Tag Archives: female drug dealer

I’m trying to find out how to write like me


My life as a white, female drug dealer, with all the elements excluding the audiobook which will take a little longer to complete.

First the Novel‘s trailor in video;

VIDEO for novel promo

Revised Cover

Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.  This novel is far more than a story about a drug dealer.  It is delivered however by it’s core context through the eyes of a girl named ‘SKY’ who sadly is also an addict.  She kindly let’s us accompany her along her journey to the gates of insanity due to drugs, no direction as a child, a desperate search to be loved, trying to feel normal, when violence never left her life since the age of 8.

Amazing to be alive today, she hopes sharing her chaos and consequences may touch someone who needs to know they are not alone and there is hope.  We all have a story, and when we share a little bit of ourselves we never know who, but almost always help someone else.  She thought she never had a chance.  And look at her today, no known explanation, but she is sharing her story as hard as it may be.  She is learning that writing is very healing.  She has just begun.

Some Reviews;

What an amazing story … I saw the size of you … and couldn’t help wondering how unbelievably strong, brave, courageous and determined you were to stay alive despite all of what happened to you! I am truly in awe of you? You are a true survivor!  I agree that there is a reason why you were able to survive all of what happened to you … your book is the first step.
I so enjoyed reading it … once I got a chance to start … I could not put it down.
Absolutely, you need to share your story in the high schools … and I urge you to make contact with CAMH as I know that they welcome clients to share their stories on many levels.  I think your idea to bring it to the high schools where you get to address the “youth” is a must do.  Think of how many teenagers you can reach … girls that may have experienced or are experiencing what you did … by telling your story you will encourage young girls to speak out against rape and/or any other criminal behaviour towards them!  It will also make teenage boys think twice and/or be more aware of how unacceptable that kind of criminal behaviour is unacceptable and “girls” will speak out against them to prevent others from being hurt – and that there are consequences.  (The same goes for any boys that may have been invaded in the same way.)
THANK YOU for sharing your story with me … my “food addiction” and “unemployment status” in comparison with what you have endured in your life since the age of 8 … helped me to get a better focus on my life … I have lived in a “glass house”.  I am grateful especially for the richness I have stemming from family (my backbone) and friends.
You are an amazing woman …
I will pass your book along
  • Anonymous
As I read this, I wanted to jump right into the story and help this lost child. Well written. I will be looking forward to the next chapter.
  • Anonymous

Where to begin? This book is both compelling and shocking. The author pulls no punches and takes the reader on a journey; an honest, brutal journey which examines the nature of drug addiction and mental illness. Rarely have I come across a book which is thought-provoking, tragic, violent, uplifting and educational…all at the same time.

Frankly, not only was I unable to put this book down, I was also unable to stop thinking about its content for several days after reading it. If you only buy one book this year, make sure it’s “My life as a white, female drug dealer.” Not only is it the most important book this year so far, it will change your perspective about the life of an addict, forever.

The rest of reviews and available in eBook format and softcover format can be found on facebook, amazon, smashwords, LuLu and createspace, then also distributed for sale at Barnes and Noble, Kobo, apple, Diesel, kindle, etc.
I hope I have included what needs to be said, in this one post finally!  Thank you for your patience as the scattered newbie in me is trying to find my voice.
Two poetry books of a series are also available just the same as above.
I MUST add, all graphics and the execution of this video were designed and formatted by Chris Harrison, Creative Director.
Thank you and have a safe 24!
Centre for Addiction and Mental Health

Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


book Chapter two-sneak peak-My life as a white, female drug dealer


book cover

chapter two

They say everything happens for a reason
Not today in this rainy season
At some point I had to be leaving

He freed me from my apparatus and my limbs fell limp.

I had been demoralized beyond recognition, stripped of my virginity by force, lost my strength through blood and beatings, lost all faith as I was sure to die, and threatened by pure experience. I tried to think and absolutely nothing became of it. Absolutely, catatonic, nothing was there. It was impossible to feel free of John.

When I could muster strength to focus through my swollen eyes, I saw him. He stood over me smug and very proud of his accomplishment. He lifted me from my armpits and stood me up. I buckled from shame and pain. He lifted me again, and I stood. From behind me he gave me his last kick between my shoulder blades.

I fell and lay face down, now less fearful. Anything he could do now wouldn’t come close or be worse than what he already did. He picked me up, my Raggedy Anne dead weight was able to barely stand again.

