 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| Bipolar and Addiction Depression / Abandonment An interview with someone who has been there (Part 1) |
| Heal your Heart - Love your Body - Live your Joy! Simply Stunning! A Profound and Beautiful healing experience Instant downloads Buy now Click CD's for more info. Read what others say Click cover for info |
Socializing was a normal daily event at our place. We considered ourselves to be popular and lucky to
have so many friends and so much fun.
The drinking was becoming more than just irritating or embarrassing and I noticed that he no longer
bounced back the way he used to. He began to lose his spark. Without the drink, he was becoming
depressed and listless.
He decided to give the booze a rest, thinking that a little pot smoking would be a bit healthier and just as
much fun. For a little while it brought him back to life and he seemed to handle it much better than the
booze. I didn’t really mind him getting stoned, but I did begin to mind the amount of money he was
spending, I was also outgrowing the party all week-long thing. I needed some space and wanted a quiet,
relaxed homelike. I was fed up with having no food in the fridge and people sleeping on our chairs and
floor.
Smoking dope was considered rather harmless and had a certain social prestige at the time. It was also
highly profitable; easy to grow and sell. Stephen decided to become a salesman. He sold it by the
matchbox full at first and later by the ounce. He reasoned it would subsidise his usage and also add a few
dollars to the kitty. With an infinite supply, it was easy to smoke it morning, noon and night.
We began arguing more and he had longer and more frequent bouts of depression and listlessness. He
was unmotivated about most things and had given up his job as the dope was more fun and made him
more money. L.S.D. and speed were just beginning to make their way into our circle, and it was easy for
him to expand the business and give himself that extra zing that had been missing.
It wasn’t all bad, and really for the most part, our relationship was good and life was good, but bit by bit
we fought more. I began a series of leaving him, returning and leaving him again. For him, drugs had
become a way of life and a part of who he was. For me, drugs were his mistress. I was hurt and betrayed
as I watched her stealing him away from me.
There was no point in trying to speak with him when he was out of it. When he was straight, he seemed
paranoid, restless and morose. His personality had changed dramatically and he became sneaky and
secretive. Some days he would stay in bed, often he would not leave the house for weeks. He started
telling me stories about how lonely and unloved he had felt for most of his life and kept obsessing about
painful events from his past. His self-confidence and self-esteem had plummeted to a frightening level.
Then the suicide talk started.
When he was up, he was extremely up, and he took everyone up with him. He began a number of
successful businesses and was something of an entrepreneur in his own right. Even when he worked for
others, he always outshone his colleagues and impressed his employer right from the onset. There were
many times he was able to employ friends and many times he made small fortunes. It seemed to me, that
no matter how far down he got, he was always able to pick himself up and shine again. What confused me
the most about this though, was that it was when he was doing well that he seemed to have the most
trouble. I often accused him of being more afraid of success than failure.
He would make heaps of money and dazzle everyone. However, it always ended with him sabotaging
himself and giving the money away in some sort of reckless way. He would then retreat, hit the booze or
the dope and go into weeks of despair. I once pointed out that most people have an emotional swing
about six inches either side of centre, but he seemed to swing up and around the bar until he flung himself
off and landed in a heap.
I finally left after a very ugly and an all too regular rage of jealously. His depression and despair had
become some kind of paranoia of which I had somehow become the centre. He became so
overwhelmingly possessive that he began to abuse anyone whom he felt might steal me away from him.
I moved across the country, became a different person and led a completely different life. Over the years,
he would show up from time to time. Although I kept the distance between us, he always managed to
create some kind of chaos and then he would be gone again. He had become a heroin addict and his life
was out of his control most of the time. He had become an exceptional liar and a habitual con-man. I had
heard that he had done a few short stints in jail and probably as many stints in hospitals. Every now and
again, he would clean up and get it together for a while, but he always managed to come undone.
He had broken my heart, disappointed me, embarrassed and frightened me. I will say in his defence
though, that he did not steal from me and only rarely did he attempt to lie to me. I mention this because
heroin addicts can usually only exist by lying and stealing. I’m not sure if it is pure desperation or just the
strong belief that what they are saying is true at the time they are saying it, but they are phenomenal liars.
Stealing is usually an essential way of life for a junkie, whether it’s burglary, shop lifting, fraud or robbery.
