When I last left Shelly in the Bronx and made my way home to upstate New York, I wasn’t sure I could do anything more to help her stop using drugs. Shelly has been using for 30 years and I have grown accustomed to her failed attempts at rehab, realizing that beneath her drug use is a history of trauma she might never overcome. Hours spent driving her to rehab centers and days spent helping her navigate the bureaucracy of social services and courts weren’t going to change that.
A few weeks ago, Shelly was on an upswing. She was enrolled in an outpatient methadone program and staying in a friend’s home a half mile away from the Hunts Point neighborhood of the Bronx. She was paying for her room with money she earned from housekeeping and babysitting. It was just enough structure to keep her from doing anything more than dabbling with a bag of heroin now and then.
I was getting fewer calls for help (in the past they have come daily), waking to fewer texts for attention, and hearing fewer complaints. She was texting me more about fun things, and less about problems: “Im going to c paranormal activity in 3-D tonight! You want to come?”
Two weeks ago, frustrated with her life, she texted me, asking to be taken to an upstate New York rehab, about 100 miles from Hunts Point.
“Chris I want to go to this program. They don’t use methadone, and so I can get off everything. Please please please I’m begging. I want to go up there this week.”
It sounded perfect. It was far enough away from the Bronx to give her distance, but not too far to bring new problems. It was also close to my home, so I could easily visit her.
I agreed to drive into the city, pick her up, and then drive her back upstate to rehab. Having been part of too many failed attempts that turned into a chase to get drugs, I demanded strict conditions. I texted, “No games. No having to get drugs first, no surprise friends that need to come, no bringing extra bags that we need to deal with. Just a stop at McDonald’s to get breakfast, and then we get the hell out of the Bronx.”
She agreed. “I ain’t using. I am done playing games.”
Variations of this agreement were texted countless times over the next few days.
“Ok I will b ready”
“Ill get all my shit together”
“I promise no bullshit at all”
“I am going crazy… I cant sleep and I am looking forward to getting out the city so bad … its all I think about”
Intake at the rehab was 24 hours but beds were first come first served, so I left early for the two-hour drive into the Bronx.
The games and surprises began immediately. As I drove closer and the morning commute traffic thickened, her texts buzzed my phone with an urgency driven by more than punctuality.
“hello”
“I’m in the hall waiting for u”
“hello”
“how far r u”
“hello”
“im tired how far r y”
When I arrived at her apartment building, she rushed out loaded with massive bags, more than she had agreed to take (rehab only allows a small bag; the other bags had to be dropped off at friends’ places or were for me to store.) She also had a sheepish grin. We started loading half of her stuff. The rest I refused to take.
I left her to settle in and walked to get a coffee from the corner store. When I was in line, she texted again.
“Don’t b angry, but I am bringing Manny. I need him”
“I know you said only me, but he needs to come also”
“I need him – you know I can’t do this alone”
Manny, her boyfriend, was now in the car, lounging next to Shelly behind five massive suitcases and bags. The street was filling with arriving school buses. A school security guard’s siren forced us to leave.
I was now in full “what the hell” mode, questioning everything she had told me and assuming the worst. I called the rehab facility to confirm. Yes, they could take both Shelly and Manny, but since the two of them only had New York City identifications, they would have to leave after two days to find a long-term program in the city. It was a story different from what Shelly had presented.
As her story collapsed, my anger increased. I knew the trip was going to be a fiasco, turning into diversions and demands (“We need to go to Pappie’s first – he gots my papers I need for rehab”; “I have to say goodbye to Pepsi, she’s under the bridge”).
I also knew that she had a serious habit again, and was going to want to use now. It was clear she really didn’t want to go to rehab. She was only at the “wanting to go but can’t go alone, have to bring everything, found a place that sounds perfect but really isn’t perfect if you ask more questions” stage.
It was going to quickly turn into a reason to do drugs wrapped in an attempt to not do drugs.
That is how it is when you are close to someone immersed in drugs. They can be selfish beyond the pale, driven by a desire to get a fix, to stop being sick. Sometimes they destroy things just to destroy things – to add some drama and momentarily escape all the other things they have already destroyed, and have destroyed them.
I am fortunate. I am close to Shelly by choice. I don’t rely on her for anything other than friendship. I don’t need her to provide me with food, safety, or help me take care of kids. For the relatives of someone using drugs, it is so very much worse.
As I was deciding how to get out of this mess, she insisted we drive to Hunts Point for breakfast. It was where her dealers were. She was already texting one of them. She defended herself: “I got a habit again and you know I can’t go to rehab without using first.”
I lied, telling her I would drive to Hunts Point only after we unloaded the car back at her apartment. I did a U-turn and drove them back to where I had picked them up. After she and Manny unloaded, as they were dragging their overstuffed beaten up suitcases away, the tiny broken pink wheels digging marks into the sidewalk, I sped off.
I was done with the games. Done with the silliness, done with good intentions spun into an excuse to get high again.
The calls and texts started coming. In my rush to leave I had forgotten about one of her bags in the trunk of my van.
“Christopher, my fucking sneakers are in the trunk, bring them back now, it is a whole bag of new sneakers”
“Hello”
“R u bring them”
“Please”
I blocked her number to end the constant vibration of my phone. Twenty minutes later I returned and hid the bag on her street, parked a block away, and texted her the location. I sat and watched in my rear view mirror as she collected the bag. Then I left.
I unblocked her a few days later. Three days after I received three long texts.
“Me shelly i really messed up , i am sorry 4 the mess i got u in i did have good intentions , but i should have pland bet, i am n a mess now 4 real, please i need Ur help, i have no phone, but this free 1, only texts.”
“Please i have bn on the st 4 now 3 days, im tired ,hungry, an sick, i want 2 go away 4 real, euen if i gnt 2 Get an leave everything again, help me make a plan, i trust u , can u please text me bk, can u please i dont wnt 2 b out here, im beggen please send me sm money”
“I miss u an i am sory, i just want 2 c u an talkn 2 u, help me with what ever an i wil b happy. did u write about wt hapen . I do luv u ur r all a good frnd, shelly”
I wrote back,
“Text me when you are checked into a rehab (you know very well where they all are), and then we can talk about the next step.”