I climbed the mountain of stairs, opened the front door at a broken snail’s speed, walked out into the rain and didn’t look back, got a block away and could still hear his music blasting.

School was just getting out and I limped towards a detour route to the only place I had to go; which was home. I was too traumatized to think of what my mother would ask, what students that did spot me would say, or how I could explain to anyone the physical damages so detailed and exposed.

All I could do was keep taking breaks by standing and feeling so grateful for such a heavy rainfall as it was washing the blood remnants away, all the while stinging my cuts and fresh bruises.

When I reached my mother’s apartment door, I stood there for an eternity in fear. I was sure to be in trouble, having to lie and being rebellious for so long that nothing I said she would have believed. I had no keys and finally knocked. The expression on her face when she saw me was one of shock and caused her to cry, pleading with me to tell her what happened. I convincingly swore I fought with a girl at school over another boy. She told me to go to my room.

Soaking wet I climbed under my bed covers and pretended I was asleep when anyone entered. I did not move for three days. Nor did I sleep. That third day was a shock I never thought I would see. It was the only thing that stopped my mental obsession from needing that numbing cocaine, and how would I get it. Where could I find a drug dealer, as I lay there also wondering what could I sell to get some money?

The knock at our door was my grandiose father I had not seen for six months. My mother had not seen him in two years. He in the entire time since leaving, helped none of us financially or cared either way. For me that day, I would learn, without knowing it, he would free me from the fear of the unknown as to what was going to happen next.

My mother and father called me into the living room where they sat at the dining room table in the same room. There was an empty chair, reserved for me. Still badly bruised and swollen, my father began to cry as he nodded to my mother, who told me to sit down.

My alcoholic father proceeded to tell me he got sober and that my behavior and attitude indicated I had a problem with drugs. He flew into town to help me get sober too. There was a rehab, one of the best in Minnesota, and I could be there in two days for a 30-day treatment to detoxify.

Like a lifeboat I was just handed a means to get out of my city, my school and mostly, away from John. Manipulating both my parents I lied and confessed I was injecting cocaine for some time, and needed help desperately. They were proud of me for wanting help and the next thing I knew I was in an admitting room, knowing no one, in drug rehab. In my mind I was never going home again, I just had to figure out how.

The counselors, while compassionate, had very strict rules. Which I liked, given it was a co-ed facility. I don’t know how I convinced these professionals I was a junkie or maybe they knew I wasn’t and kept me there sensing I needed to be safe. Either way I had to participate in all groups: for drug education, relapse prevention, sharing and learning how to live a sober life. At turning just 15, I was becoming an expert about drugs I had never used and now, learning how to use them.

The clients, rather young adults, stayed hard-core and laughed at stories that were definitely not true. Mine included. Within a week I was promoted from the new bruised kid at the Centre to one of the family. Rebellious still, I had my fair share of punishment.

This, my first of many rehabs to follow, taught me the basis of being a drug addict and the means on how drugs were bought and sold. It also taught me that my attitude was indeed one of an addict. This became crystal clear when I was discharged on my 28th day out of 30. Discharged for breaking rules and not working the treatment program as outlined for me.

So there I was, locked in a waiting room with two chairs, waiting my eight hour estimated time until I had to face my, sure to be, livid father. No clue what was to happen next, I knew I couldn’t go back home. Not under any circumstances. As I waited in that quiet room alone, I glorified the day I could start using drugs and feel numb like the cocaine made me once feel. I had learnt so much. I was actually prepared, in my limited understanding to embrace the possibilities that I would be sick, with illicit drug addictions.

The key seemed to have jammed in the lock as they were opening the door to my holding space. Then, when it opened, my father entered first. Afraid he was going to hit me I stepped back but stood tall. He can’t hurt me here, I remember thinking.

He hugged me, crying, explaining this was all part of the process of recovery and he was taking me home to Texas where we could find more treatment. For some reason that was just as scary as returning home. As lost as I felt, boarding that 747 headed south, I, at the time, had no idea what to expect. No idea that I had just completed my first semester in drug usage, habits and behaviors of drug dealers and lastly how drugs destroy your life. That part fell on deaf ears, I just wanted to get high. In retrospect having really done cocaine only once was enough to trigger a chemical reaction in my body that would stir in me my entire life.

The flight was only three hours, but long enough for me to find trouble. I went to the washroom only to find a bachelor party gathered at the rear of the plane, using the bathroom to snort their coke. I had to be dreaming.

