Monthly Archives: November 2015

“Gayle, what have I always told you?”: Tough Love From a Heroin Addict

This past weekend I visited with two past residents of the all-male halfway house where I work.  Both of them had made it through the 6-month program in the past.  Both of them ended up relapsing.

They grew up in very rough and tumble neighborhoods in the Boston area and both were fiercely loyal to the city and their friends.  After both of them recently relapsed and detoxed in places they had been to before, the only open beds where they could start the process all over again was a two hour drive from their beloved city, way out in Western Mass.  Even though they would be a few miles apart they agreed to take the chance that being out there would get them out of their comfort zone and away from the distractions they faced every day.

One of them, “M,” has become like a son to me.  There was something there from the first time we met that silently conveyed “I will protect you,” and from him, “I’ll let you protect me.”

It was him who was the primary draw to take that long drive on a Sunday, but “D” was a wonderful added bonus.  I took them out for lunch in a mall where they were so happy to see a glimmer of civilization that they practically got down on their knees and kissed the ground.  They hadn’t seen each other in over a month so the love they had for each other oozed out of them.  Over lunch we laughed and laughed.  It was one of the best afternoons I have had in a long time.  That was a Sunday.  By Monday morning the news got out that “D” had overdosed and died, out there, in the middle of nowhere, where noone really knew how loved he was back home.

When I walked into the office and my co-worker said “D” died this morning,  I ran back out, sobbing, walking aimlessly around the neighborhood, the neighborhood where he grew up.  I covered my mouth and just sobbed and shook.  This visceral reaction was new to me.  I’ve always envied people who can cry instantly whereas I generally don’t cry, to this day never having sobbed at the loss of my mother almost 30  years ago.  He was in front of me, in a booth, in a mall restaurant, less than 48 hours before.

“D” was a permanent fixture, quite literally, in the house while he was there.  Weighing close to 400 pounds and on disability for other health reasons, he was always the first person the new guys would see on their first day.  He took care of them.  He made them laugh.  He made them feel welcome in his home.  He was enrolled in a culinary arts class and would come home, plop his backpack at my feet, and give me samples of what he had cooked that day, so proud of the results and what he was learning.

He observed how I got attached to the other 29 guys, how when they relapsed and were discharged from the program, I would mourn their absence in the house.

“Gayle, you can’t get too attached, ” is what he would say each time.  He knew this because his friends were dying left and right from overdoses.  He was trying to protect me from the pain.

He made it through the six months, had a wonderful graduation where the other guys in the house said beautiful and funny things about him.  He moved across the street to a sober living program that my agency oversees, and would come back every morning and cook breakfast for whoever was in the house.  When he stopped coming about a week later, it raised some suspicion in the guys who had known him for years.  One day I came in and one of the other guys told me that he had overdosed and his mother and brother were outside about to take him to yet another detox.

I ran outside and wrapped my arms as much of his body as I could fit into a hug.  He was absolutely smashed, eyes practically rolling in the back of his head.  I got very teary.

“Gayle, what have I always told you?”

As well-intentioned as it always was, it was futile advice.  I was with these guys every day.  One gets “attached.”  And I adored “D.”  Everyone did.  A service and funeral will be happening very soon.  There will be the guys who he has been through the struggle with for so many years, hugging each other.  Right now my biggest fear is that “M” will feel so helpless from being out there that he will flee his new program, come home, and stay home.  He’s gotten permission to come back for the service, but I will drag him, after he mourns with his friends, to the next bus back to Western Mass.  I will play that role as “protector” that he has invited me to be.




















There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In a A Shoe


There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread;
Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.*

–Mother Goose

*(I’m stating the obvious here but the aforementioned old woman not only seems to have made a bad real estate choice but she sounds like a real bitch, not to mention a child abuser.)


I have one child. Easy to count.  One.  She is my ONLY child.  She lives in my house.

At work, I have 30 “children.”  THIRTY.  They live in the sober living program where I work, 5 days a week.  They are men, average age of 30.  When they all start coming “home” at the end of the day, it is utter chaos.  It’s not bad chaos exactly.  In a bizarre way, it’s somewhat amusing.

When my daughter, my own flesh and blood comes home, I never know quite what I’m going to get.  She’s 14.  She either grunts at me or comes over, gives me a hug, and says “I love you mom.”  The men can’t really hug me and say that (although I certainly know the ones who would) and if they grunt they get called on it.

Other than this disparity, I’m living both lives in some bizarro parallel universe.  Here are the things I say in both places:

“Your room looks likes like a bomb exploded.”

“Are you REALLY going to leave your plate on the couch?”

“Put your phone away.”

“Get your wet towel off the floor.”

“Make your bed.”

At home, I usually get ignored and threaten some sort of consequence.  At work the guys can get written up and and if they keep doing it, we have a version of being grounded for a weekend day where they have to do pretty much what we tell them to do.  If it really gets out of hand they can be discharged from the program.   I can’t “discharge” my child from my house, as much as I’d like to sometimes.

The guys are great negotiators.  One night I was literally in the middle of a circle of 6 guys slowly crowding in on me with them begging to let one of them move into another’s room.  “Please Gayle…pretty please?”  At home, it’s “Please Mom, can you buy me Fruity Pebbles, just once?  Pretty please.”

Sometimes, when one of the guys misses some sort of deadline or another, usually to slip in a request for a late night or overnight, they might say “Gayle, can you just pretend I got it in on time?”  When my daughter does something like gets a bad grade, she might say, “Mom, can you please not tell Dad?”  Generally, unless it’s some major infraction, I cave in both places.  I am a total sucker.

The guys exhaust me but they make me laugh.  My daughter exhausts me and has been known to make me cry in utter frustration.

I recently discovered that there was a Christian version of the same rhyme,  a much softer version indeed:

There was an old woman
Who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children,
And loved them all, too.
She said, “Thank you Lord Jesus,
For sending them bread.”
Then kissed them all gladly
and sent them to bed.

Well, Jesus isn’t actually “sending” my daughter bread.  I drag my ass to the supermarket, fling a loaf in my cart, and wait in long lines to pay for it.  One of my coworkers shops for the guys, so Jesus has nothing to do with that either.  However, no matter how angry, I do kiss my daughter “gladly” while she’s already in bed sulking.  And when I leave work at the end of the day, I do a walk through the house and gladly say goodnight, to my other “children.”