"I like flowers. I like to hear the birds," she said. "But you wake up and what do you see? I have to walk to Allied Drive for the bus. It's very tempting to buy a rock. It's right there in your face." <

For 18 months, the 44-year-old has overcome deep cravings for the alcohol and drugs that were once more important to her than buying food for her family, clothes for her kids or paying the bills. <

She's started anew, out of prison for writing bad checks, continuing treatment, and in the state's Welfare to Work program. She asked not to be identified for fear of attracting drug dealers and harming her chances of employment. <

It's hard living in the same Allied Drive neighborhood where her life shattered. She longs to stroll outside but fears what she'll encounter on the street. "I'm afraid to walk Allied right now," she said. <

It's so different from her dreams. <

Born and raised in Chicago, she was among five children in a solid family and earned her high school diploma. <

She worked with first-graders for the Chicago school system. She got married and had two children. Members of her family have careers. <

But she was also part of another family culture - "Everybody drank," she said. <

By the mid-1990s, she came to fear her Chicago neighborhood, where gang members jumped her son going to and from school. By then, her husband was unemployed. <

But she heard about opportunities in Madison. <

The couple had ties here and better job prospects, so she quit her position and the family moved here for work, better schools and quality of life. <

They arrived homeless, beginning at the Salvation Army and then living at a string of apartments on the North Side, West Badger Road, the South and Southwest sides, and ultimately, Allied Drive. <

The couple drank but didn't do drugs when they came here, she said. But they met people who did. <

Over time, they drank beer by the case and smoked crack cocaine in their bedroom, out of their children's sight. <

But the children knew. <

"I told them we were doing grown-up things. I denied it," the mother said. "I'm sure they smelled it. I'm sure they saw a change in my attitude." <

The high, she said, was exhilarating - invincibility and speed at the flare of a match. And it left her craving more. <

Still, she managed to hold a full-time and part-time job and volunteer in the neighborhood. <

But the lifestyle was slowly destroying her and the family. The husband became unemployed and quit looking for work, leaving her as sole breadwinner. "He was doing more drugs than me," she said. <

The desire to get high eclipsed her fear of being beaten or rolled by drug dealers on the street. "Every time you go out to buy crack you're in danger," she said. <

Her paychecks fried at the end of a crack pipe. "At times, it was every day, if the money was there," she said. <

She lacked money for necessities like food, clothing and bills. <

So she wrote bad checks. <

She loathed her drinking and drugging, but couldn't stop. "I didn't like the way I was living," she said. "Being on drugs is like being dead." <

Desperate, she abandoned the apartment and asked a friend in the neighborhood to watch her two teenage children for a few months while she underwent treatment. <

She was nearly done with in-patient treatment when life sobered in other ways. Her mother died. And after attending the funeral, she returned to the clinic to be arrested for writing about $5,000 in bad checks. <

The charges brought two years in prison, but she resisted temptations to get high while behind bars. "You can get all kinds of stuff in prison," she said. <

After release in late 2002, she spent a few months at a halfway house and regained custody of her adolescent daughter. Her son was an adult by then. Her husband, gone. <

So she started over - a recovering addict on parole with a history of housing evictions and no job or car on welfare. <

The low rent and relaxed landlord screening drew her back to the Allied Drive neighborhood, where she's lived for a year, slowly furnishing her clean and cozy apartment. <

She has shied from people and thought about suicide. <

But as part of her parole, she gets counseling at the Mental Health Center of Dane County. <

"We've got her stabilized as far as drugs and alcohol are concerned," said counselor Jacquelyn Hunt. "Now, we're talking about any emotional or mental heath issues that may be present." <

The woman relies on that counseling and faith in God. <

For she must still cope with a simple walk - past crack dealers - to the bus stop in this beaten neighborhood. <

"It steals your joy," she said. "It gives you no hope for tomorrow. <

"I'm trapped." <