During the "cancer" period, I was still trying to figure out a way to commit suicide. I was convinced more than ever that that was the only way out. I'd quit talking to Daddy and Jr. because all we did was argue: they fussed about how I was fucking up my life, and I wanted to know if they had any money I could borrow. In my mind, unless they had money to give, we had nothing to talk about.

Mona and James caught me hitting the pipe. They had suspected my breaking the rules for a few weeks. One night, Mona decided to follow up on those suspicions and just busted into my room. When she came in, I was too busy loading a hit on the pipe to stop and act innocent, and too busy trying to get high to care about being caught. Of course, she was livid. She yelled and fussed about how they had agreed to let me stay with them because they were trying to help me out and how I was blatantly spitting in their faces for it. I was truly sorry for violating their trust and told them so. I put on my "pathetic" face, bawled and cried, and explained to her that I was trying to stop but couldn't. I begged her to give me another chance. Feeling sorry for me, she agreed to let me stay, but warned me that no more rule infractions would be tolerated.

I was more convinced than ever that the only way out of my miserable life was suicide, but still wasn't sure how to do it. Then, as usual, I got a bright idea. One night while doing crank and drinking gin, I saw an AIDS TV special. The story featured people who had contracted the disease in various ways: a little boy who'd gotten it through a blood transfusion, an infant through his infected mother, a young woman who had gotten it from her husband who, unbeknownst to her, liked to have sex with other women; a teenage girl had gotten it from slamming, etc. Their stories touched me. They were people from all walks of life who, under various circumstances, had contracted a horrible disease for which there was no known cure. That night, before passing out drunk, I got an idea about how to end living in the hellhole that was my life.

Sure, I convinced myself, people will feel sorry for you because there's no cure and it won't be your fault. That way, you can die with dignity.

I had made up my mind about how I would die. I would get AIDS.

- The TV show said you could get AIDS only by having unprotected sex with an infected person, through blood transfusions, or by using dirty needles. Deciding which method I'd use to get infected wasn't difficult. I didn't foresee any blood transfusions in my near future, and I definitely wasn't doing any slamming (only dope fiends did that). But sex, well, that was no problem. No problem at all.

I began picking up men. Any man. Every night, once I ran out of whatever dope I'd been able to score, I went to a club, got drunk, and picked up a different guy. The TV show said I couldn't look at someone and tell whether he had AIDS, so I just picked the drunkest man in the place. I figured if he drank like me, he also used drugs like me. I'd sneak the guy into my room while Mona and James were asleep, then sneak him out before they awoke for work. I figured it would take three, four weeks tops, of trying for HIV before I'd get it.

During the fourth week of my "suicide mission," Mona caught me hitting the pipe for the third time. On previous occasions when I'd been caught, I was able to cry, moan, and whine my way out of getting thrown out. But she'd had it with me. I had to go. She was in anguish about having to throw me out, but she was also extremely angry and hurt that I had again violated house rules. Through tears, she screamed at me that, although she loved me, she couldn't, and indeed wouldn't, allow me to bring my destructive and detrimental behavior into her home. It was very apparent that no amount of my crying and snotting was going to make her change her mind this time. It was only Monday and normally I would have been broke, but I'd had a few "business arrangements" the night before. As a result, I had money, a brand-new fifth of gin that was still in the paper sack, rocks on my mirror, and a rock in my pipe (I'd dropped it in just as Mona busted into my room). Unlike on previous occasions, when the threat of having no place to live made me regretful and remorseful, this time the money, the gin, and the dope made me cocky.

Fuck her, the gin told me. You don't need her. She's just jealous.

Convinced that Mona was my problem, and not wanting to stop getting high to fight with her, I left without making trouble.

"Aren't you going to take your things?" she asked. "At least some clothes?" I was wearing only a thin light green tank topstyle summer dress and some flat, enclosed fake-leather shoes. I told her I'd be back for my measly belongings in a few days. I had a fifth of gin in one hand, a pipe in the other, and rocks in my shoes. As far as I was concerned, I had everything I needed.

