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My uncle was always ‘unwell’. That’s what the rest of the family would say anyway. Anything was described as his being ‘unwell’. It wasn’t until I was in my teens that I realised his illness was his addiction to heroin.
I remember a short time when I was smaller when he had his own apartment. He was…different from the rest of the family, even I could tell that, but he was still part of our family. It was after this short time that he moved back in with his mother – my wonderful grandmother who I adore.
As I grew up and understood more about what his illness actually was, the more I became suspicious of him. I was always watching for badness, evilness, anything awful. Any movement or sound I was wary of. I didn’t trust him at all. I don’t know why I didn’t trust him, I think it was all the horror stories the teachers at school told us about drugs. Drug takers were evil nasty people…apparently.
When I was older I fell on hard luck myself, and at one stage lived with my grandmother in her spare room. I was incredibly depressed at what I had become – jobless and living with my aging grandmother…and my Uncle, who lived in the room next to mine.
I was always nervous of any friends he had over, jumped at any noises I heard in his room. I became terrified and my overactive imagination had conjured up all sorts of scenes that could’ve been happening in that room. Finally, one day as I sat with my grandmother, I started to cry. I asked her if he had ever threatened her, stole from her, did anything to her. I couldn’t bear the thought of her living the way I thought she was.
She stroked my back and explained. Yes, he was an addict, but he had never raised his hand to her nor anyone else for that matter. With a smile she explained the worse he ever did was sulk a little if she wouldn’t give him any money. She showed me a locked cabinet of hers with methadone inside, and told me how he was on a treatment to rid himself of his habit and was doing very well at it. He would give her his methadone whenever he was given it so that she could lock it away and give him his doses only when he needed them.
She then explained about his life, all the things that had led him down his path to near-destruction. I felt pity, but also shame at how I had immediately labelled him without truly knowing why. She also explained how he was changing, and how he would always be welcome to live with her while he went through this transitional period….just like me.
Just like me. It was then that it hit me. I was living with my grandmother too. My problems were not as big as his, but she had still taken me in, given me warmth and shelter and food, and anything else I needed.
My Uncle and I were in the same boat. We were both learning how to live again. I opened my eyes to the hard work he had done, thought about how he’d changed, listened to his conversations with friends as he offered to do some odd jobs for them to keep him busy. I was so proud.
And in the end, we both made it.
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