I was offered a line with no payment or dues, and gladly accepted. I railed it on that steel counter with my door locked and occupied. They had given me a fifty-dollar bill, which I learned to roll up really tight for a straw. I snorted my left nostril then my right. Put some drops of water in the tip of my nose and inhaled until I felt my throat numb from the coke dripping down.

Both hands on the vanity I stared directly into the mirror. I realized I was barely showing signs of my beating or rape, and was looking healthy again. I smiled at myself a long time and uttered out loud “You’re home Sky”.

Without a care in the world, happy and eager to continue treatment I plopped back down in my seat and buckled up. So naïve. It took my father 30 seconds to notice my mood change, behavioral shift and physical symptoms of using cocaine. He, after all, had spent the better half of 20 years snorting and drinking daily.

He was beyond furious. Preaching he was devoting everything to helping me, and this is the way I participated in wanting to recover? He told me I had to want it myself; no one can do this for me. His voice didn’t faze me, or his militant tone. He couldn’t hurt me anymore and I was going to play this man like he once did me. I’d be his perfect daughter with no meaning, love him, with zero truth, obey him, like I cared, and respect him, with spit in my mouth.

I cried with the crocodile tears I inherited from him. Swore I was struggling staying clean, this was not a drug I had, and someone on the plane did. “Daddy please, I won’t mess up again, I’m so sorry. Are you going to send me home?” He said no as his breathing softened back down to a normal rhythm. “Your mother is to blame for all this. But listen, I have been where you are and I have a back up plan. You really didn’t think you were just going to shop, play golf and swim, did you?”

Sky, we are going directly to a facility in Texas that the rehab centre recommends. They believe you are struggling with a mental illness and this is a secluded, lock down psychiatric ward: small, with professional help. A four-month admission on a form, meaning the police will arrest you if you get out. You are not allowed visitors, but we will write. You will be safe and can continue to recover.

What could I say? I said nothing.

In my mind I was wondering if life was really going to be okay for me. I went from years of doubt, and then I was tattooed, with horror. Now here I was, miles away from my mother, whom I had still not spoken to since I left and a father who was dropping me off at a facility where no one could hurt me. Starting with him.

It was scary, as one would imagine. There were nine other patients, all men. The closest to my age was 31 and a severe alcoholic. One supervised cigarette an hour was allowed, outside by the exit doors. No groups or meetings, no art therapy or individual counseling, just a psychiatrist and continual trial cocktail of medications. That equates to a lot of down time over the span of four months. We slept in our own rooms with locked doors and intermittent fifteen-minute flashlight nurse checks every night. Daytime we were allowed one crayon and a piece of paper. I felt crazy. Maybe I was. One thing for sure, crazy or not, I was nowhere near John or my Father.

Four months finished, and I an even more defiant teenager, was released from the crazy house. My diagnosis was Rapid Cycling, Bi-Polar illness, and severe Attention Deficit Disorder. I did not know what that really meant, only that a cocktail of prescribed pills kept me calmer.

I should have guessed my father was not available to pick me up when I was released. I called my mother for help. She explained she could not tolerate a drug addict and was not secure having me return home until I completed a treatment program. I hung up and turned around to find myself being introduced to two men that were going to escort me to a Juvenile Detention Centre and Rehab. Back in Minnesota, this time Minneapolis. I was being escorted and tagged as a drug addict who was underage and diagnosed as a potential harm to myself…………………………………………..


Blogging in the dark!!!!!!


Seems only fitting since I anxiously published my third book this week that being a novel.  This time excited at the prospect I have softcover versions, E books and a video and audiobook in progress.  Very impressive?

Ya right, I feel like a fart in a windstorm, as my recently deceased father would say.

I have been researching for 4 days how an independently published author approaches new book promotions and frankly I have deflated before even starting.

I have truly a vast and simple means of step by step portholes to help publish my book.  Truth is I haven’t even rejoiced in my accomplishment being weighed down so much by “The List”
How can the simplest of mundane and repetitive steps feel so overwhelming when I do indeed want and need to promote my latest book?
This for me is much harder than writing the book.  I keep asking myself why and I’m pretty sure that my feelings are correct.
I am actually shy and insecure to keep writing all these positive, inviting, descriptive, and ever changing posts about myself.  Therefore I freeze.  Even with all my answers organized and living beneath my fingertips.
Having said that, and thank you for letting mr rant my first step is refining and exposing my book on the proper links which I am going too attempt now.
So here will be the first place I will……….
BTW talk about me getting all my ducks in a row,  I would be quite happy if I could just get them to all be in the same pond.
OK here we go
My first Novel, My life as a white, female drug dealer is far from being just a book about dealing.  Our character sky allows us to participate in an addicts  journey many have not known.  She, while some disagreeing, triumphs over challenges which hold all odds against her.  She is a survivor!
All ebooks are at smashwords
all softcover at createspace
Also books available on Amazon
My website is just being built to support other authors www.kimberlyswritings.com
I must push forward.  Well, after a good sleep and conquer promotions which I just know I can?
Kimberlyslyrics on hubpages
Ans Sunnie Day who has teally helped me with such a beautiful blog
My social networking sites can also be found on smashwords
and
thank you whew! I really needed that rant…..