I had seen Stephen in physical pain as well as almost insane with panic in his desperation for heroin, and
yet, I always knew that he would not rip me off financially nor would he hurt me physically. A couple of
times he did try to lie to me, but he could never do it while looking at me. In fact he was so ashamed that
he would drop his head and speak so quietly that I would ask him to speak up and look at me, but he
never did – he just walked away.
I mention this not just because it is so unusual, but because I was aware that somewhere within him, no
matter how desperate he was, he somehow believed that I was always his last chance. Somewhere deep,
deep within his mind, he had managed to keep me separate. I think in a way he needed to believe that I
would always be there for him. Somehow, at some point, I must have also bought into the same belief,
because here I was, one more time, giving him one last chance.
So here I was all these years later, looking at a yellow skeleton with bad teeth. He was smiling and
looking a little timid and, I suppose, secretly hoping that I would hug him and welcome him. He looked
like a creature from some unknown source, but with an ever so slight resemblance to someone I once
knew. I experienced a range of reactions and emotions as I stared blankly at him. The one thing I
remember most about that moment, was the voice inside my head that stated, ‘Stephen is dead and this is
his murderer.”
He stayed a few months and those months were difficult and uncomfortable for me and I am sure they
were hell for him. He did straighten out and he did it all on his own. It turned out that he had hepatitis and
had also become epileptic since I had last seen him. Physically he was a mess; although not yet forty, he
had a heart condition and had suffered a couple of minor strokes. We didn’t talk much as I could barely
stand to look at him. He spent most of his time reading self help books, eating well, sleeping long hours
and walking.
One thing that I did find quite peculiar was that when we did speak, he seemed to be relating and acting in
the same way as he had when he was in his twenties. It was like fifteen years had not passed. His style of
dress, music, jargon, interests and self image were all caught up in a time warp. I mentioned this to a friend
of mine who was a psychologist. He said that it could be that events which occurred under the influence of
the drugs or alcohol may not have been stored in his memory. It appeared that his most recent
recollections were those things which had occurred prior to the drug taking. That made things pretty
bizarre for me, as he was remembering me as his girlfriend from yesterday, and I was seeing him as a dead
man walking, who occasionally reminded me of my old friend Stephen.
Even though he had straightened out and found himself a job, new friends and a place to live, I didn’t
really believe that it would last. After years and years of pleading with him to get straight the hardest thing
for me to accept was that a drug free life for an ex junkie is a sad and lonely anti climax. He was living in
an old mans body. Without drugs he was in constant pain, discomfort and anxiety. He had a criminal
record and no real skills, so his job options were limited, boring and low paying.
Intellectually and emotionally he was immature and therefore most comfortable with people many years
younger. They generally found him difficult to relate to. In the back of my mind, I began to wonder if
perhaps he may have done better to live hard and die young after all.
When he decided to pack up and go back East I was relieved. He promised he would stay clean, but we
both knew he wouldn’t. I still had that voice in my head telling me that Stephen was already gone and
whoever this replica was would soon be gone as well. I could no longer convince myself that if and when
that happened, it might not just be a better option or at least a kinder solution. I had been so sure that
kicking the addiction was the most important part of it all that it never occurred to me that life there after
would be painful, joyless and hopeless for him.
I had to accept that I was not his life-line. In my mind I had also come to terms with the fact that the
Stephen I once knew had gone forever. The phone call confirming this would only be a matter of time and
a formality. I told him this one night when he called. He wanted me to say that I would be sad and that I
would miss him. I said that I would not and added I would not even bother to go to his funeral.
The last time he called was very late at night and his voice was filled with that all so familiar desperation. “I’
m dying.” he said, as he had said so many times before. “I’m just ringing to say good bye and to tell you
that I love you and that I’m sorry, and I wanted to say thanks for everything.”
This was becoming a regular 3 a.m. nuisance, and I was really irritated. I usually let him drone on and I
would try and talk him through it, but I had had enough. It had been almost twenty years now and still he
was using his death as a tool to manipulate or control me. “Stephen, if you want to die, then go and die.
You don’t need to tell me or involve me; I’m sick and tired of you using this game every time you want
attention. Understand this, I don’t care, do whatever you want to do, but don’t call here again.”
Stephen’s father had always thought of me as his daughter-in-law, therefore it was very difficult to explain
that I would not attend the funeral. I heard later that the church was overflowing with people, and that it
was a sad, beautiful service with many people unknown to the family standing up and expressing their love
and fondness for Stephen.
