I usually don't write about terribly personal things on here, but this has been weighing on my mind for a while now and I needed to get it out.
If you've either been a longtime reader of this blog, or if you've ever just delved back into the archives here, you may remember
this post I wrote way back in January 2006 about a friend of mine.
We had been talking more frequently throughout the autumn of last year and I'd known that he was still deep in the throes of his addictions, but having been through it before, I also knew that there was nothing I could do but stand back and watch. It was heart-wrenching and frustrating and scary to be in such a helpless position.
After the new year, I'd stopped hearing from him. For over two months, it was as if he'd totally dropped off the face of the planet, and I felt completely sick about it. I knew that his lack of communication with me had to signal his absolute descent into darkness. I even worried that he was dead.
Then one day in mid-March, my cell phone rang. It was him. He was a wreck: bawling hysterically, telling me he'd done something really awful.
"Did you kill someone?" I asked him tentatively.
"No," he sniffled. "You know I'd never do that."
"Well then, it couldn't be
that bad," I replied. "Just tell me what's going on. You know I've been your friend forever, and there's nothing that you could tell me that would change that."
He went on to describe the existence he'd been leading in the past several months. Living on the streets intermittently, getting high with his girlfriend and god knows who else, having the electricity and gas shut off in the home they rented together.
Desperate, he decided one day to steal some blank payroll checks from his employer. He told me he forged a check large enough to cover the utility payments, but I had my doubts about that. After all, he was an addict, and addicts will do just about anything to finance their habits.
Of course, he got caught. He lost his job and his employer pressed charges.
Sobbing, he told me that he was going to go away for a long time, and that he just wanted me to know about it.
I'd never heard him sound so distraught in all the years I'd known him. I immediately left work that day and went to see him.
His appearance shocked and terrified me. David had always been lanky, but now he was nearly skeletal. He looked so filthy that I even hesitated to hug him. His clothes were stained and pocked with cigarette burns. His work boots were blackened, and the soles were coming loose. His lips were cracked and his skin ashy. The thing that scared me the most was the wild look in his eyes. I'd never, ever seen him like that before.
I only spent about an hour with him that day. I took him to Wawa and, telling him that he looked like he needed a meal, bought him a hoagie and a soda, both of which he refused. Most of our visit was comprised of him sobbing and wailing and me feeling about a million different emotions and not knowing exactly how to respond to him.
When I left him, I told him to take care of himself and to let me know if he needed anything.
Twenty-four hours later, he attempted suicide.
He swallowed a large amount of several different kinds of prescription drugs. Mostly anti-psychotics. Lithium.
No one I've known (at least not to my knowledge) has ever tried to kill themselves. This was a life-changing event for me to witness. The most horrible thing about it for me was that I didn't even know about it until a week later.
I hadn't heard from him and figured that he had probably turned himself in to the police. But one morning, exactly a week after I'd seen him, I got a voicemail on my cell phone. In the message, he sounded completely out of it, and he stated that he'd had a "little accident" but that things were going to be fine.
On a hunch, I immediately called the hospital closest to his house and asked for him. For some reason I've always had a weird connection to him. Probably because we've known each other for so long.
My heart rate shot into hyperspeed when the operator confirmed that he was there and connected me to his room.
He told me what had happened, and I just sat there listening, open-mouthed. He told me that he knew what he'd have to do. No more drinking. No more drugs. No more girlfriend. He'd have to move back to his mom's house, maybe go to rehab, and work on rebuilding his life.
Gently, I asked, "What about NA? Are you going to start going to meetings?"
"Absolutely," he answered. "I need help. I finally realize that, Lori."
As of today, I am happy to report that he has been substance-free for almost seven months. This is a major accomplishment for him, as it's the first time he's been clean and sober
since he was twelve years old.
He started going to NA meetings every day after he got out of the hospital. He got a sponsor there and has made friends with other recovering addicts.
Also, he has been rehired as a dialysis technician for a company that had previously fired him and had labeled him as "unrehireable."
He has started patching up relationships with his family.
And he went to court this summer and completely avoided jail time. Instead, he was made to pay fines and to perform sixty-four hours of community service, which I believe he has already completed.
He and I have drifted apart somewhat as he has been creating a new life for himself. But I am incredibly proud of him no matter what. I always believed in him, and I always knew that he could do this if he really, really wanted it badly enough.
So this agnostic has to admit to herself that sometimes, miracles really
do happen.
Labels: deep thoughts, friends, life events, memories
In My Head
