I wish that this were a nightmare a nightmare that I could wake up from. It's not though, therefore its real, it's my life. No longer do I wake up in the morning to a room full of pictures of the people who once loved me but never will again. My parents aren't with me anymore, to get me out of trouble, tell me what I've done wrong, and how I can continuously gain their shattered their trust back.

Now if my addiction allows me to sleep at all, I am easily awakened by

The bullets that are going threw someone's shocked body. I used to pretend I was the victim of the bullet, the hell that would electrify my body. I'd want to move but the overrating anxiety wouldn't allow me to do so. finally when the little courage I had built up let me move, it would be too late. There would be another murderer on the run and another unsolved murder investigation to be solved.

These days I seem to lack passion for others it doesn't seem to bother me that peoples lives are taken by another living human being. However when I first moved to Harlem, New York the hood life got to me, it was quite traumatizing to know that one day the helpless life taken by a bullet could very well, one day be mine. For what ever reason, the harsh reality of the projects doesn't seem to interfere with my life anymore, I'm not sure if it's just the fact I've lived here so long and have had the chance to adapt to this life style or weather the addiction in me doesn't allow sympathy to cross threw my cold heart. But then again, Living in Harlem doesn't give you a whole lot of time to worry about other people.

When I was eighteen years old, my parents decided they were too embarrassed to let there cracked out daughter live in a wealthy neighborhood. It wasn't like my brother and sister were angels. They just never got caught by the wrong people. That made I Patricia Santhers the out cast of the Santhers family.

Now, at the age of 23, I don't dare contact any of them. Those were the people who kicked me out when I had nothing. The only reason I've managed is because I am a whore that works the street corners losing self-respect, one client at a time, every single night of the week.

I won't say it was easy to survive but somehow I did it. I don't appear to be your average "hood banger", I do look a lot different than I did when I first came here though. When I first moved here it was because my pimp Tony was letting me stay with him until I got a place of my own. I came to his house with a St. Mary's sweatshirt and a pair of pink sweatpants, my hair was long and blonde, it was so blonde it looked like I had stuck my head in a bleach bucket, the only thing I had in common with the rest of the people in Harlem was my brown eyes. While living with Tony I changed a lot not only physically but mentally. When I got my own place about 4 blocks away from Tony I left looking like a totally different person, you could no longer see threw my eyes the little bit of happiness I had left they were so drained with dark circles lapping around them, I was tired. I was tired of hearing the gunshots every night, scared of getting robbed, but the thing that hurt me the most was the porno films. I felt so guilty never in a million years did I think I would have to support myself by being taped while having sex or have to be a hooker, but that's one of the many things I had to do that I never wanted to. My hair was dark brown Tony told me if I was going to live in the projects I at least needed to come off looking like I was Mexican. My wardrobe changed from cute sweatshirts and jeans to leather miniskirts, fish nets, and halter tops.

Before my addiction and before Harlem, I was an outcast. I was completely alone. I grew up on the west suburbs of Chicago and attended an all girl's catholic high school. Everyone seemed so different from me not only my school but my family as well. While my older brother and younger sister were busy at basket ball or cheerleading practice I was more focused on finding people who would accept me for me. It wasn't until my freshman year that I found people like me. At the time I thought they were my friends. Now I see who they really were. They were the people who introduced me to drugs, the ones who gave me a place to fit in, also the ones who introduced me to the drug you speak so poorly about in D.A.R.E., but speak so highly of the first time you try and then a few years later you find out that maybe the D.A.R.E. officer was right after all, cocaine really was addictive after all, but I had to learn the hard way, just like everything else.

I will never forget the first time I tried blow. It was the summer going into sophomore year, I was fifteen years old. My whole freshman year I had been experimenting with weed and alcohol. After a while I wasn't getting the same affects. My so called friends said that I needed to do something stronger.

My boyfriend at the time, Keith, knew all about coke and how to get it. I felt like I had no reason not to try it. His friend Matt that I had hung out with a few times deled it and would give it to me for free the first time, his name was Matt. It was the last weekend before my sophomore year began; Matt was having a party that Keith invited me to come with to. That night I snuck out of my house for Matt's party and I was aware that this was going to be my night to try new things, but what I didn't know was that new thing would run the rest of my life.