I am still alive, probably much to contrary opinion. I've just been way too busy lately and everything I have to write about seems too real, that if I were to write it out it would make it all concrete and I could no longer deny the fact that what I've been doing is wrong.

But here I go anyway.

I've been dating a big black crack dealer 15 years my senior. It all started when I went over to my regular (crack) dealer's house and found him lying on the couch, making comments about how hot I was and how he wanted to marry me. He got my phone number and I paid for a 50 bag, though he placed two bags in my hand for the price of one, winking and saying he was going to call me. Turns out he was the dealer that gave my dealer her stuff. Sure enough, he called me and before long I could no longer resist his advances. After all, he's good looking, I was getting free shit from him all the time, and was showered with compliments whenever I was around him. How could anyone try to resist that?

So since then I have been smoking crack daily, making multiple trips to the city to obtain it, killing my car in doing this, and generally sneaking around a lot behind my parent's backs. Doesn't make me very proud, but if it's what I have to do to have fun, then I was (and still am, frankly) fully prepared to do it.

I have lost a lot of weight recently. I think before I first got really into crack I weighed around 116ish and now I'm at 107-109 depending on the day, which puts me at a bmi of the high 18's to very low 19's. Everyone is telling me how small I've gotten, and I have people I don't even really know telling me how tiny I am. Mexicans at the park I go to once in a while refer to me as "flaca" (skinny in spanish). It's weird to be known as the skinny girl again, because for the longest time I was just on the small side of average.

I'm through with all therapy. I went to a drug counselor at my therapist's request and made the mistake of being honest with her about everything, including the crack. Obviously she was concerned, and wanted me to come back, but I refused. There was an intervention of sorts, with my psych and my therapist meeting with my mother and I. It was stated that I needed to end my regular therapy for a bit and focus on drug counseling. My psych appts. were also up in the air because with all the drugs I'm doing, the meds he was prescribing me weren't doing what they were supposed to do. I managed to convince my mom that they were all over-reacting and that all I did was smoke pot and drink, which my mom knew and didn't care about. So I ended therapy completely, although that's not to say that the drug counselor did do her damndest to try and change my mom's mind. She went as far as to tell her to take me in to get tested so that she could see for herself what drugs I am doing. Luckily my mom is not that invasive.

So that's my life as of recently. A crazy mix of drugs, interracial relationships, and running my body down. School is going to start soon, and I wonder: am I really ready to give all this up and be a normal person again? It's my senior year; I can't fuck it up this time around like last year when I was rolling all the time. But do I have the strength to limit my smoking to weekends only? Only time will tell I suppose.

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