HEROIN'S LURE OVERPOWERING FOR SOME

Halfway through the drug rehabilitation program at the Porter County
Jail, Tina Erea hadn't decided if she would kick her heroin addiction.

"When I get out of jail, just being outside, that's all I know," the
former Valparaiso woman said, tracing her track-mark scars and
fidgeting in her chair in a conference room at the jail. "I'm just
not ready to kick the opiate addiction."

The addiction has been with the 30-year-old almost as long as her
11-year-old child -- and unlike her daughter, who was turned over to
authorities long ago, heroin stuck with her.

To Erea, shooting up is better than sex, which made prostituting
herself in Gary worth it.

Earlier this year, after weeks on the run with an outstanding
warrant, Porter County police caught up with Erea. She was so
relieved she fell asleep in the back of the squad car. Jail was a
welcome change.

"When you're locked up, when your body is absolutely clean and you're
thanking God for the concrete bed that you're sleeping on," she said,
"I'm on top of the world."

Then Erea, who's been through a handful of drug treatment programs,
found herself in front of Gwen Schilling, a chemical dependency
therapist in the Porter County Jail Chemical Dependency and
Addictions program, part of the Porter-Starke Intensive Outpatient Program.

Unlike the course in the Lake County jail led by local church women,
which she described as a "drug program for kindergartners," Erea
reluctantly learned something with Schilling.

"Gwen's working with me," she said.

"If I change my ways, it'll be because of that woman."

Her troubled past needed a lot of help. Erea started using heroin at
19, when the rave scene hit Porter County. She tried a bag of heroin
with her boyfriend, and it was love at first snort; an instant addiction.

When snorting wouldn't get her high enough, she turned to needles.
The ritual of shooting up became an addiction herself.

To fund her habit, she sold herself on the streets and truck stops in
Gary. Just last year, she was raped four times.

"I feel like the lucky ones are the ones that do die, because they
don't have to worry about every morning, getting on their knees," she
said. She'd turn tricks for as little as $5.

Last April, as she faced another five weeks of drug counseling, the
monumental task of kicking her habit seemed impossible.

"My heroin is my little security, it's like a blanket for a baby," she said.

At the drug program graduation ceremony on June 1 -- just a few days
away from her release -- Erea made her decision. She would try to
stay clean, in part because she would face four more years of jail
time if she violates her probation. The big motivator, however, was
her brother.

Although the two used to shoot up together, Erea said, now "he wanted
to be a part of my life only if I'm clean."

Erea knew that it's one thing to say that while she was inside,
enjoying the watermelon and cake while celebrating her drug program
graduation. On the outside, the temptation surely will grow.

"I'm gonna try," she said, her hopeful voice laced with doubt.

"I got a lot of people out there waiting for me."