Wednesday, 22 May 2013

Madeline Sheehan's next project: "Diary of a Crack Whore."

Holy Crap!!! I've just read the attached epilogue from a series Madeline Sheehan is currently working on and I've already been sucked in!!! If you're looking for a walk in the park, this ain't it!!!! Wow. Raw and gritty: "Diary of a Crack Whore."
This is what Madeline Sheehan said yesterday:
So, I'm going to be on hiatus for awhile in order to finish up something special I have been working on - on the side while writing my other series.

What?  The Crack Whore Diaries.

See you all when I return from the Bat-Cave!

Diary of a Crack Whore (Teaser)

"We admitted we were powerless over drugs & alcohol -that our lives had become unmanageable."

~Step One


Have you ever been inside of a dream so incredible, you never wanted to wake?
I have.

Every night I dream of a picture perfect childhood, I never had.
Of unforgettable teenage years, I never experienced.
Of a worthwhile life, I’ll never live.

Why? Because I spent the first fifteen years of my life beaten down and the next eight years beating myself down.
The last four years, I’ve spent in recovery.

But every smell, every stranger’s glance, every street corner, every drop of rain, every sunset and sunrise, holds a nightmare inside, a key to my past, I won’t ever outlive.

Clutching my cup of lukewarm coffee, I slowly stood. “My name is Andrea,” I said. “And I’m a drug addict, an alcoholic and a whore.”

The sad, tired faces of the others glanced up at me. Some smiled distractedly,others stared with sympathetic, yet glazed over eyes, but most are lost inside their own memories, their own addictions, their own beaten down lives they can’t seem to outrun…

“Hi Andrea,” They replied in unison.

“It’s my birthday,” I continued, as my voice began to shake. “I’m twenty seven today and four years clean.”

Meghan, my best friend, my roommate, my sponsor, is seated across the circle of people, smiling warmly at me. She knows all my secrets. She knows how hard this is for me. She is the sole reason I am alive today. Most days I don’t know whether to thank her or hate her.

I focused on her, inside her dark brown eyes and some of my fear began to subside.

“And it’s still so fucking hard,” I said, my voice stronger.

All eyes were on me now, some young, some old, all of them broken. All of them commiserating. Heads nodded, lips pressed together, hands are clasped as they hold onto one another for strength.

“I want to be normal,” I told them. “But I don’t know how. And, it’s so…fucking…hard.”

Rick, an older man, balding and overweight, choked back a sob. More heads nodded. Others glanced down at the white tiled floor, stained yellow from years of housing smokers and coffee spills; no longer could they look at me because looking at me meant looking in the mirror. I was them, a different version, a different story, yet sadly we were all the same.

“But most days,” I continued. “I still…want to die…”

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