Crackhead In Dream

[Lacy Tortelli]

Ifin this dream a junkie is attacking you that is a sign that someone is trying to call out for help and that you are turning your shoulder to them, maybe not on purpose but consider ways in which you may not be making yourself available to those that are needing your assistance. They might be asking for help in a very round about manner, but you need to look in between the lines and actually focus and try to really help and pay attention to the signs that they are giving you.

If you yourself are the junkie and is attacking someone it is the same you have tried to reach out to someone and they are not listening. You need to make it more clearly to that person that you need help and that you need it as soon as possible. You need to let your pride go if you really need that help.

In this dream if you help someone sober up from being a junkie that is a good omen that you have helped someone more than you think or know and that you will be able to see the change in this certain someone very soon. You will be able to feel better about yourself in this manner. This can also be an indication of helping something through a tough time in their life that you have also been through and being able to offer advice and assistance.

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There was no way that on the day you chose to go out, that you saw the Dream Team in pure daylight. You recognized George first, how could anyone ignore a face like that. Then the shortest of the two, Sapnap, who was holding a vlogging camera to a tall blonde guy. That had to be Dream.

You laughed along. You always smiled back at home when Dream would say that in a video or on stream. It sounded so natural and filled with happiness. You could tell that he was comfortable around his friends.

You could hear in the distance the sound of a flat line, your heart immediately stopped. God was he beautiful. You always knew that he was pretty by the way he acted and the kindness that he showed. The description that Sapnap gave a while back made him sound like your dream boy, and boy he was. You smiled at him and nodded at him to continue despite your heart going what felt like one thousand miles an hour.

Two weeks passed and the scene kept constantly playing in your head. You hung onto every single word that Dream said like your life was on the line. It sounds stupid to think, but you truly felt something between you and Dream, or maybe it was the adrenliene talking? Whatever it was, you chased the feeling.

You ran to the bathroom and put on mascara as quickly as you could and sat down to get better lighting. You took a selfie of you holding your thumb up and waving. You reviewed it god knows how many times but just sent it before it became too long.

Dream was unfortunately busy for the next couple days, but you two decided on meeting up at the beach during the sunset. Dream told you there was a beach pretty close to his house that no one visited but just in case there were people, he wanted it to be darker that way you two could have more privacy, how sweet.

You walked down the wooden stairs and saw a few people walking around. Most of them had dogs so you assumed they were regulars and that you were safe. A few feet away from the center, you saw a tall man wearing a hoodie and jeans. You smiled knowing that it was Dream.

Clay pulled you closer to him and wrapped his free hand around your shoulders. He turned his flash on and pressed his lips to your cheek. You smiled and closed your eyes. The flash went away and he held it for a few more seconds. He added a filter to make it not as bright and posted it with the caption: GUYS I FOUND HER

I tried living in a shelter, but the conditions were unacceptable. After breakfast, we were thrown out, regardless of the weather, until lunch. After lunch, we were sent back to the streets, until supper. If we did not return by a specific time, we lost our bed and our possessions were thrown out within three days. We slept in a room with 50 other men in beds two feet apart. Can you imagine trying to sleep with the sounds of 50 men talking, laughing, crying, coughing and farting as a constant background, or my concerns about catching their diseases or bugs? It only took a few days to choose the relative freedom of the streets.

I found an empty garage before Christmas during the worst winter Toronto had seen for 50 years. Thus began 10 years of locating a place to shelter me and store my possessions, only to be found out within a short time and forced to move along.

Once, a friend and I watched a sergeant from 14 Division douse my squat and all my possessions with gasoline and set it on fire. A legal clinic helped me to lodge a complaint against the officer. After a year, I was notified that the complaint had been investigated and no grounds were found to pursue the matter. They did not interview me or the other eyewitness. So much for my rights. It was clear that I had no human rights because I was judged as being less than human.