I also heard that when he overdosed, the people who were with him managed to get him to the hospital,
but due to fear of the legal consequences, they simply dropped him off outside and sped off. We are not
sure how long he had been there, but he was found unconscious in the car park and a day or so later they
pronounced him “brain dead”. His father’s final decision for his son was to give his permission to turn off
the life support equipment.
Over the years, I have crossed paths with drug addicts and alcoholics, but I certainly haven’t involved
myself with them in any real way. I had well and truly decided that no one wins this game. I promised
myself that I would not trust a junkie nor would I try to help one. I was convinced that if my son ever
ventured down that path, I would chain him to a bed, at an isolated house, deep in the outback of
Australia. Luckily I never had to take that option, but regardless of promises made, I did find myself being
called up again.
Barry’s mother is a close family friend who was the most unlikely person to be caught up with the world of
drugs and all that the lifestyle represents. A clean living, church going woman, who thought that coffee was
a drug and swearing was about as close to a sin as she had experienced. Well, that’s a bit of an
exaggeration, but the point is that she considered her family to be a stable, clean living and moral unit and
would never have thought that someone like her or her son would be the ‘kind of people’ who would ever
be involved with drugs.
She was aware that Barry had had some problems, but she just expected he would sort himself out when
he saw the light and returned to his church. She was beside herself the night she called and couldn’t
comprehend that he had admitted he had a drug problem. He didn’t actually need to admit anything, the
proof was in the fact that she had just picked him up and raced him to hospital; frothing at the mouth and
blue in the face.
To her, a drug overdose was only a term used in television shows or on the news. Drug addicts were
people who came from bad or dysfunctional homes. In a way, although she had probably never
consciously thought it, I guess, she, like so many others, just assumed that drug addicts are bad people or
stupid people or, at the very least, just ‘other people’.
She kept repeating, “What’s happening? What can I do? What does it mean? Who can I call? How do I
fix it?”
My first instinct was to retreat to my long ago promise to myself not to get involved. I tried to detach
myself, but I cared a lot about Barry and her and I also knew that she was a total innocent and that no one
within her circle of friends would have much experience with these issues.
We spoke a number of times. The questions were still the same each time as were my answers: “You can't
do anything, You can’t fix this, You need to stop seeing him as your son and start seeing him as an addict.
You are dealing with the addiction - not the person.”
Click Next Button to go to Part 2.
Signs of drug use, bipolar and therapy
have so many friends and so much fun.
The drinking was becoming more than just irritating or embarrassing and I noticed that he no longer
bounced back the way he used to. He began to lose his spark. Without the drink, he was becoming
depressed and listless.
He decided to give the booze a rest, thinking that a little pot smoking would be a bit healthier and just as
much fun. For a little while it brought him back to life and he seemed to handle it much better than the
booze. I didn’t really mind him getting stoned, but I did begin to mind the amount of money he was
spending, I was also outgrowing the party all week-long thing. I needed some space and wanted a quiet,
relaxed homelike. I was fed up with having no food in the fridge and people sleeping on our chairs and
floor.
Smoking dope was considered rather harmless and had a certain social prestige at the time. It was also
highly profitable; easy to grow and sell. Stephen decided to become a salesman. He sold it by the
matchbox full at first and later by the ounce. He reasoned it would subsidise his usage and also add a few
dollars to the kitty. With an infinite supply, it was easy to smoke it morning, noon and night.
We began arguing more and he had longer and more frequent bouts of depression and listlessness. He
was unmotivated about most things and had given up his job as the dope was more fun and made him
more money. L.S.D. and speed were just beginning to make their way into our circle, and it was easy for
him to expand the business and give himself that extra zing that had been missing.
It wasn’t all bad, and really for the most part, our relationship was good and life was good, but bit by bit
we fought more. I began a series of leaving him, returning and leaving him again. For him, drugs had
become a way of life and a part of who he was. For me, drugs were his mistress. I was hurt and betrayed
as I watched her stealing him away from me.
There was no point in trying to speak with him when he was out of it. When he was straight, he seemed
paranoid, restless and morose. His personality had changed dramatically and he became sneaky and
secretive. Some days he would stay in bed, often he would not leave the house for weeks. He started
telling me stories about how lonely and unloved he had felt for most of his life and kept obsessing about
painful events from his past. His self-confidence and self-esteem had plummeted to a frightening level.
