My boyfriend took me to Hastings Street – and I slid deeper into the
darkness of addiction. Drugs were available 24/7. I needed to escape – from the
pain of my childhood, from the loss of my children, and from my shame.
Hastings Street –it was a place where addicts were always welcome. We all lived
the same way –hustling and selling drugs to get high, tweaking in the alleys,
paranoid hallucinations. It was normal.
For the first year or so that I was down there, I was able to
rent hotel rooms. The first room I stayed in was the Balmoral Hotel. What a
cockroach infested, dirty place that was! The door did not lock, there was no
heat in the room, and the cockroaches would scurry when the lights went on. But
it was a room with a bed. I remember waking up out of a deep narcotic induced
sleep to find someone going through my room – looking for something to steal,
money or drugs I guess. This was normal – there were no boundaries
here.
The first few years were okay – it was all about getting high –
hustling to make money to get high – and that was it. We went to parties where
everyone was getting high, we went to bars and drank and danced and we went to
concerts. We still felt like we were living – even though looking back now – it
was not living. I remember in 1992 we went to the Pink Floyd concert –what a
show! My boyfriend nodded out through the whole show – high on heroin – but for me the
show was great!
I didn’t feel any pain down on Hastings Street at first –all I
remember about the first little while that I was there is the sun shining, the
peaceful lull of the narcotic dream, and meeting lots of people who acted like they cared.
It was nice to be around all those people who acted
like they liked me – even though it was only because I was spending money with
them and buying their drugs!
My boyfriend was arrested soon after and was flown back to Victoria to
prison. I stayed on Hastings Street getting high. I felt free –nobody was there
to beat on me or tell me I was not good enough. I made money by holding dope for
the dealers and always had enough drugs and money. Life seemed like it was going
great – except that I didn’t have my kids. I thought about them whenever I came
down from a high – but the pain was too great and I would rush out and get high
again. It was a deadly cycle.
Because I had nobody to control my drug intake I soon found that
I began to use too much. I was always high – and I was always using a little
more each time – trying for that ultimate high. I wanted it to feel like the
first time – but of course it never did. The first time you get high it’s
amazing but you can never ever reach that same high after that. We all try– but
its always just out of our reach.
I was using so much that I began to get very paranoid and no
longer felt safe in the room I was staying at. After a while, I moved to another
room – one that felt a bit safer. My door locked and I never had trouble with
anyone coming into my room while I slept. I spent many hours in this room,
getting high – was still using the needle – and my hallucinations were growing
worse. When I got high, I would see my kids in the reflection of the spoon –
they looked as if they were being hurt – and I would sit –terrified – on my bed
– not knowing what to do. Deep inside I knew this was just a paranoid effect of
the drugs – but what if I was wrong? What if my kids were really somewhere being
hurt? Those thoughts tore into my soul.
While I was staying in this room – some friends from Victoria
flew into town. I guess my boyfriend (from jail) had figured out where I was staying and he sent
them to bring me back to Victoria. They paid the front desk clerk at the hotel
to show them which room I was in and then proceeded to kick my door in.
I still remember the look in their
faces when they saw me. I was little more than a skeleton – sores all over my
face, unwashed – with eyes that darted around the room in terror. I had been
high for so many days that I didn’t even know who they were at first. They had
me take a bath and put on the cleanest clothes I had. They took me to the
airport and off we went to Victoria. I had no money, no food, but they did pay
for a room for a few days. I was dope sick – no heroin – and didn’t have any
idea what to do. I went to the welfare office to con a cheque and used it to
first score some heroin then buy me a ticket back to
Vancouver.
I had to go back to what I knew. The streets of Vancouver felt
safe to me. I knew everyone there – they didn’t hurt or use me – they accepted
me – and I felt normal there. Once I returned I rented another room –this time
the Washington Hotel – located right beside the Balmoral on the corner of Main
and Hastings.
My hallucinations continued – but I learned that if I did more
heroin they were manageable. By this time the veins in my arms could no longer
be found to stick the needle in. Someone showed me how to smoke crack and that
soon became my drug of choice (always mixed with heroin though to keep the
paranoia at bay).
I found that by smoking crack I could stay high 24 hours a day.
I didn’t have to wait between hits for fear of giving myself a heart attack (so
I thought). It was easy to get high on the pipe – I could be on a bus, on the
street, in an alley, anywhere – and I could get high. Way better than the needle
– no preparation – and it cost way less than using the needle. I could get high
even if I only had $5.