During the 10 years I was on the streets, welfare for homeless singles, which was euphemistically renamed Ontario Works, was set at $195.00 per month. I began panhandling to cars to supplement my income. This allowed me to support my addiction, and myself, without turning to crime. But the government, in its efforts to criminalize poverty, passed the Safe Streets Act, making it illegal.

A few years ago, I was working (panhandling) when 3 bicycle cops stopped to give me a ticket. The first cop asked, "Why don't you do something useful with your life?" My reply was, "I've provided over 2000 man years of employment in this city. What have you done?" A streetcar came along and the black cop said he was going to throw me in front of it. I grabbed him by his jacket and as I began to pull him with me in front of the streetcar, I said, "Go ahead, I'll take you with me." The third cop took me over to the sidewalk. After talking with me for a few minutes, he gave me a Toonie and left with his partners.

There are some really bad cops in Toronto, but there are lots of good cops too. I've had them give me money, food and clothing. They have come by in cold weather to be sure I'm OK. The majority are OK, but we tar them all with the same brush. When one of them beats us up or harasses us, they all become the enemy. There are homeless people who bring it on themselves and onto the rest of us, but most of us are just trying to survive. Most of us try to remain inconspicuous, but it's getting harder because the authorities have been fencing off all the hideaways where we go to sleep or do our drugs. When there is no place to hide, we are forced into public places. I wonder which is better.

Dealers fill their drugs with cut so you can't even get a good high. Some of it will make you sick or even kill you. They don't care. It's not as if we can complain to the Better Business Bureau. One of my friends was late paying his debt to one of them and the bastard beat him with a steel pipe. He got over 100 stitches in his head.

I've seen deals go down in front of the cops and they ignore it. If a dealer gets caught he's back dealing right away. If convicted, he gets a slap on the wrist and the bosses promote him. It's all organized. If an independent starts up, the connected dealers give him up to the cops so they look like they're doing something. All that does is keep the competition out of the connected dealers' territories. Meanwhile, the policy is to ignore the street dealers and go after the big guys. Everyone knows the big guys are protected.

If they want to stop crack from destroying people's lives, they should bust all the street dealers. If they were arrested, refused bail and given long sentences, the message would be clear to all the punks that think killing people with drugs is an easy way to make a living. Sentences should be the same as for premeditated murder because that's what it is. Instead, the system makes the victims of the crime the target by jailing addicts.

When I smoked, I couldn't eat. I'd roll a joint or drink some wine to give me an appetite and slow my heart down. Without grass, I'd probably have died of malnutrition. I weighed les than 100 pounds when I was homeless. Often, when I was on a run, I went 5 to 7 days without sleep and with only a little food. I never really got to sleep. I just kept going until I blacked out from sleep deprivation. Then I'd rest for a couple of days and eat like a pig until it was time for another run. If I wasn't high or trying to find a way to get high, I was probably blacked out. If I didn't get to my squat before I ran out of strength, I had to worry about being rousted by the cops or attacked by some fool who thought it was fun to beat up a homeless person. I forgot how to sleep and still suffer from a sleep disorder. I rarely sleep more than one or two hours at a time.

I lived for 2 years in a shack I built near Old Fort York. I had a sliding glass window, a roof deck, a BBQ and a garden. I had a stove and propane lantern that gave off enough heat to keep me warm. The police found it and had it bulldozed.

I almost died there one night. I'd been on a 7 day run and I blacked out on top of a lit candle. Luckily, the temperature was 25 below and I was wearing 7 layers of clothes. I woke up when the flames had destroyed the layers of clothing and reached my skin. I put the flames out and blacked out again. When I woke up, I thought it had been a dream until I saw that my clothing was in ashes

20 years ago, when I became an addict, I thought it was like smoking a little grass, something to share with friends at a party. I'd been trying to quit for years, but I never made it more than two weeks. After a few days without it, I'd get to thinking about it and that was all I'd need to make the call. If I managed to get past that, the physical withdrawals would begin - pain, nausea and diarrhea. The only way to feel better was to get high. The dealers were getting rich at my expense, so if I didn't contact them for a while, they'd come by and give me some free drugs to get me going again.

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