Resumo de Medium Hearted

I wish that this was 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. My parents aren?t with me anymore, to get me out of trouble, to tell me what I?ve done wrong, and how I can continuously gain there trust back.

Now if my addiction allows me to sleep at all, I am easily awakened by
the bullets that are going through someone?s shocked body. I used to pretend I was the victim of the bullet, the shock that would electrify my body. I?d want to move but the overrating anxiety wouldn?t allow me to do so. When finally when the little courage I had built up and I was ready to 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 that helpless soul could of been mine. For what ever reason, the harsh reality of the projects don?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?, but if you were to ask anyone on my block, they would swear I was a black woman stuck in a white girl?s body.

Before my addiction, 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. 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 after the first few times you use it, cocaine.
I will never forget the first time I tried blow. It was the end of my freshman 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. He had a friend who dealed 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 him. That night I snuck out of my house for Keith?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.

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