My heart is sore
today.I often pass
through Umzinto on the way home from Scottburgh to Pennington, as there is no
direct taxi to Pennington. On Saturday I attended a meeting in Umzinto and then
headed for the taxi rank. This is where all the whoonga addicts hang out. Many
of them know me. I always stop and talk to them, sometimes buy them something
to eat.
This Saturday I
saw someone I had not seen in about six months. It was Mike (read Mikes story
here http://davidonymous.blogspot.co.za/2016/05/mikes-story.html ). He had at
one stage been a regular attendee of meetings and we had tried to help him. We
had raised money to send him to rehab and on another occasion bought him
suboxone. He continued to use and eventually stopped coming to meeting, and I
lost contact with him.Mike was always
small and thin, but he had been full of life energy. I remember him as someone
who no matter how desperate his circumstances, always had a laugh and a smile.
This could very quickly turn to tears, as Mike was an addict, and a child.
Incredibly manipulative, he was always ready with a tall tale that would tug at
your heartstrings. I never knew Mike to steal. He never had to. People gave him
money. Most people who knew him would never have guessed he was a whoonga
addict. He always walked around with a bucket, ready to work, clean cars, push
trolleys ...whatever it took. I once saw someone give him a hundred rand..When
I asked him about it he said.'Oh that guy..he gives me every week.." And
he had a round of regulars like that. . Another time i saw him on the beach
collecting sand in a packet. He had literally convinced some tourist to buy
some beach sand to take home.This was not the
Mike I knew. The smile was still there, but it seemed like the life had been
sucked out of him. He was all skin and bone. Hugging him i felt I had to take
care not to break him. For all his seventeen something years he looked like an
old man with not much time left in this world. I took him to a shop and offered
to buy him something but all he would have was some milk....he could not hold
down anything solid he said. The doctors
said it was TB. I asked about treatment. He said he had been to the hospital
and been given medication, but some guys on the street had stolen it, no doubt
thinking it was something they could get high on. He had been meaning to go
back, but never got around to it. Sitting in queues at hospitals is not
something you want to do when you have a rosta.
I extracted a promise to return to the hospital as soon as possible but I doubt
this will be kept.
This is a boy who
has been on the streets and using whoonga since he was 10. He has never known
anything else and never really stood a chance. The sad thing is that Mikes
story is all to common. I know there is very little I can do … I can share my
story… carry a message of hope…try and bring him into the fellowship of
recovering addicts… but is this enough? Surely there is more we could be doing ?
I have seen time and again the miracle of the 12 step program…I know it works….But what about
those like Mike who don’t get it? There is no help for them. Society turns a
blind eye to these people. We like to pass the buck…the government….the family….
And nobody does anything. The 12 step program has taught me that I cannot change the world
and I need to focus on the things I can change. But does that mean I must
accept the way things are? I do not believe so… I believe it is still possible
to work for a better society where all are valued. Ultimately the fact that there are
people like Mike in the world is an indictment of us all. We are all
responsible. We all need to be involved in finding a solution.
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