Liza
I see you around town sometimes, sign in hand, begging. Food...Money...Clothes needed...no home...no job...God Bless..Please help. Some people stop and hand you coins or dollars, sometimes a meal. Each item is received with a nod and a thank you, as you hunker down tightly, fighting against the wind.
I try to reach out to you, to say hello, and see how I can help. You won't meet my gaze, and your responses are muffled and stunted. Are you too ashamed to speak? Do you even remember me? Do you remember anything at all?
I sob inside when I see the bruises that cover your arms and legs. I shudder as I notice the track scabs; they cover you head to toe. You even have them on your fingertips. Your hair, once golden and lush, is now limp, matted and graying. You have lost most of your teeth. Your eyes, once a vibrant green/blue, have faded and are now empty. The sparkle is gone. I can't believe you're younger than I am.
Once sassy, funny and smart, you are now a shell of your former self. Your addiction has cost you in so many ways: you lost your home, your children, your job. Most of all, you lost your self respect. It shatters my soul to see you this way.
You have prostituted yourself in the name of a fix. The Almighty High is your god: smoking, injecting, popping, huffing. It's all the same to you. I want to hug you, shake you and take you to get help. You won't go, though. The stronghold is too tight. What began as a fun escape has now become a noose around your neck. This will kill you.
I know that it will happen one of these days. I will open up the paper, and your name will be there in the obituaries. The editors will find a nice way to clean it up "for the sake of your family". But the truth will remain.
"Liza once showed promise. She had a tough start, but she turned things around. She had three kids, started college, and even had a job. Then she tried meth and lost everything. Then she died."
That truth, there? THAT hurts me most of all.
I love you, Liza. Please let me help you.
I try to reach out to you, to say hello, and see how I can help. You won't meet my gaze, and your responses are muffled and stunted. Are you too ashamed to speak? Do you even remember me? Do you remember anything at all?
I sob inside when I see the bruises that cover your arms and legs. I shudder as I notice the track scabs; they cover you head to toe. You even have them on your fingertips. Your hair, once golden and lush, is now limp, matted and graying. You have lost most of your teeth. Your eyes, once a vibrant green/blue, have faded and are now empty. The sparkle is gone. I can't believe you're younger than I am.
Once sassy, funny and smart, you are now a shell of your former self. Your addiction has cost you in so many ways: you lost your home, your children, your job. Most of all, you lost your self respect. It shatters my soul to see you this way.
You have prostituted yourself in the name of a fix. The Almighty High is your god: smoking, injecting, popping, huffing. It's all the same to you. I want to hug you, shake you and take you to get help. You won't go, though. The stronghold is too tight. What began as a fun escape has now become a noose around your neck. This will kill you.
I know that it will happen one of these days. I will open up the paper, and your name will be there in the obituaries. The editors will find a nice way to clean it up "for the sake of your family". But the truth will remain.
"Liza once showed promise. She had a tough start, but she turned things around. She had three kids, started college, and even had a job. Then she tried meth and lost everything. Then she died."
That truth, there? THAT hurts me most of all.
I love you, Liza. Please let me help you.
posted by rennratt at 9:34 PM
6 Comments:
I hope you will print this and hand it to her. How very sad.
Heartbreaking.
You can't help someone who soesn't want help. I know this from bitter experience.
Well said and I hope she find her way free of that noose, but as Al said above they have to want the help.
People won't seek help until they hit their bottom. Too often, that bottom is just too damn low, the hold of the addiction is too damn tight . . . It hurts, but you have to let go . . .
:(
Post a Comment
<< Home