Then the suicide talk started.
When he was up, he was extremely up, and he took everyone up with him. He began a number of
successful businesses and was something of an entrepreneur in his own right. Even when he worked for
others, he always outshone his colleagues and impressed his employer right from the onset. There were
many times he was able to employ friends and many times he made small fortunes. It seemed to me, that
no matter how far down he got, he was always able to pick himself up and shine again. What confused me
the most about this though, was that it was when he was doing well that he seemed to have the most
trouble. I often accused him of being more afraid of success than failure.
He would make heaps of money and dazzle everyone. However, it always ended with him sabotaging
himself and giving the money away in some sort of reckless way. He would then retreat, hit the booze or
the dope and go into weeks of despair. I once pointed out that most people have an emotional swing
about six inches either side of centre, but he seemed to swing up and around the bar until he flung himself
off and landed in a heap.
I finally left after a very ugly and an all too regular rage of jealously. His depression and despair had
become some kind of paranoia of which I had somehow become the centre. He became so
overwhelmingly possessive that he began to abuse anyone whom he felt might steal me away from him.
I moved across the country, became a different person and led a completely different life. Over the years,
he would show up from time to time. Although I kept the distance between us, he always managed to
create some kind of chaos and then he would be gone again. He had become a heroin addict and his life
was out of his control most of the time. He had become an exceptional liar and a habitual con-man. I had
heard that he had done a few short stints in jail and probably as many stints in hospitals. Every now and
again, he would clean up and get it together for a while, but he always managed to come undone.
He had broken my heart, disappointed me, embarrassed and frightened me. I will say in his defence
though, that he did not steal from me and only rarely did he attempt to lie to me. I mention this because
heroin addicts can usually only exist by lying and stealing. I’m not sure if it is pure desperation or just the
strong belief that what they are saying is true at the time they are saying it, but they are phenomenal liars.
Stealing is usually an essential way of life for a junkie, whether it’s burglary, shop lifting, fraud or robbery.
I had seen Stephen in physical pain as well as almost insane with panic in his desperation for heroin, and
yet, I always knew that he would not rip me off financially nor would he hurt me physically. A couple of
times he did try to lie to me, but he could never do it while looking at me. In fact he was so ashamed that
he would drop his head and speak so quietly that I would ask him to speak up and look at me, but he
never did – he just walked away.
I mention this not just because it is so unusual, but because I was aware that somewhere within him, no
matter how desperate he was, he somehow believed that I was always his last chance. Somewhere deep,
deep within his mind, he had managed to keep me separate. I think in a way he needed to believe that I
would always be there for him. Somehow, at some point, I must have also bought into the same belief,
because here I was, one more time, giving him one last chance.
So here I was all these years later, looking at a yellow skeleton with bad teeth. He was smiling and
looking a little timid and, I suppose, secretly hoping that I would hug him and welcome him. He looked
like a creature from some unknown source, but with an ever so slight resemblance to someone I once
knew. I experienced a range of reactions and emotions as I stared blankly at him. The one thing I
remember most about that moment, was the voice inside my head that stated, ‘Stephen is dead and this is
his murderer.”
He stayed a few months and those months were difficult and uncomfortable for me and I am sure they
were hell for him. He did straighten out and he did it all on his own. It turned out that he had hepatitis and
had also become epileptic since I had last seen him. Physically he was a mess; although not yet forty, he
had a heart condition and had suffered a couple of minor strokes. We didn’t talk much as I could barely
stand to look at him. He spent most of his time reading self help books, eating well, sleeping long hours
and walking.
One thing that I did find quite peculiar was that when we did speak, he seemed to be relating and acting in
the same way as he had when he was in his twenties. It was like fifteen years had not passed. His style of
dress, music, jargon, interests and self image were all caught up in a time warp. I mentioned this to a friend
of mine who was a psychologist. He said that it could be that events which occurred under the influence of
the drugs or alcohol may not have been stored in his memory. It appeared that his most recent
recollections were those things which had occurred prior to the drug taking. That made things pretty
bizarre for me, as he was remembering me as his girlfriend from yesterday, and I was seeing him as a dead
man walking, who occasionally reminded me of my old friend Stephen.
