Injecting drugs leaves its mark, literally and figuratively. After over a decade of substance use, my body tells a story that few can see at first glance—tales of overdoses, battles with hepatitis C, and numerous infections, all etched into my skin in the form of dark, jagged track marks.

Track marks, those visible reminders of repeated drug use, form when veins collapse under constant pressure. While some find veins that cooperate, many, like myself, end up with scars that resemble a map—one friend humorously remarked that my legs looked like 'Nova Scotia.' Others have confused my wounds for cuts from a violent encounter.

My relationship with drugs started with a partner who had a talent for injections that rivaled professionals. After that chapter ended, I transitioned to smoking but couldn't resist the pull of using again. My introduction back to injecting came from a different relationship where I learned the ropes of hitting my legs—once a viable option, now a source of extensive scarring.

Injecting speedballs of fentanyl and cocaine poses its challenges; cocaine narrows veins, complicating the process and leading to frequent misses. The quick dissipation of both substances further fuels the cycle, resulting in the use of blunt needles and increasing damage over time. Add to that the chaos of using outdoors versus the safety of a private space, and the risk of infections escalates.

Currently, I’m navigating the tough terrain of homelessness, armed with newfound knowledge about safer injection practices. The difference between a calm environment and a hurried encounter is monumental. My friend Bobby Morrison has been instrumental, sharing wisdom about safer drug use, although he himself bears scars that speak volumes about his journey.

We both wrestle with societal judgment. Morrison expressed his embarrassment, revealing how deeply stigma affects him. It’s a sentiment I understand all too well, having hidden my scars throughout summers spent in long pants until I found someone who embraced the real me.

Her name was Grace Lynn Davidson. Our connection blossomed in detox, where she faced my scars with a refreshing nonchalance, quipping about her familiarity with track marks. Her acceptance was a balm for my shame, but tragedy struck when she passed away far too soon.

Though grief weighs heavily on me, the community I’ve found—my street family—reminds me of Grace's impact. I no longer view my track marks with shame; instead, I wear them as symbols of survival and connection. They represent love, losses, and the unbreakable bonds formed within the depths of addiction.

I celebrate being a drug user, with all the imperfections and hardships it entails. We are human, flawed yet resilient. In our struggles, we find unity, and we never forget those we cherish, including Grace, who remains in our hearts.