"You'll at least need a jacket," she said as she went to the closet to get a coat. Before she returned, I was gone.

I began walking, to nowhere in particular because I was unsure of where I was going. I just knew I had to get somewhere where I could drink and smoke in peace-without people fucking with me about how I was living my life.

It ain't like I'm not trying to do something about it, I angrily told myself. I mean, I was trying to commit suicide and end it all. If only she'd've waited another week or so, I'd surely have gotten HIV and coulda been on my way outta here! Now what am I going to do?

I was pissed that Mona had fucked up my plan. I continued walking, being careful not to crush the rocks between my toes, all the while fussing to myself and taking a swig of gin every now and then. I needed a place of peace. Where could I find peace? Then I remembered the Dumpster I'd been dumped behind the night I'd stolen from the dope man. It occurred to me that I'd been behind it, unconscious, for hours. I probably could have lain there for days without anyone finding me.

Remembering the Dumpster brought up no feelings about the rape. Like every other negative event in my life, I tossed it aside and kept going. The only thing on my mind was finding a nice, quiet, hidden place where I could do my dope and drink my drink. I decided the type of seclusion provided by the Dumpster would be an ideal place to get high, especially since no one looks for anyone in the trash.

I walked to the Dumpster, squatted down behind it, and began hitting the pipe, which was actually the metal antenna I'd broken off a parked car. The sole purpose for the gin was to pacify me when I was "in between" hits and to stop my hands that sometimes shook uncontrollably in the mornings. So the gin was really just a filler. When out of dope or in between runs, I gulped gin. It no longer burned to drink alcohol without chasers or mixers. In fact, that's the only way I got any effect from booze-I had to drink a lot of it-straight.

I hadn't planned on being behind the Dumpster for longer than a couple of hours. I figured I'd finish the dope and then figure out what to do with my life. But I didn't do much figuring because each time I ran out of dope, the only thing on my mind was getting more. As usual, the compulsion to use was overpowering; I didn't try to fight it. I figured I was finally at the point of no return. The only thing on my mind was doing whatever it took to stay high. So I stayed behind the Dumpster, leaving only to turn a trick to get the money to buy more dope.

In my mind, however, I wasn't actually prostituting because I didn't stand on a corner; I did what I always did-stuck out my thumb to hitch a ride. Just as they had been when I was a child hitching up and down the California coast, rides were always looking for "business arrangements." After handling my business, I'd have the ride drop me off at the closest dope spot. I'd cop and then return to my Dumpster.

I didn't call work and let Ken know I wasn't coming back. I didn't call Daddy, Jr., or anyone else to let them know where I was. I didn't eat and I drank only booze. I no longer cared about anyone or anything-except getting high. All I did was get high, drink, and turn tricks; get high, drink, and turn tricks.

I was making my way to hitch another ride. I had no idea how many rides I'd had, nor did I care. The only thing on my mind was getting another one so I could get more money for dope. I was walking down the street in no particular direction. My left hand was stretched out into the street with my thumb stuck up, my right hand was swinging a half-full pint of gin. I didn't remember when my money had run so low that I had been forced to switch from fifths to pints. Personally, it didn't matter since I didn't care how big the bottle was, as long as there was something in it. As I walked, my head hung down, deep in thought as to where I'd cop my next rock. The last one had been kind of small. I wanted to go somewhere where they were givin' out fat ones! I walked past a gas station with a large plate-glass window. It was then that I just happened to look up. What I saw stopped me in my tracks.

My hair stood up on my head, each strand sprawled in its own haphazard direction. Staring at myself in the window's reflection, I realized I looked like Don King, though my hair was so outrageously wild that any comparison of me to Don King would have probably been considered an insult to him.

