Is it a lie if you think you’re okay, but everyone else sees a shitshow?

The room was in Berkeley. It looked simple and clean in the video. I’d never even heard of an SRO before, but that didn’t matter. It was a start. After the divorce, things were divided up, and this was something I could pull off. For Berkeley, it was a good deal — probably the cheapest place in the city.

The building sat above a deli that sold more booze than food. Across the street was BART. From there, I could get into San Francisco easily, and I did. A lot. South of Market was usually where I got off.

South of Market had its own gravity. It wasn’t the Tenderloin, but it lived close enough to it to feel the spillover. Like the quieter twin — less famous, just as wired. You could disappear there without trying very hard.

At first, I thought this new chapter would be about creativity. About making money. About starting over. I bought a laptop and honestly believed that was where things were headed.

A little time later, I found myself pulled into something else.

I got a thrill out of doing illegal shit and being part of that world. Looking back, I didn’t just get a thrill — I got hooked on the movement, the access, the way the city worked underneath the version most people saw. I thought I was living a double life. Turns out, I was just living one really fast.

My using career turned into a science. I knew which BART train to take, which car to sit in, which station exit put me closest to where I needed to be. I knew when the dope man would show and when the cops wouldn’t care.

Most days, I’d score and be back on BART to the East Bay before anything had time to catch up with me. I took pride in never getting caught — until one day, I did.

And nothing happened.

I scored right in front of a cop. Then I did it again. This time, they laughed. That’s when I learned something important: the system didn’t care about junkies. Dealers got arrested and were back on the street the same day. Sometimes a few hours later.

Later on, a therapist told me something that stuck. He said I wasn’t just addicted to the drugs. I was attracted to the underbelly — the hidden systems, the routes, the rules no one explains out loud. Scoring wasn’t just about getting high. It was about knowing how to move.

I started scoring crystal on 8th Street early on, right as my addiction was being resurrected. I thought I was staying ahead of it. I wasn’t.

This blog isn’t the full story.
It’s just a glimpse into the world the book moves through.

More later.

By Mike Glendinning – www.glendinningmike.com

I didn’t know her, but I think about her often.

It’s been about 15 years now. I remember scrolling through social media and seeing her name pop up. She was someone who had been a regular at open mics across San Francisco — not famous, not flashy, just someone chasing the dream like the rest of us.

One day she was gone.

People on Facebook started sharing posts — asking if anyone had seen her. At first it just seemed like someone laying low for a bit. A few days later, they found her car abandoned with the keys still inside. Not far away, they found her body. She had taken her own life.

I didn’t know her. Never met her. Never shared a stage with her. But something about the story stuck with me.

A few months before her death, she had been the featured performer at a packed open mic. Her big moment. But when she took the stage, the crowd emptied out — most of them heading outside to smoke, drink, or mingle. They didn’t boo. They didn’t heckle. But they left. And sometimes that kind of silence screams the loudest.

No one knows if that was the reason. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she had a hundred battles no one could see. Maybe that night was just one more weight added to a load she’d already been carrying too long.

But as someone who knows how tough the road can be — especially in music, especially when you’re vulnerable — I can’t help but feel haunted by that moment. I don’t romanticize it. I don’t make excuses for it. I just feel sad.

Dreams can be beautiful, but they can also be brutal. The grind, the rejection, the silence, the loneliness — it takes a toll. And for some, the road gets too dark to keep walking.

If you’re reading this and struggling, please talk to someone. You matter — even if it doesn’t always feel that way.

I didn’t know her. But I’ll never forget her.