Running… Feet smacking the midnight pavement on the stroll… looking for crack, shards, a trick, anything to take me away from myself.
My 1 year “birthday” is coming up in a little over a week. It has been almost a year to the day that I have been able to remove alcohol and drugs from my life, and let the healing begin.
Maybe the term “crackwhore” is offensive to your middle class, ivory tower sensibilities. That’s a nice luxury to have. I’ve had to take cow manure and turn into a bed of roses. I have been a whore for many things in my life: to keep my job, to get through school, to get people to accept me, to get someone to love me, to get someone to take care of me. Before society came up with this thing called money, all we had was our ability to barter and exchange. I just look at my exchange of crack or meth for sex as just another spectrum on that barter trajectory.
And yes, there are still times when I am ashamed. But they are fortunately rare. “Crackwhore” Me was the wild, primal me and is the primal self that is in all of us. My crackwhore essence at its very core needs to be respected like the ocean and it’s methodical pounding waves. A force that has much potential to be destructive and yet also must be respected for its rightful place and purpose.
What I’ve been learning this year is that I will never be “normal.” I’m a crackwhore (gasps of shock). And that the things that actually make me a weirdo truly are my biggest asset. This summer, some fellow Sex Workers and I started a project to provide outreach services to other Sex Workers working on that same stroll I was running down looking for crack and tricks. I could never be of help to other people today if I hadn’t been a crackwhore. And for that alone, I am so thankful.