Another Goodbye
A friend died on Saturday of a drug overdose. He had a drug problem for the duration of my friendship with him, which would total three years shortly. They found him dead & alone, and informed his family.
And as it is with those that die young, he was smart, brilliant and a wonderful person to know. That is if I forget the mood swings that he would have, where he was known to suddenly get angry for no reasons. Other times, perhaps when it suited him to be angry, he was quiet, and calm joking about the situation that we were in.
Two main conversations that I had with him, I remember. One, where I thought I'd convinced him to go to rehab, and enlisted the help of another friend to take him there. And another where I was mean and hopelessly rude about the situation he was in and expressed my joint anger and disappointment with him over his failure to carry through with his promise.
It was then revealed to me, how he had sustained injuries on his hand and forehead being thrown out of a train on the way to Mumbai. He also mentioned that he had switched from what used to be weed, to injections and sniffing brown sugar- heroin. I remember his coat, contained his gear of needles and injections.
I told him I gave up, I'd tried to help him with the rehab, and he in turn failed me. So I told him that he was the only son, and the sole breadwinner in his family. And I could see him dying, after I spotted a patch of blood on his shirt. I told him that everyone knew why he ducked into empty rooms to inject himself. I told him it was only a matter of time. And I told him that he needed rehab, but since he was obviously too good, he could do just what ever he wanted and that I was giving up on even maintaining conversations with him.
And he responded saying that I was giving him a lecture, and he'd just poured his heart out to me and that he always thought I was a cool person, and maybe I was not being that. I told him I didn't care, because I knew what happened to people who cared. They got consumed, and they wasted time on something that would never flower.
And now he's dead. They tell me he was in prison for theft for awhile too. And I want to say goodbye. And as much as I tell myself that he couldn't be helped, I can't help but wish we did more.
And the only thing I hope for, is that his death inspires another dopehead to quit. To leave this naughty, fatal business and seek help. And that they get given help, and they find the strength to face their addiction.
And as it is with those that die young, he was smart, brilliant and a wonderful person to know. That is if I forget the mood swings that he would have, where he was known to suddenly get angry for no reasons. Other times, perhaps when it suited him to be angry, he was quiet, and calm joking about the situation that we were in.
Two main conversations that I had with him, I remember. One, where I thought I'd convinced him to go to rehab, and enlisted the help of another friend to take him there. And another where I was mean and hopelessly rude about the situation he was in and expressed my joint anger and disappointment with him over his failure to carry through with his promise.
It was then revealed to me, how he had sustained injuries on his hand and forehead being thrown out of a train on the way to Mumbai. He also mentioned that he had switched from what used to be weed, to injections and sniffing brown sugar- heroin. I remember his coat, contained his gear of needles and injections.
I told him I gave up, I'd tried to help him with the rehab, and he in turn failed me. So I told him that he was the only son, and the sole breadwinner in his family. And I could see him dying, after I spotted a patch of blood on his shirt. I told him that everyone knew why he ducked into empty rooms to inject himself. I told him it was only a matter of time. And I told him that he needed rehab, but since he was obviously too good, he could do just what ever he wanted and that I was giving up on even maintaining conversations with him.
And he responded saying that I was giving him a lecture, and he'd just poured his heart out to me and that he always thought I was a cool person, and maybe I was not being that. I told him I didn't care, because I knew what happened to people who cared. They got consumed, and they wasted time on something that would never flower.
And now he's dead. They tell me he was in prison for theft for awhile too. And I want to say goodbye. And as much as I tell myself that he couldn't be helped, I can't help but wish we did more.
And the only thing I hope for, is that his death inspires another dopehead to quit. To leave this naughty, fatal business and seek help. And that they get given help, and they find the strength to face their addiction.
Comments