Compared to the rest of me, my hair actually looked good. My eyeballs were bloodshot and bulging; my sockets seemed to be sunk into my head. My lips were scabbed and burnt from the metal antenna I'd been using for a crack pipe. One of the scabs had bled. I guess I'd been picking at it. I swiped my tongue across my bottom lip in an attempt to wipe away the blood. But it had long since dried, so the odd-shaped brownish-red spot didn't come off.

The lime green dress I had on when I'd left Mona's was now soiled black with filth and grime. I was used to filth, but not that filthy. And I stank. A nasty, putrid smell consisting of days of body odor, garbage, sweat, and filth. I don't know why I'd never smelled myself before then. Maybe I hadn't wanted to smell it. But now the stench was overpowering. I was funky as hell.

But the rancid smell of my body is not what stunned me. What shocked me most was the thin figure in the window. I'd been extremely slim for years, but was always able to fool myself and others by wearing several layers of clothes and blaming my thinness on my metabolism. But there was no fooling the horrid reflection that was staring back at me. For the first time, I saw myself. I mean really saw myself: my arms looked like toothpicks, and my legs were as thin as rails. I slowly reached up and touched my arm, watching the reflection do the same thing. All I felt was bone. No meat. Just bone. Unconcerned about who was looking, I raised my dress to look at my stomach. I gasped at what I saw. I could literally see the bones that formed my ribs.

You look like one of those starving children in Africa, I told myself. Honestly, those children looked healthier than I did at that moment.

It was then I noticed that I didn't have on any shoes. I wracked my brain trying to remember what the hell happened to my shoes. I had no clue whether I'd lost them, sold them, walked out of them, or what. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. I hadn't wanted to eat. Hadn't brushed my teeth or washed my ass. Hadn't combed my hair or changed my clothes. All I'd been doing was turning tricks, drinking, getting high, and living-no, existing-behind the Dumpster. I hadn't been living as a human. Shit, the thing staring back at me barely looked human. There was no more pretending-I'd become an animal.

Oh shit! I thought gloomily. I'm dying. After all these years of drinking and using, you can't deny it anymore, I fussed at myself. Congratulations. You're literally smoking yourself to death.

What was even worse than realizing that I was "smoked out" was realizing that I was completely powerless to do anything about it. I felt absolutely hopeless. I was despondent, disconsolate, and in total despair.

But what could I do? I knew of no one who could help me. Daddy and Jr. had tried, but to no avail. I myself had tried. I'd tried working, marriage, moving to different apartments, moving to different areas, getting different friends, switching drugs, alternating drugs, vowing to never drink in the morning (which didn't last long), switching from beer to wine, switching from bourbon to brandy. The list was endless. Nothing could stop me from drinking and using. Nothing.

What about God? the Voice quietly asked.

God! I surprisingly replied. Are you kidding me? How in the fuck am I gon' talk to God?

Try, the Voice urged.

"Look at me!" I screamed out loud to the horrid reflection in the mirror. "Look at me!" I screamed again through the tears that had begun streaming down my face. "Look at me!" I yelled again as I glared with dismay at the thing in the window.

Try.

How do I talk to God?

I had no idea. I didn't know a single religious verse, prayer, or adage.

I stood there for a few moments contemplating my dilemma, when suddenly I remembered talking to Him when I'd gotten shot.

I didn't know any religious sayings then either, I wasn't any particular religion, and wasn't spiritual in the least; yet He still heard me, didn't He?

Suddenly, I was filled with hope. But my hope quickly vanished as I realized God was probably pissed at me.

Why? the Voice asked.

Because I didn't keep my part of the bargain, I replied.

I stood there for a few moments and thought about that conversation I'd had with God in the hospital so many years before. I went over every single detail of the deal I made. As I did so, a thought came to me. The deal I'd made wasn't that I'd stay "good," the deal was that I'd get out of the gang-which I had. I never said anything about drugs, sex, crime, or alcohol.

