Surviving Addiction And Prostitution

I woke up, hung over, dead cigarettes filled the ash tray. I made it to the bathroom and crawled back to bed. Another night, another man I didn't know. The money was on the dresser, forty five bucks for a one night stand. The sun broke in when I pulled the curtain back. The mirror showed what I'd become, thin, broken, strung out.

I called home and asked for help. My father and brother came to get me. I spent six months in rehab, the loneliest place on earth. My parents no longer trusted me, third time in rehab, my brother told me not to lie to him again. I have scars on my arms, legs, stomach. I have a scar on my upper lip from when I got beat up.

I had to get a job to stay with my parents. Without a degree, without skills, I worked at Subway. At the end of two weeks I made less than I made for one night, when I was a hot number in the club. I had to write a hundred times "I'm a prostitute", then a thousand times "I'm no longer a prostitute".

I met a man who said I looked like shit warmed over and offered to straighten me out. I went to a ranch in Montana, worked as a ranch hand with other addicts, ranch work. My hands bled. My feet hurt. My back hurt so much I thought I was going to die. Month after month, I gained weight and became proficient with farm tools. On Sundays, we had services.