As I read, I could only imagine the day-to-day pain which prompted the tortured prose.
Dear Crack,
I f------ hate you.
You destroyed me mentally, physically and emotionally.
You made all the good in my life turn bad.
You had me convinced that you were my best friend
and you could take away all my problems
when actually you made everything worse.
You starved me, destroyed my heart and
left me going for days without sleep.
I liked you because you made me feel numb in and out.
You never cared how I felt before or after the high.
All you wanted was my life.
I thought you were my friend,
But you were slowly killing me.
I lived for you.
I honestly f------ hate you.
You should just stay away and leave people alone.
Looking further through her daughter's papers, she found a handwritten chronology of a fall from what many would have considered a normal life.
“Every day you are faced with choices. At the age of 16 I had to decide between crack and life.
“From the time I was born till about 9 years old, I didn't grow up around drugs and partying. Then when my teenage years came, I started learning new things and I wanted to experiment. In Grade 6 I tried smoking a few times but not everyday. By the middle of grade 7 I was hooked on smoking.
“Nothing got worse until the start of grade 8. I tried weed and then it was once a month and then once a week, and once a day, and then it came down to me smoking large quantities a day. I wasn't much of a drinker but I did drink here and there.
“By grade 9 I was drunk twice a week and usually f----- up on the weekends. I would party with my friends and sometimes even their parents.
“By the age of 14 I had already been in s--- with the law, in and out of school and that's when things really went downhill. At 15, I was given to CFS. 3 weeks after being in care I was put in the Youth Centre for theft and mischief.
“I continued to fail and wreck every placement CFS had found for me. I continued to party and break the law, which put me back in MYC.
“CFS finally decided to put me in my own apartment because they had no place for me to go anymore. I lived in a place full of sniffers and huffers, chemical abusers, gang members, hookers and crackheads. I shared the odd smoke with these people. We would drink and get high together.
“Soon I tried crack and I honestly liked it and enjoyed smoking it. I never spent my money on it although I bought lots of weed and booze.
"There were so many times when all I had to eat was a raw potato or chew raw spaghetti noodles on pay day. I had food but by nite time I was down to nothing. There were many times I went without food, ass wipe, and money.
“Smoking crack was the only thing that got me out of bed everyday. Smoking weed became pissy and boring. Now my heart is enlarged and I need open heart surgery.
“I don't live on my own anymore, but nor do I live to get high and moving on my own was a stupid choice on my behalf. But it taught me about the real world and taught me lots. I have set goals for myself now and that is to graduate and become a social worker or youth correctional officer.”
What would you say after reading that?
Some might wonder how well she's progressing toward her new goals.
Others may be upset about me violating someone's privacy by publishing her private, pained reflections.
Whatever your reaction, it doesn’t really matter. She won't object. It's too late.
I officiated at her funeral several weeks ago. Her seventeen year old heart and lungs couldn’t sustain her dreams of change.
To say it was a tough funeral service would be an understatement. The viewing and funeral took its toll on family, support workers and peers.
It was tough hearing the sobs of teens - hearts torn asunder by grief and a rude awakening to their own mortality.
It was tough meeting with family. I know her parents. Their love for their daughter was not diminished by their inability to deal with her behaviour. But it was precisely that love which made watching their daughter struggle all the more painful.
It was tough seeing her in that coffin. I remember her as a child, before she even turned ten years of age. Full of energy, mischief and an amazing imagination. Stubborn to make her own way, to stake her own claims to all life had to offer.
When family moved away, we lost touch. More recently, she lived within several blocks of our church, but I had no idea she was there, or how hard and far she had fallen.
I don't think she really wanted us to know about her fall. That's what's tough about losing your way. You've run so hard and fast, it seems even harder finding your way back.
I talked with her parents about sharing this story. It would be important to stress that not all was gloom and despair. There were many positive memories of childhood and some solid changes recently. But you can’t help but wish things would have ended differently.
We drew some comfort from knowing she had made peace with God and those around her in the time before she passed away.
But there are so many others. Each one suffering under the weight of their own choices. Each one struggling against the force of their addiction. Each one too young to lose so much…
Rev. Harry Lehotsky
514 Maryland Street
Winnipeg, Mb R3G 1M5
(204) 775-4929
lehotsky@escape.ca