The Big Fix by Tracey Helton Mitchell

because they would clock him right away as a junkie. I didn’t have any syringes. How would I make it to work tomorrow? Would everyone know? These are the kinds of inconsequential things that rush through your mind before you make a bad decision that can change your entire life. My sobriety was just a small piece of the picture. I could lose the trust of others, my job, my housing, or even my life—but I was not thinking of those things. I would not be the first person to be dragged out of sober living in a body bag, all because of a split-second decision.
    He reached out to me. I recoiled at the slight brush of the back of his hand. I can never predict what will set off a bad memory. It may be the smell of a certain cologne or the texture of day-old stubble. He touched me like he knew. He thought he could touch me like I was merchandise.
    This snapped me out of my daze. Did I want to get high? Hell no. I did not want to get fucking high.
    â€œAre you fucking serious, dude?” I said, brushing past him. “You got the wrong person.”
    Yes, I’m Tracey. But he had the wrong Tracey. I was not the person he thought he knew. In fact, I was not the Tracey I was at the beginning of 1998. I no longer was the Tracey who went anywhere and did anything to get high. I was stronger than my urges. As much as I wanted to use, I wanted to live even more.
    As I jumped off the bus on Market Street, it was a long walk past the rocks at the Civic Center. The ghost of junkiespast blew through like cold sea air. I decided I was going to file a police report about my rape. It would be symbolic at this point, but I was tired of having flashbacks and nightmares. I was not going to be silent. I was going to be active in my recovery. I was taking charge of my own self-determination. Yes, that’s him. That’s the motherfucker right there. I had my voice back, and I was not going to stop talking about my truth. However, at that moment, all I wanted was my fried chicken, damn it. I wanted to eat it at my little table in my room with no bathroom, where I could sit and be myself. I wanted to take off my clothes, which were a sham. I was not scrambling from one high to the next one. I was a woman in recovery. I did not need to be afraid anymore. I just needed to learn how to live.

Chapter 5
    THE QUICK FIX

    A s the months of sobriety passed, I developed a deep sense of gratitude that I had survived eight years of active addiction. The more distance I put between myself and my last hit, the less I wanted to remember. I saw survivors of that life, the few who made it out. I collected their phone numbers knowing I would never use them. I was slowly building new friendships. I wanted to feel as if it was possible for me to start over completely.
    One night I was out with some of my new friends. There was a group of four of us. We packed into the corner booth so we could have a space by the window. I loved to people watchin my neighborhood. The best part of the Tenderloin was the intersection of different cultures. I had never noticed when I was buying drugs. There were so many languages, so many different kinds of food. It was like I could be transported to a different place every night. We were enjoying Indian food after our weekly meeting, a young people’s group that met on Saturdays in a music space.
    I bounced around to different meetings until I found a few that made me feel comfortable. It was just like how I had tried dope from different dealers to find the best stuff; I decided to apply this same principle to recovery. I would often hear complaints from people that they didn’t like this meeting or that meeting. They had wanted to give up. The feedback I would give them was simple. If a dealer told you he was sold out, you certainly wouldn’t turn around and go home. You would find what you need. Use some of that same determination in recovery. A meeting or support group is only as good as the members. There