So actually, I did keep my part of the bargain! I proudly realized. I figured I'd try that route again-I'd bargain.

But, as I looked up at the wretched thing in the glass I knew I couldn't afford to bargain. What was surprising was that suddenly I was so horribly despondent and dismayed that I didn't want to bargain. I just needed help-anyway I could get it and from whomever I could get it. So I decided to talk to God right then and there. Just like I was. No religion, no prayers or holy verses, no rules, no deals, no bargains. Just me, with all sincerity, asking for help. I really didn't have a choice because if He couldn't help me, I was surely fucked.

I didn't look up or down. I didn't get on my knees, I didn't try to speak eloquently or use fancy words. I simply closed my eyes, took a deep breath and with all earnestness and sincerity I could muster, whispered two words.

"Help me."

Dead silence for a few moments. Then the same calm Voice that had been talking to me for years now responded with a simple statement.

You'll have to quit your job.

What? I screamed in my mind. My face grimaced with confusion. What the hell does that have to do with me getting help?

As soon as the question came out, a thought suddenly came to me (another one of my moments of clarity). My job had been my only attachment to normalcy. I'd never been willing to quit a job without immediately getting another one because, in my mind, it made everything okay. I truly believed that addicts and alcoholics didn't, couldn't, have jobs.

Could it be that, by being willing to quit my job, I was finally admitting that I had a problem?

I believed so.

"Okay," I said out loud, softly. "I'll quit. I'll call Ken and tell him I quit."

"Go see him," the Voice quietly instructed.

Now the Voice was starting to get on my nerves.

Why did I have to tell Ken in person? Why couldn't I just call and give him the news. Admitting my problem in person would be embarrassing. Besides, look at me! I was filthy and I stunk.

Go see him, the Voice calmly repeated.

"Why?" I screamed out loud looking around frantically to see if the Voice would speak again. It didn't.

"Why?" I screamed again.

Still no response.

I was pissed. I'd asked for help and instead was instructed to embarrass the hell out of myself by going and personally informing Ken that I was quitting because of drugs. If I hadn't known it before, I knew it now-God was nuts.

Crazy thing was, I had no other choice. I didn't know what else to do. I had to do as instructed, even though it didn't make a bit of sense.

It was 5:30 in the morning and not many people were out. I was in southeast San Diego and Ken's office was in downtown San Diego, about sixty long blocks away. I took a deep breath, a swig of gin, and began the long walk to Ken's office.

The going was slow because I was still loaded. On top of that, being shoeless forced me to have to carefully watch my steps. I'd never before noticed the glass, trash, and other debris that cluttered the sidewalk. In some places it was so bad that, to get around it, I had to walk in the street. The gin was also slowing me down because the more I walked, the more nervous I got; the worse my nerves got, the more I drank.

So I walked and drank, slowly but steadily. With my head held down and absolutely nothing on my mind, I walked and drank. Halfway to Ken's, most of the gin was gone. I started to wait until the liquor store opened so I could "re-up" before resuming my trip, but decided against it.

Keep walking, I told myself. You've still got about half a bottle left. And the gin's effect should last at least a couple of hours. After you get to Ken's and quit, you can work on getting more gin.

I kept walking. A few hours later, I arrived at Ken's building. I don't know what took me so long. Somewhere along the way, I'd lost track of time.

Who cares how long it took me to get here? Shit, at least I'm finally here!

I was tired and my feet hurt; still, I'd made it. As I stood at the building's entrance, I hesitated.

What do I say to him? How do I say it? What will he say? Will he yell at me? Would he have me arrested? Was being an addict a crime?

Unanswered questions were flying through my mind. I was scared. But I was more afraid of what would happen if I didn't get help.

You can't go on living the way you are, I scolded myself.

So I chugged down the rest of the gin, tossed the bottle into a nearby trash can, took a deep breath, and entered the building.

