| 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
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