Even though he had straightened out and found himself a job, new friends and a place to live, I didn’t
really believe that it would last. After years and years of pleading with him to get straight the hardest thing
for me to accept was that a drug free life for an ex junkie is a sad and lonely anti climax. He was living in
an old mans body. Without drugs he was in constant pain, discomfort and anxiety. He had a criminal
record and no real skills, so his job options were limited, boring and low paying.
Intellectually and emotionally he was immature and therefore most comfortable with people many years
younger. They generally found him difficult to relate to. In the back of my mind, I began to wonder if
perhaps he may have done better to live hard and die young after all.
When he decided to pack up and go back East I was relieved. He promised he would stay clean, but we
both knew he wouldn’t. I still had that voice in my head telling me that Stephen was already gone and
whoever this replica was would soon be gone as well. I could no longer convince myself that if and when
that happened, it might not just be a better option or at least a kinder solution. I had been so sure that
kicking the addiction was the most important part of it all that it never occurred to me that life there after
would be painful, joyless and hopeless for him.
I had to accept that I was not his life-line. In my mind I had also come to terms with the fact that the
Stephen I once knew had gone forever. The phone call confirming this would only be a matter of time and
a formality. I told him this one night when he called. He wanted me to say that I would be sad and that I
would miss him. I said that I would not and added I would not even bother to go to his funeral.
The last time he called was very late at night and his voice was filled with that all so familiar desperation. “I’
m dying.” he said, as he had said so many times before. “I’m just ringing to say good bye and to tell you
that I love you and that I’m sorry, and I wanted to say thanks for everything.”
This was becoming a regular 3 a.m. nuisance, and I was really irritated. I usually let him drone on and I
would try and talk him through it, but I had had enough. It had been almost twenty years now and still he
was using his death as a tool to manipulate or control me. “Stephen, if you want to die, then go and die.
You don’t need to tell me or involve me; I’m sick and tired of you using this game every time you want
attention. Understand this, I don’t care, do whatever you want to do, but don’t call here again.”
Stephen’s father had always thought of me as his daughter-in-law, therefore it was very difficult to explain
that I would not attend the funeral. I heard later that the church was overflowing with people, and that it
was a sad, beautiful service with many people unknown to the family standing up and expressing their love
and fondness for Stephen.
I also heard that when he overdosed, the people who were with him managed to get him to the hospital,
but due to fear of the legal consequences, they simply dropped him off outside and sped off. We are not
sure how long he had been there, but he was found unconscious in the car park and a day or so later they
pronounced him “brain dead”. His father’s final decision for his son was to give his permission to turn off
the life support equipment.
Over the years, I have crossed paths with drug addicts and alcoholics, but I certainly haven’t involved
myself with them in any real way. I had well and truly decided that no one wins this game. I promised
myself that I would not trust a junkie nor would I try to help one. I was convinced that if my son ever
ventured down that path, I would chain him to a bed, at an isolated house, deep in the outback of
Australia. Luckily I never had to take that option, but regardless of promises made, I did find myself being
called up again.
Barry’s mother is a close family friend who was the most unlikely person to be caught up with the world of
drugs and all that the lifestyle represents. A clean living, church going woman, who thought that coffee was
a drug and swearing was about as close to a sin as she had experienced. Well, that’s a bit of an
exaggeration, but the point is that she considered her family to be a stable, clean living and moral unit and
would never have thought that someone like her or her son would be the ‘kind of people’ who would ever
be involved with drugs.
She was aware that Barry had had some problems, but she just expected he would sort himself out when
he saw the light and returned to his church. She was beside herself the night she called and couldn’t
comprehend that he had admitted he had a drug problem. He didn’t actually need to admit anything, the
proof was in the fact that she had just picked him up and raced him to hospital; frothing at the mouth and
blue in the face.
To her, a drug overdose was only a term used in television shows or on the news. Drug addicts were
people who came from bad or dysfunctional homes. In a way, although she had probably never
consciously thought it, I guess, she, like so many others, just assumed that drug addicts are bad people or
stupid people or, at the very least, just ‘other people’.
She kept repeating, “What’s happening? What can I do? What does it mean? Who can I call? How do I
fix it?”
My first instinct was to retreat to my long ago promise to myself not to get involved. I tried to detach
myself, but I cared a lot about Barry and her and I also knew that she was a total innocent and that no one
within her circle of friends would have much experience with these issues.
