Landlord: The True Face Of Evil

My landlord is the face of evil. I’ve lived in ghetto house for 8 years. Numb-nuts lives on the east coast and has been here a total of two times. He leaves his elderly father of 80 some odd years to take care of things around the house. That means nothing gets done. Here is the current list of things that don’t work: back door wont open, front door is sticky, large crack in bedroom wall. Pieces of the wall are falling of in the living room above the base board. The bathroom floor has nail heads sticking out of the tile, the back burner on the stove doesn’t work, the freezer only works if you keep it half way full, the sink leaks, the hot water faucet doesn’t turn unless you bench press it and the carpet is nasty that means about 20 years old.

Yesterday he breezed into town and took a look at the yard. We just spent $300.00 for landscaping. Despite the fact that the yard looked fairly good, the asshole flew into a tirade over what he didn’t think looked good. Additionally, he’s told us that we can’t use the garage or the basement to store belongings. His father allotted space for me in both places when I first moved in. This change in position is astonishing.

For eight years I’ve lived here and for eight years I’ve had to endure this shit-hole of house. I’ve kept my mouth shut because I felt like there was and understanding. We stay quiet and in return we get cheap rent. Now we get this asshole of land lord snapping at us, talking to us like we are a piece of shit and placing new restrictions on us. This guy has come unhinged.

Tomorrow is the face-off. I don’t think I’m going to be able to maintain my composure. I can’t remember the last time I was this angry. I’ve told Talal that he’s going to have to intervene on my behalf. Perhaps it’s best that I don’t talk with him at all. This is one time when I’m willing to admit that I need grace and guidance. My anger blinds me. I need help from my higher power. I want punch this little butt-fucker right in the face. I can’t do that. I need help to move past my anger and handle him with dignity and grace. Breathe deep, hold my head up and move on. I can do this. I have the tools.

Grief and Loss; Death by Addiction.

Being a chemical dependency counselor has its ups and downs. Some days you’re on top of the world, while other days it feels as if everything is crashing down around you. One of the hardest things to walk through is the death of a client. Over the course of 28 days, you become close to your patients. You can’t help it. You hear their stores of pain and tragedy and it speaks to your spirit. Bit by bit and piece by piece, they begin to push the idea of addiction out of mind and open their hearts to the concept of sobriety. Slowly, they begin to reclaim their selfhood that was lost to a ruthless addiction.

At the end of treatment you say good bye to them. That includes a coin, hug and discharge summary. In the discharge summary you say something like “client has now created value in their lives for clean and sober living.” As they walk down the hallway for the last time, you feel a pang of sadness. Inside you're hoping to God that they get it. You want them to stay clean and sober. Yet there is that part of you that understands that bad news can return. Too many times there is not a happily ever after.

This morning when I got up, I checked my e-mail and there it was, the announcement: another good hearted, well meaning addict died. This time it was heroin. He died all alone. His roommate found him ten hours later. His sister, a friend of mine, delivered the news with a heartfelt e-mail that explained her inner pain. I responded and told her that I would like to come to the funeral. She’ll send me the details later. All day long he’s been on my mind. Mostly there is a huge sadness and feeling of loss. Some of them make it and some don’t. I clearly recall one of the last conversations I had with him. I told him that he couldn’t survive another relapse. I warned, above all else, stay sober. “If you relapse you may not come back.” That’s what I told him. I became sick to my stomach when I realized that I’d been right. He relapsed. He never came back.

Today is one of those days that I feel great heaviness weighing on my spirit. The addiction won; sobriety lost. Tomorrow I’ll get up, have a cup of coffee, check my e-mail, take a shower and then work. When I get there I’ll sit in a room with ten other people who are trying to get sober. Honestly, I know that about 50% of them may make it. That’s a generous estimate. It will probably be a lot less. I will continue. Despite my great sadness, I will continue to do this thing. It’s not always easy to fight the war when you lose battles so often. I just can’t stop. When I see the hope in their faces and hear their stories, something inside of me stirs. I can’t stop doing what I’ve been called to do. I didn’t chose this. It choose me. A fire burns inside, something drives me to move ahead and forge onward. It’s not about me. It’s about doing the right thing. It’s about them. Even if they don’t get it, they still deserve a chance. That’s my job. I help them find the way. The rest is up to them. That’s it. That’s all. The end.