The minute I’m inside my apartment, I’m sitting on the floor crying. I’m grieving a man I have no right to. I’m grieving birth parents I’ll never find. I’m grieving this apartment I’ll have to leave in a few days. I haven’t been this down in years. It’s all mounting. And suddenly ugliness is rearing its head. The demon I slayed years ago is back clawing its way from the inside out. Breathing down my neck, leaving a trail of sweat covered goosebumps.
I’m shaking my head, chanting, “No, no, no, no, no. I won. You don’t own me. I’m stronger than you are.”
I want to use.
I want to use so fucking bad.
I can’t see through my tears.
I can’t hear through the voices in my head.
I need to get out of here.
Now.
Packing up my bag takes minutes.
I set out on foot.
And I pray like hell that I find strength.
I don’t know who to call. The last thing I want to be is a burden. But I also don’t want to be a statistic. I fought too damn hard to get clean. And I promised myself I’d never go back. I take my cell phone—which will be canceled in a few days—out of my bag and call Claudette. She’s the only person I can confess this to. She helped me fight this monster once before.
“Hello,” she answers.
I take a deep breath and jump in. “I need to get high. Right now.” As soon as I say the words out loud I’m crying again. “I need help. I can’t do this, Claudette. I’m not strong enough.”
“Honey, Faith, listen to me. You are strong enough. You don’t need to use.” Her voice is calm, but I can hear the subtle vibration that worry adds. “Where are you?”
“I’m walking to the beach,” I answer. I don’t know where else to go.
“Whatever you do, do not hang up the phone. Do you hear me?”
I sniff. “I hear you.”
An hour later I’m walking in the door of Good Samaritan House. It’s a homeless shelter that Claudette tells me offers counseling and other services.
I’m met at the door by a gentleman in his late forties or early fifties, who introduces himself as Benito. His hair is graying and his eyes are thoughtful and wise, like thousands of stories and lessons are housed behind them. He’s the shelter’s crisis manager. After a brief, no holds barred, verbal retching of my guilt and doubt, he asks me to leave my bag in his office and follow him. “Before we do anything, you need to eat. It’s dinnertime.”
The tables are all full of men and women in various stages of neglect and vagrancy. I try to turn down the food because I ate a few hours ago with Hope, but he won’t hear of it. “Eat. We’ll talk after you eat.”
I give in and eat.
And afterward, he talks, addressing our earlier discussion and my confessions. “Since you were brave enough to share your story with me earlier, please allow me to share mine with you because I think you need to hear it. I was a heroin addict for fifteen years. I lived on the streets for many of those years. My family disowned me because I lied to them, I stole from them, I disrespected them. I chose getting high over them. I chose getting high over everything. Until I overdosed and woke up in a hospital bed, being told that not only had I almost lost my life, but that I was HIV positive. HIV positive. There aren’t many other words that will get your attention like those will. Every drug addict gets a wake-up call, and if we’re lucky, the wake-up call isn’t death. That was my call. It was also, coincidentally, the moment my little brother, who I hadn’t seen in five years, reentered my life. When I was released from the hospital, he took me directly to an inpatient rehabilitation facility. My little brother saved my life. I haven’t used since. That was twelve years ago. I don’t let my past define me. For a long time, I did. I carried a lot of guilt. Then I realized that I had potential and something to offer the world, everyone does. So, long story short, I see myself in you. I like your spirit. You overcame. You have so much potential, Faith. You just need a little help.”
“But, I almost threw away four years of being clean tonight,” I say. I don’t feel worthy of the help he’s trying to give.
“The important thing is you didn’t. You had an urge, and you managed it. That’s what sobriety is. And I believe deep down that if you had access to drugs, you wouldn’t have given in. You would’ve fought for yourself. Because the young lady who walked in here looking for help is a fighter. A fighter with a gentle heart. That’s the best possible combination.” He sounds convinced.
By the time I lie down on a cot in the women’s room, I’m convinced. The demon is gone. Chased away. The fact that I’m unemployed and homeless remains. I’ll take that trade any day.
Pine-Sol gives me a headache
present
If you would’ve told me I’d be running a homeless shelter a year ago, I would’ve brazenly, and unapologetically, laughed in your face. There’s no reward, and the pay is shit. There’s no prestige. The building is in shambles. But, the hardest part is, this job requires compassion.
Compassion is a language I don’t speak.