We spoke a number of times. The questions were still the same each time as were my answers: “You can't
do anything, You can’t fix this, You need to stop seeing him as your son and start seeing him as an addict.
You are dealing with the addiction - not the person.”
Click Next Button to go to Part 2.
Signs of drug use, bipolar and therapy
| Simply Stunning! A Beautiful and Profound Healing Experience 3 guided meditations on one CD. Access higher wisdom, intuition and insights. Change habits and activate healing energies. Click CD's for more info. Read what others say Sound samples and instant downloads * Track 3 of this CD is highly recommended for these issues |
| Heal your heart, Love your body and claim your Joy! These articles are now available in paperback. Click the book cover to find out more. |
I sat in the car as the bus pulled up across the road. I watched and waited,
secretly hoping he had changed his mind and let me down again as I was
accustomed to him doing. I felt sick and resentful as I asked myself for the
hundredth time, “Why do I still allow him to pull me into his nightmares?” Some
sense of loyalty which I knew was ill placed, a belief that friend’s look after each
other through thick or thin, or just the commitment to long ago promises that I
couldn’t bear to renege on. I don’t know. Maybe I just have some deep
psychological need to help the helpless or an inability to let myself feel like the
bad guy. The last time I had seen him, I had screamed at him, “Never Again”
and I meant it then as much as I had meant it all the other times.
I hadn’t seen him for two or three years, although every few months I would get
a late night call and a new, but all so familiar drama or crisis of some kind, would
be relayed in a slurred or desperate voice. He would cry and plead with me to
take him back or to at least help him. The promises would play out and repeat
like a scratched record. I had heard it all so many times - he could have just shut
up as I could have done all of the talking for him.
Four nights earlier he had called again. I knew it was the end of the line for him.
He had just come out of hospital, and for the third time he had been dead on
arrival. His day had come and he knew it. Either he straightened out now or he
died. Everything was finally closing in on him. He had debts and some potential
jail time hot on his heels.
I don’t know why I agreed to help him out, it certainly wasn’t done with an open
and loving heart. At best, I would say I was indifferent or else I just was not
prepared to know he died with my name being the last word he called. I was
hard though, and I made it clear that I would only provide a bed and food and
nothing more. I did not want to hear about his problems, I did not want him to
think that he was in any way a part of my life.
I hardly recognised the person walking towards me. I’m sure the look on my
face let him know how repulsed I was to see him. He was a skeleton in loose
orange skin, his eyes were yellow, his hair had been bleached, but done badly
so it was also yellow and his teeth were rotten. The bus trip from the east coast
took three days. I knew he had borrowed the money for the fare, but probably
nothing extra for food. Talk about cold turkey! I couldn’t begin to imagine how
someone could withdraw from a heroin addiction while sitting on a bus. I could
have admired him for that, but all I could think about was how embarrassing it
was going to be when my new life met my old life.
I knew the minute I first met Stephen that my life was about to change. We
moved in together within weeks of meeting and were inseparable for the next
four years. Those four years were filled with love and laughter. He was my best
friend, my lover, teacher, brother, parent and child. I have never before or since
known someone as well as I knew him.
We were young and healthy and filled with possibility and we brought out the
best in each other. He was charming and worldly, so charismatic that people
from all walks of life wanted to befriend him. Women of all ages became easily
infatuated with him, yet he was also a man’s man. He had it all: looks,
intelligence, sensitivity, warmth and humour. He was dynamic, capable,
adventurous and talented. Everyone expected him to be some kind of Superstar.
They were such magical times. We travelled the country and lived life like it was
an ongoing adventure. We were invincible. Our house was always open. Our
circle of friends was wide and varied. We played like grown-up children; life
was an ongoing party, Stephen at centre stage, and I basking in his light.
When things change, they tend to change in a rather insidious way, so it’s hard
to pin-point an event or a time which could or should have sounded an alarm. Of
course, there were times in which I challenged his drinking and often it ended up
in a fight or me storming out. He was a dreadful drunk and seemed to get
extremely drunk on very little. I was also aware that as soon as he had a taste of
alcohol there was no stopping, he drank faster with each glass, and drank until
he dropped. He was an ugly drunk as well – glassy eyed, slurred speech and
unsteady on his feet. He would drone on and on about nothing, or repeat himself
to the point that I would walk away and close the door.
secretly hoping he had changed his mind and let me down again as I was
accustomed to him doing. I felt sick and resentful as I asked myself for the
hundredth time, “Why do I still allow him to pull me into his nightmares?” Some
sense of loyalty which I knew was ill placed, a belief that friend’s look after each
other through thick or thin, or just the commitment to long ago promises that I
couldn’t bear to renege on. I don’t know. Maybe I just have some deep
psychological need to help the helpless or an inability to let myself feel like the
bad guy. The last time I had seen him, I had screamed at him, “Never Again”
and I meant it then as much as I had meant it all the other times.