My addiction grew – and I no longer could stay in hotels– my
tweaking became worse and nobody wanted to rent to me. I could no longer hold a
conversation – my brain quit working. All I could do was light my pipe and suck
in that sweet relief. I began to sleep wherever my body fell. Sometimes it was
in an alley, other times it was in whoever’s car I happened to be selling drugs
to. Those were scary times – I would wake up to find myself in a car, in an
unknown area, not sure why. I was lucky – during this time there was a serial
killer roaming the streets of Vancouver – it had not been announced – but we
knew – so many girls were disappearing- and from time to time a poster would
appear. It would have been so easy for him to target me.
I would find out in 2001 that there definitely was a serial
killer on the loose in Vancouver. He targeted drug addicted women –women who
were less likely to be reported missing. My drug-induced paranoia had me
believing that there was a killer in the city long before the proof was actually
there. I remember hearing the news – and thanking God for keeping me safe. I
often ask myself why was my life
spared?
I was selling drugs down on Hastings Street to support my
addiction. I had to be high 24 hours a day – and did not sleep for up to 2
weeks at a time. I wasted away to the size of a 6-year-old child. I was less
than 80 pounds – I had sores all over my face – and my eyes held no life. I was
one of the walking undead down on Hastings Street. My mind was being eroded
from the drugs and I began to experience psychosis. I had hallucinations from
my childhood – I would see my stepdad coming at me with a chainsaw, I would see
my children being murdered by Chuck. All of this was in my drug –filled mind. I
did not trust anyone – especially the police. I felt that they had let me down
when they had failed to protect me as a child. I hated the whole world. I
wanted to die.
As I spiralled into the dark abyss of addiction –feelings did
not exist. My world was frozen – I was running in place – unable to move forward
or back – my screams bounced off the graffiti covered walls. My feet were
embedded in the needle-strewn alley – I could not escape.
The drugs, which once protected me from pain – were now the
cause. I did not know how to live with my pain. Once again I tried to commit
suicide – only to be found – in a closet – covered in my own waste – I did not
wake up for 4 days.
darkness of addiction. Drugs were available 24/7. I needed to escape – from the
pain of my childhood, from the loss of my children, and from my shame.
Hastings Street –it was a place where addicts were always welcome. We all lived
the same way –hustling and selling drugs to get high, tweaking in the alleys,
paranoid hallucinations. It was normal.
For the first year or so that I was down there, I was able to
rent hotel rooms. The first room I stayed in was the Balmoral Hotel. What a
cockroach infested, dirty place that was! The door did not lock, there was no
heat in the room, and the cockroaches would scurry when the lights went on. But
it was a room with a bed. I remember waking up out of a deep narcotic induced
sleep to find someone going through my room – looking for something to steal,
money or drugs I guess. This was normal – there were no boundaries
here.
The first few years were okay – it was all about getting high –
hustling to make money to get high – and that was it. We went to parties where
everyone was getting high, we went to bars and drank and danced and we went to
concerts. We still felt like we were living – even though looking back now – it
was not living. I remember in 1992 we went to the Pink Floyd concert –what a
show! My boyfriend nodded out through the whole show – high on heroin – but for me the
show was great!
I didn’t feel any pain down on Hastings Street at first –all I
remember about the first little while that I was there is the sun shining, the
peaceful lull of the narcotic dream, and meeting lots of people who acted like they cared.
It was nice to be around all those people who acted
like they liked me – even though it was only because I was spending money with
them and buying their drugs!
My boyfriend was arrested soon after and was flown back to Victoria to
prison. I stayed on Hastings Street getting high. I felt free –nobody was there
to beat on me or tell me I was not good enough. I made money by holding dope for
the dealers and always had enough drugs and money. Life seemed like it was going
great – except that I didn’t have my kids. I thought about them whenever I came
down from a high – but the pain was too great and I would rush out and get high
again. It was a deadly cycle.
Because I had nobody to control my drug intake I soon found that
I began to use too much. I was always high – and I was always using a little
more each time – trying for that ultimate high. I wanted it to feel like the
first time – but of course it never did. The first time you get high it’s
amazing but you can never ever reach that same high after that. We all try– but
its always just out of our reach.
