Unchained

My work with the addicted and mentally ill prior to my sojourn into Tent City prepared me at least somewhat for what I would encounter there.

Somewhat - but not completely.

It certainly didn't surprise me that some residents would ask me for money; I never carried cash, so refusing wasn't a problem. Some asked me for rides; again, unless I knew for certain that it was somewhere legitimate like Social Services or the grocery store, I wasn't about to cave in. And over time, I was able to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.

Because although there were plenty of folks there who were merely victims of tough economic times or personal tragedy, there were also people for whom manipulation tactics were second nature - a survival mechanism in which fellow human beings were merely a means to an end.

Certainly, Jesse (not his real name) was not one of them. He was smart, articulate, industrious, kindhearted, and seemed as sincere as a person could be. 

Jesse was not just a resident. He became a friend, and a very dear one at that. Although most of our interaction was within the context of Tent City, we'd meet up outside of camp as well. There was never a shortage of laughter or interesting conversations, but we spoke a lot through quiet times as well. 

Over time, I realized something was amiss.

In particular, I started noticing that our friendship seemed dramatically one-sided. If he asked me for anything - and even when he didn't - I was there like a soldier at the ready. But if I reached out to him and wanted to talk, he'd reach back begrudgingly at best, or not at all.

I knew of the term "co-dependency," and swore I'd never be that person. But the signs were all there. The grandiosity and magical thinking. The refusal to address his emotions, particularly the anger that always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface. The preoccupation with power and attention. The abdication of personal responsibility. And because I believed he truly needed me, I kept justifying my enabling behavior.

Releasing him was a slow process, but it got easier with time. It started with one bold step: I said "no" to him. I told him that if he wanted to engage in self-destructive behavior, that was his decision, but that I'd have no part in it.

Then, I indicated that I was tired of watching him use and hurt people - myself included.

Ultimately, I made the decision to stop reaching out to him altogether.

How badly I want to tell the folks who continue to enable him, STOP. Stop getting dragged into his game. Let him start taking responsibility for his own life. But I also know the feeling of being needed, that illusion that they're the exception to his machinations, and the belief that by "helping" him, they can change him. Those are powerful emotions, and can themselves be as strong as any drug.

Still, the truth remains that if you feel like you're being used, you probably are.

And sometimes loving someone means loving them from a distance. 

I hope that if you've gotten this far, you will keep this man in your thoughts and prayers. I do, every day. Because loving from a distance does not mean giving up hope altogether. Miracles do happen. People can and do change. I've seen it.

I pray for all those who love a user/addict, and who have had to exercise tough love. Even when it meant taking the risk of losing their loved one altogether.

And, dear readers, I ask you to pray for me as well.  

Thank you, and God bless.