I hadn’t seen him for two or three years, although every few months I would get
a late night call and a new, but all so familiar drama or crisis of some kind, would
be relayed in a slurred or desperate voice. He would cry and plead with me to
take him back or to at least help him. The promises would play out and repeat
like a scratched record. I had heard it all so many times - he could have just shut
up as I could have done all of the talking for him.
Four nights earlier he had called again. I knew it was the end of the line for him.
He had just come out of hospital, and for the third time he had been dead on
arrival. His day had come and he knew it. Either he straightened out now or he
died. Everything was finally closing in on him. He had debts and some potential
jail time hot on his heels.
I don’t know why I agreed to help him out, it certainly wasn’t done with an open
and loving heart. At best, I would say I was indifferent or else I just was not
prepared to know he died with my name being the last word he called. I was
hard though, and I made it clear that I would only provide a bed and food and
nothing more. I did not want to hear about his problems, I did not want him to
think that he was in any way a part of my life.
I hardly recognised the person walking towards me. I’m sure the look on my
face let him know how repulsed I was to see him. He was a skeleton in loose
orange skin, his eyes were yellow, his hair had been bleached, but done badly
so it was also yellow and his teeth were rotten. The bus trip from the east coast
took three days. I knew he had borrowed the money for the fare, but probably
nothing extra for food. Talk about cold turkey! I couldn’t begin to imagine how
someone could withdraw from a heroin addiction while sitting on a bus. I could
have admired him for that, but all I could think about was how embarrassing it
was going to be when my new life met my old life.
I knew the minute I first met Stephen that my life was about to change. We
moved in together within weeks of meeting and were inseparable for the next
four years. Those four years were filled with love and laughter. He was my best
friend, my lover, teacher, brother, parent and child. I have never before or since
known someone as well as I knew him.
We were young and healthy and filled with possibility and we brought out the
best in each other. He was charming and worldly, so charismatic that people
from all walks of life wanted to befriend him. Women of all ages became easily
infatuated with him, yet he was also a man’s man. He had it all: looks,
intelligence, sensitivity, warmth and humour. He was dynamic, capable,
adventurous and talented. Everyone expected him to be some kind of Superstar.
They were such magical times. We travelled the country and lived life like it was
an ongoing adventure. We were invincible. Our house was always open. Our
circle of friends was wide and varied. We played like grown-up children; life
was an ongoing party, Stephen at centre stage, and I basking in his light.
When things change, they tend to change in a rather insidious way, so it’s hard
to pin-point an event or a time which could or should have sounded an alarm. Of
course, there were times in which I challenged his drinking and often it ended up
in a fight or me storming out. He was a dreadful drunk and seemed to get
extremely drunk on very little. I was also aware that as soon as he had a taste of
alcohol there was no stopping, he drank faster with each glass, and drank until
he dropped. He was an ugly drunk as well – glassy eyed, slurred speech and
unsteady on his feet. He would drone on and on about nothing, or repeat himself
to the point that I would walk away and close the door.
| EBook also available. Instant download for only $8 |
If you feel this website has inspired you or resonated with you or if you found yourself thinking about
someone who would benefit from visiting these pages - Trust Your Intuition and send them the link.
If you would like to copy an article to your site or blog, you are welcome to do so, but must note copyright
Sonya Green and refer to www.reinventingmyself.com
If you would like to support this site you might consider emailing in suggestions or comments,
a small donation, purchasing a product or visiting the links to our sponsors.
someone who would benefit from visiting these pages - Trust Your Intuition and send them the link.
If you would like to copy an article to your site or blog, you are welcome to do so, but must note copyright
Sonya Green and refer to www.reinventingmyself.com
If you would like to support this site you might consider emailing in suggestions or comments,
a small donation, purchasing a product or visiting the links to our sponsors.
| iTunes Download Now |