly a quarter of a million dollars with him over the past few years. But when it came to the “dates”, it was a different story. I already knew better than to get into a car with more than one man, but one man is enough to overpower a woman. I experienced my first rape around this time. I had hopped into a nice black Mitsubishi and we had ridden to one of the area parking spots to have sex. The man had already given me $20.00 right after I got into the car. After we arrived at the spot, I took off my jeans and panties and this is when the jerk proceeded to forcefully take back the $20.00 I had stuck into my sock by grabbing me around the throat and squeezing hard enough to keep me barely breathing. He then raped me and threw me and my clothes out of the car before driving away. It was 3am and pitch black outside so I couldn’t see his tag number. Not that it would have done any good; there was no one to help me. A couple of the girls were sympathetic but for the most part, just advised me to chalk it up to the game. This happened four other times during my life on the street.

Then there were the guys who didn’t rape me, they just robbed me. They would give me the money up front, then after we had sex or I had given him a blowjob, he would forcibly take the money back. This happened many times and toward the end, it got to where I wouldn’t get into the car with anyone under the age of 30. 40-year-old guys just weren’t interested in robbing women and putting them out to walk.

Despite these brutalities, I continued to jump in and out of cars, all for the sake of “just one more hit”. Such is the nature of crack cocaine. When you take “a hit” (smoke it in a glass pipe), the initial high is so intense that it is really indescribable. It makes a person feel on top of the world; problems are lessened almost to the point of nonexistence; everything is okay. This feeling is short-lived however and within minutes, the high has disappeared and the person is left with feelings of worthlessness and an overwhelming desire for more.

When I first began prostituting, I could easily get $30.00 for intercourse and $20.00 for oral sex. Part of this was due to the fact that I was new and still pretty. Toward the end of my street life, I had lost 30 lbs. and looked like I was HIV positive. This occurred because I didn’t eat for days at a time (crack takes away your appetite). For obvious reasons, I couldn’t still command the same prices I had at first. Now I was down to $15. - $20.00 for intercourse and $10 - $15.00 for oral sex. In fact, I knew several girls who were having sex for $10.00 and once witnessed a girl accept a bag of chips and a coke for a blowjob.
I knew it was time for me to quit. I didn’t want to die on the street and I knew that eventually I would. I also missed my kids terribly. I went to the church nearest my “hood” and asked the pastor for help. In fact, I told him that I wasn’t leaving until he found me someplace to go. He picked up the phone and called a friend he knows that would help. She is the Director of a safe-house/recovery program. The first thing she said to me on the phone is “I don’t know you, but I love you. You don’t need to bring anything with you; just bring yourself”. The pastor took me to the recovery home and I have been there ever since.
Quitting crack isn’t easy. In fact, it is one the hardest things I have ever done. I don’t believe that anyone can do it alone. You have to have support and I have found that in the recovery home where I live and through the love and grace of God. Without these, I would still be on the streets, selling my body and allowing myself to be abused and disgraced. I thank God every day for saving my life and giving me the tools to remain clean and drug-free.

I talk to my teenagers these days and they are proud of me. They still haven’t forgiven me but these things take time. Our relationship improves every day that I stay clean. I haven’t seen my nine year old son in 2 years, 4 months and 1 week, but I do get to talk to him on the telephone every two or three weeks. I know that God will bring my family back together again if I stay clean, so I am willing to wait for His time.

Oops! It’s time for me to go! I’m going to celebrate with my new drug-free friends. I wish you could join me. There is life after crack….a good life.

In God’s Love,
Jane Doe

P.S. There are places in Macon where you can go for help:

River Edge Behavioral Health Center Macon Rescue Mission
175 Emery Highway 774 Hazel Street
Macon, GA. 31217 Macon, GA. 31201
(478) 751-4519 (478) 743-5445

Loaves and Fishes Ministry The Salvation Army
651 Broadway Ave. 1955 Broadway Ave.
Macon, GA. 31201 Macon, GA. 31206
(478) 741-1007 (478) 746-8572

Lydia’s House
1542 Jeffersonville Rd.
Macon, GA. 31217
(478) 750-8180 / (478) 978-0938


You are Visitor #  Hit Counter   Updated Wednesday April 05, 2006 12:40:42



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