Addicts and Convicts
I spent the weekend in Serbia with 25 men recently, most of them heroin and alcohol addicts living in a rehab centre that we were visiting. What a privilege.
There are different levels of honesty among the men in the centre. For some, it’s the honesty of a person at the rock bottom of their life, and for many it’s not simply a one-time visit to hell. For others, it is a life-changing place, an honest commitment that will stick. And for a third group they will never leave the cycle of addiction—hope is thin here.
My husband and I share a meal they prepare for us using the vegetables from their garden, the meat they’ve raised themselves, cooked over a fire in a giant cauldron of sorts. We tell stories, we share our life with them, and while I find my life experiences somewhat anaemic compared to the tragic drama laid out before us, they devour our tales. They show me their flowering apple trees, their potato patch, the pigs in the pen, and they bring me a chick to hold, its baby feathers soft and innocent.
We are asked to have individual conversations with the men. We sit together: there are five of us in the room at a time, one addict, two counsellors, and the two of us. The stories are raw. All of them have broken homes and many have addict parents. They have been through the breakup of the USSR, been through civil war, been bombed by NATO, seen their parents die of cancer from the fallout of Chernobyl. So much anger. So much loss. So much…everything.
It is in an upper room that it all takes place. A number of comfortable recycled couches and chairs and sunny yellow walls belie the pain that it is to sit and absorb the enormity of grief spilled out.
The last interview is the worst. He’s just returned to the center after having left early of his own choosing from the program, and he details the weekend he has just lived. He’s ordered three prostitutes. Or was that five? Three days on a bender. No, it was five. Is he bragging? Or can he not remember? Is he ashamed? I’m not sure. He talks in a hyper, machine-gun way. Is he detoxing? No drugs, he says, just the girls.
He knows that I work against prostitution and trafficking. I told him so. Is that why he’s giving the play-by-play commentary? Is this a personal attack?
I feel sick.
I can hardly listen to him. His voice sounds like sandpaper on an open wound.
He repeats that he ordered the girls from a website. I’ve just eaten with him. I don’t care about how he spent his hours in debauchery and abuse. I hate hearing this. Why are the details important?
Air. I need air. He keeps going. Oh God, make him shut up. I need to leave this room. He’s taken all the light and oxygen. I have a hard time not looking away. Why is it only about him? What about the women?
He’s done his ramble. The counsellors have such true words. No excuses. It was a choice. You fell. Clarity. Fresh voices.
It’s done. They all stand up. I stand too, a wave of hope for my escape floods over me.
It’s not over. They’re all hugging him and encouraging him. They hug everyone after each interview. They say it’s an important part of recovery.
I’m going to have to do it. I can’t. Oh God, don’t make me have to.
I don’t want to get close enough to smell him. I don’t want his smell on me.
It’s my turn. Can I do it? Can I actually embrace him? He’s sweating.
I feel sick.
I know I must do this. Not for him. For me.
I move towards him, suddenly full of compassion. He’s sick. I know what he’s done, we all do. He knows he’s got a problem, but he can’t figure out how to get well, and he certainly won’t without help. Maybe I can be the strong one. I think I can. He will not take my light and air anymore.
It’s a kind of distant hug, a light ‘pat-pat’ on the back. Just the arms, no body touching. I did it. I’m glad I did.
It’s been a number of days now. I close my eyes and I can still feel the thick pressure of the room closing around me. I can still feel the weight of his story in my heart. And I feel heavy sympathy for him. But I bleed for the girls.
Hope is thin in some places.
But there is still hope…