Every day brings a new episode. Today he arrives at my apartment in withdrawal. I won’t let him in. He’s pleading and begging:
Can I just talk to you for a little bit?
Yes, talk through the intercom.
Please mom, I need to tell you what’s going on.
Talk through the intercom, you are not coming in.
Just a few words and then I’ll go, I promise.
No, we don’t feel safe in our own place when you are here. You sneak around. You lie to us. You steal from us. You are not coming in.
I need $300 by Sat for my rent or he said he’s calling some friends to beat me up. He’ll change the locks and all my stuff will be tossed out on the lawn. And he’s taking my guitar.
Well, that’s too bad, I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to your rent money from welfare?
Can you let me in, just into the hallway, it’s really cold and I’m really wet.
OK, but you are not coming into the apartment.
I buzz him in, big mistake.
You still need to tell me what happened to the rent money.
I had a really bad relapse. I can’t control myself. I spent every bit of it on H. I just can’t go on. I don’t want to live like this. Now I also owe my dealer because I borrowed $100 worth of H so I could overdose. So I can just end all this.
You have to get help to get off that stuff. No one can get off it on their own. You are back where you started. Here it goes again, round and round, again and again.
I know, I know. I really will go to rehab this time. I know that I have to. I just hurt so much right now. It’s crawling under my skin. It’s itchy. My stomach hurts. Why did I ever do this to myself? I just want this to be over with.
You’re suiciadal, I’m calling mental health emergency.
Now he’s on the fire escape trying to force my window open to get in.
I need to use the bathroom.
No. Go to the community centre.
You don’t understand, I hurt so much I can’t walk.
No. You are not coming in. You are suicidal. I’m calling 911.
Now he’s pounding on my door. Begging. Crying. The police come to take him to hospital. They arrive within 20 minutes, but it feels like an eternity. I’ve done it. I’ve called the cops on my own son.