- As I stepped out of the elevator onto the firm's floor, my heart began pounding. The gin helped me forget the image I'd seen in the window. As I walked by the receptionist, she looked up and began to speak but stopped in midsentence.

"Oh, hi, Cup-" She sat frozen, staring at me. I wasn't sure if her expression was one of shock, disgust, fear, or all of the above.

I didn't have time to worry about her. I was on a mission. I continued on toward Ken's office. As I passed each secretarial cubicle, I barely noticed the dropped jaws, frightened gasps, and alarm-filled stares.

I kept walking.

As usual, Ken's office door was open. I looked in and saw Ken sitting at his desk, signing some papers. What I didn't know was that the papers he was signing were for my termination.

I stood at Ken's door and waited for him to notice me. I'd been standing there for a few seconds when he finally looked up. What he saw must have startled him because he dropped his pen, his mouth fell open, and he looked like he'd seen a ghost.

"Cup?" he asked disbelievingly as he stared at what he thought was his secretary standing before him. I'd always hidden my thinness by layering long-sleeve shirts and wearing several pairs of pants. But, wearing the thin, lime green tank dress, he couldn't help but notice my sickeningly thin outline. For the first time, he was really seeing me-not the facade I'd been wearing for the past year.

"Cup?" he repeated, unsure if it was really me.

I didn't respond to his queries. I walked up to his desk and said, "Ken, I've got a drug problem. I just came to tell you I quit so I can go get some help."

I was crying, partly from shame and partly because, for the first time in my life, I'd admitted I had a problem. A problem I hated to admit having.

Ken didn't respond. I figured he didn't have anything to say. What could he say? I turned to walk out. I didn't know where I was going. I just felt I had to get the hell out of there.

Just before I reached the door, he spoke.

"Cup," he said softly, "don't quit. There's something about you worth saving."

I stopped in my tracks and turned to look at him.

Ignoring my look of astonishment, he took the papers he'd just signed and tore them up. As he did so, he said, "I knew there was something wrong with you, but I didn't know what!"

He instructed me to sit down and I did. It was then that he told me the papers he'd ripped up were for my termination.

"You were firing me?" I asked "Cup, you've been gone for four days!" he exclaimed. "You didn't call in. Nothing. You know you're on probation and not supposed to miss any days and you've missed four! Cup, I had to let you go!"

I sat quietly with my head down. I was in shock, not because he had been getting ready to fire me, but because of the information I'd just learned.

I've been behind the Dumpster for four days? I couldn't believe it. I had totally lost track of time-and life.

Ken interrupted my thoughts by telling me that instead of firing me he was going to try to help me.

I was still speechless. What do you say when someone you've taken advantage of, lied to, and totally played, turns around and, instead of being angry-which he had every right to be-says he's going to try and help you? I was at a loss. So I sat there silently while he got busy. He called Dorothy, who came right up to his office. Dorothy's brother was recovering from addiction, so she had some experience with the disease. She told Ken that I should probably be put in the hospital so that I could detox under medical supervision.

Detox? Who said anything about detoxing? And what the hell is detoxing?

Ken immediately got on the phone and began calling hospitals and inquiring whether they provided drug rehabilitation. He called five or six. Although every one of them had a rehab unit, each told him they were filled to capacity and had no room for me. They each suggested he call back in a few days. The last hospital he called, Mesa Vista, was well known for its drug and alcohol recovery program. But they, too, had no room for me. Discouraged, Ken hung up the phone and informed me that we'd have to wait a few days before getting me in somewhere that could help.

"Ken," I said, "if y'all don't get me in someplace today, I'm not going." Though I was still a little high from my four-day crack binge, and under the influence of the gin, I knew that as I began to come down, I would convince myself that I didn't really have a problem; that I'd just been "trippin'."

He looked at me helplessly. Dorothy let out a quiet sigh of despair.

"I mean it," I repeated. "If not today, then never." The room grew eerily silent.