I was using so much that I began to get very paranoid and no
longer felt safe in the room I was staying at. After a while, I moved to another
room – one that felt a bit safer. My door locked and I never had trouble with
anyone coming into my room while I slept. I spent many hours in this room,
getting high – was still using the needle – and my hallucinations were growing
worse. When I got high, I would see my kids in the reflection of the spoon –
they looked as if they were being hurt – and I would sit –terrified – on my bed
– not knowing what to do. Deep inside I knew this was just a paranoid effect of
the drugs – but what if I was wrong? What if my kids were really somewhere being
hurt? Those thoughts tore into my soul.
While I was staying in this room – some friends from Victoria
flew into town. I guess my boyfriend (from jail) had figured out where I was staying and he sent
them to bring me back to Victoria. They paid the front desk clerk at the hotel
to show them which room I was in and then proceeded to kick my door in.
I still remember the look in their
faces when they saw me. I was little more than a skeleton – sores all over my
face, unwashed – with eyes that darted around the room in terror. I had been
high for so many days that I didn’t even know who they were at first. They had
me take a bath and put on the cleanest clothes I had. They took me to the
airport and off we went to Victoria. I had no money, no food, but they did pay
for a room for a few days. I was dope sick – no heroin – and didn’t have any
idea what to do. I went to the welfare office to con a cheque and used it to
first score some heroin then buy me a ticket back to
Vancouver.
I had to go back to what I knew. The streets of Vancouver felt
safe to me. I knew everyone there – they didn’t hurt or use me – they accepted
me – and I felt normal there. Once I returned I rented another room –this time
the Washington Hotel – located right beside the Balmoral on the corner of Main
and Hastings.
My hallucinations continued – but I learned that if I did more
heroin they were manageable. By this time the veins in my arms could no longer
be found to stick the needle in. Someone showed me how to smoke crack and that
soon became my drug of choice (always mixed with heroin though to keep the
paranoia at bay).
I found that by smoking crack I could stay high 24 hours a day.
I didn’t have to wait between hits for fear of giving myself a heart attack (so
I thought). It was easy to get high on the pipe – I could be on a bus, on the
street, in an alley, anywhere – and I could get high. Way better than the needle
– no preparation – and it cost way less than using the needle. I could get high
even if I only had $5.
My addiction grew – and I no longer could stay in hotels– my
tweaking became worse and nobody wanted to rent to me. I could no longer hold a
conversation – my brain quit working. All I could do was light my pipe and suck
in that sweet relief. I began to sleep wherever my body fell. Sometimes it was
in an alley, other times it was in whoever’s car I happened to be selling drugs
to. Those were scary times – I would wake up to find myself in a car, in an
unknown area, not sure why. I was lucky – during this time there was a serial
killer roaming the streets of Vancouver – it had not been announced – but we
knew – so many girls were disappearing- and from time to time a poster would
appear. It would have been so easy for him to target me.
I would find out in 2001 that there definitely was a serial
killer on the loose in Vancouver. He targeted drug addicted women –women who
were less likely to be reported missing. My drug-induced paranoia had me
believing that there was a killer in the city long before the proof was actually
there. I remember hearing the news – and thanking God for keeping me safe. I
often ask myself why was my life
spared?
I was selling drugs down on Hastings Street to support my
addiction. I had to be high 24 hours a day – and did not sleep for up to 2
weeks at a time. I wasted away to the size of a 6-year-old child. I was less
than 80 pounds – I had sores all over my face – and my eyes held no life. I was
one of the walking undead down on Hastings Street. My mind was being eroded
from the drugs and I began to experience psychosis. I had hallucinations from
my childhood – I would see my stepdad coming at me with a chainsaw, I would see
my children being murdered by Chuck. All of this was in my drug –filled mind. I
did not trust anyone – especially the police. I felt that they had let me down
when they had failed to protect me as a child. I hated the whole world. I
wanted to die.
As I spiralled into the dark abyss of addiction –feelings did
not exist. My world was frozen – I was running in place – unable to move forward
or back – my screams bounced off the graffiti covered walls. My feet were
embedded in the needle-strewn alley – I could not escape.
The drugs, which once protected me from pain – were now the
cause. I did not know how to live with my pain. Once again I tried to commit
suicide – only to be found – in a closet – covered in my own waste – I did not
wake up for 4 days.