My life as a white, female drug dealer, chapter One


Image

Chapter One

Chapter One

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

What has not killed me in my life, has defined me.
My behaviors, actions and mistakes have defined me more.
My entire life revolved around, selling, buying and cooking drugs.
I never knew I had any other choice.  My name is Sky.

It isn’t hard for me to remember the first time I saw drugs.  It was the very same afternoon I saw a pistol, not like the standard 10 or 12 gauge shotgun Dad had kept at home.  But Dad had been gone and remarried five years by then.

There was a new kid at school. He was popular, adored by all the girls, and the son of a Federal Agent for Law Enforcement, just transferred to our city.  No mother and no reasons offered as to why.

I had no clue why two weeks new to school he asked me to ditch to spend the afternoon with him at his house.  No one would be home and he had some cool cop stuff to show me.  Nothing felt safer than hanging with a policeman’s son.

The rebellious and fearless teenager I was at 14, confidently jumped at such an invitation.  I too was very popular and desired by most of the boys.  I never let on to the rumors that weren’t true, specifically of me being a slut or promiscuous.  I opted to say nothing.

Truth be told, I was a virgin and had no plans in giving up my secret truth by breaking a childhood oath for reasons I prefer not to speak of.

At noon, he came and got me.  His name was John. It could have been any Joe, John or Jack for that matter.  The situation was a reason to get out of school.  I ditched school a dozen times, never caught, but also never anything to do when I did.  Today was going to be an adventure, for real.  Neither of our parents were the wiser, both were working, very busy and not very strict.

It was raining.  I can remember, like any teenage girl, worried that my hair would be a wreck.  Maybe I could ask John to use a blow dryer.  Suppose exposing my vanity this soon may not be cool.  Besides I was viewed as a tomboy and I had to maintain this persona to keep my friends.

Soaking wet, I entered John’s home, a huge bungalow, inner walls lined with cut logs of wood.  Surprising and shocking were the number of guns, displayed in glass cases, hanging on those wood walls.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling way out of my comfort zone.

It was a man’s home, justified by the lack of John ever mentioning his mother, or any form of a mother.  This and the absence of any female belongings.

He pranced around telling me the history of his dad’s guns.  I couldn’t hear him over my own self-consciousness thoughts that my hair was getting frizzy.

He couldn’t hold the excitement any longer to show me the rest of the home.  Starting first with a bolt-lock door into the den. Inside there were huge bricks marked evidence and wads of cash stacked neatly in an open safe.

He said the bricks were his father’s confiscated drug evidence. Mainly heroin and cocaine.  Not mentioning why they were there, I didn’t ask nor really cared to find out.  He took a knife from the desk drawer, stabbed a grey wrapped brick, exposing powder. It was white, and John’s confident offering told me it was cocaine.

There it was.  This was a twofold, potentially awkward situation.  First, I didn’t know why he spooned it out and kept it on the knife.  My expression surely gave up to admitting having never done this before.  Secondly, if I demonstrated fear, he would surely ditch me at school for all the kids to know something, not knowing what he would also make up.

I played it cool; like I understood what he meant by asking me to take a toot.  I said, “Right from the knife? Don’t you get more by taking it other ways?” He laughed and said “Trust me there’s lots here to play with”, then proceeded to snort some from the knife.  I am pretty confident he did so knowing I had no clue what to do.

Without hesitation, the fearless and still innocent naïve girl in me snorted as much off that knife as my lungs could inhale.  I figured I had nothing to lose, only new experiences to gain.  I prayed it wouldn’t make me lose control, but to no avail, it did just the opposite.

The first sensation was that of numbness in my nose and down the back of my throat.  My emotions for the first time in my life were controllable.  My feelings were that of a super-being.  I was happy.  I was not thinking of anything else.  I had no pain of the past, and surely not thinking of any event except that magnificent moment.  Instantly I wanted more.

As John laughed at my approach to this powder, within 30 seconds of snorting it, something inside me changed.  I knew this was the answer to my fears.

Within a minute I wanted to get higher, sustain this buzz to see how and where I could go within this world of ecstasy. This was a new and perfect world, where, anything felt possible.  John was most generous in sharing his father’s work materials.  He playfully invited me to come see his room.  He had the entire basement of the bungalow.  It was huge, even beneath the stairs exposed two secure bars.

Much less affected, I now noticed more gun racks in glass cases.  These all held pistols.  When asked, he said they were gifts from his dad.  I paid no mind to them along with handcuffs, Billy clubs and a few Officer hats.  He cranked Rod Stewart so loud it just enhanced my pleasure trip.

John was acting kinda strange, like he thought he was his father or something.

I only know that what transpired next started without me being aware, continued for what seemed like forever, and ended too late.

Somewhere between accepting more cocaine, feeling my anxiety, at the speed my heart was racing, the tone had instantly changed; I had been dragged and cuffed to the two poles supporting the stairs which would be my focal point for the next half hour.

I, in terror and strung out on coke, firmly told John to fuck off and release me as the cuffs were hurting my wrists.  Music blaring, I couldn’t scream and with just two legs free, I tried, but could not reach to kick him in defense. His response was silent and brought much more anticipated pain.

He handcuffed each leg, to what I do not know, nor remember.  I was bound for the unknown and now crying.  I never believed he was going to do what he did but was in a panic imagining what he would do.  I truly believed he was going to kill me once he stood in my view.

John stood to expose his cop hat, Billy club, two pistols clenched by two hands and that was all he was wearing.  He knelt down resting his right forearm on his right leg, grinned in that kind of way that is a mocking, warning things are going to get ugly.  All he said was:

“Sky, you act like such a lady at school, who knew you were such a whore.  You stole my dad’s drugs, well, now you have to be punished.  I got my Dad’s back.”

He slapped me hard across the face with the back of his hand splitting my left cheekbone open to bleed.  It stung like boiling water.  I stopped crying and tried focusing on anything except what was happening.  Being the daughter of a manipulative genius, some survival traits kicked in.  Besides, I clearly wasn’t dealing with a stable individual.

I wondered if he and his father shared this demonic hobby, or my god, what if he came home and was drawn downstairs by the blaring music.

I loved the band Bay City Rollers.  I closed my eyes and chanted their lyrics in my head continuously.  The coke was wearing off and I could feel my cheek swelling, what a sting.  Come on Sky, you can handle this thug.  He’s just a boy who needs to feel in control. “OK John, fine you got my attention, I am the slut I am known as.  But Baby, this could go a lot easier and certainly more fun if you let me touch you too.”

Once in awhile, even now, I can still smell his skin, 30 years later.  He had refused to un-cuff me.  “Sky, you’re not getting it, I don’t want you to touch me, and frankly I don’t want to touch you either.  See, it is because I have to.  Pretty, popular girls like you make entertaining victims.  All cool and fake, you need to be brought down to size.”

That was one of the scariest thoughts, I weighed 100 pounds, he about 150 just at 14.  Size wouldn’t have mattered with his strength.  His private, well-protected fetish was to torture and I was yet to find out what next.  As a virgin I didn’t know what to expect of sex or rape.  John announced this entire plan was about just that.  His kicks and punches slowly put me in a state of a bruised and bloody catatonic detachment.

I had no strength.  Fractured, weak and semi conscious, I just made sense of his words, the last I could comprehend. “Sky, Sky, Sky, this is going to hurt.  Well, hurt you, but pleasure me.”  He knew I was weak enough to faint, and definitely not have an ounce of energy to fight back.  With that, he unlocked my ankles, now swollen, red and scraped.  Still on my legs he ripped my panties off and spread my legs.

John pressed one gun to my right temple and the second pistol was the start of my life’s sexual pain.  John stuck the pistol in my vagina, then up my vagina.

The first thing to ever enter my vagina was a pistol.  I froze.  I was already in need of medical help, and in incredible pain. I thought I could take no more, but he was just beginning.

I became lost in a moment of desire, a desire for more cocaine.  I clung to this memory, that would scar me for life, and I had to numb its pain.  Numb it like the cocaine did, take away the pain and take me away from reality.  This combination of desire followed me my whole life.  For reasons that only began with John.

 

© Kimberly Gray


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