By Evan Leary, former CCEH client currently in recovery housing

*Evan gave us permission to use his name, stating, “I want to break the stigmas and face my truths head-on. Maybe it’ll help others.” We want to thank Evan for his candor and his willingness to share his story with us.

I must admit, when I was asked to write an opinion piece on the executive order “Ending Crime and Disorder on America’s Streets” that attacks harm reduction and gears the approach of helping the homeless towards treatment first, I wrote a fluff piece. I avoided the issues at hand. I am really passionate about helping the homeless, and I don’t want to be given the cold shoulder from people who have helped me along my journey to recovery.

The first time I overdosed, I was one month into a new addiction – crack. I had slid into heavy alcohol addiction over the years, and it was blowing up my career and my life. I drunkenly took a hit of crack and had my “I have arrived” moment. I dropped alcohol instantly. I told a psychiatrist once that my obsession for alcohol had been lifted. She asked sarcastically how I did it. I was serious when I told her, “I found crack.” I can’t believe I’m writing this for the public eye, but I’ve been working on dissolving my ego. My past is not an indictment on who I am today, but my gratitude and compassion for others today can be an indication of who I can be tomorrow. Sharing my experience, strength, and hope with you is how I can add insight to the conversation.

One month into my new drug of choice, I found out I was going to be a father. I told myself, “One more night and I’m done.” Fast-forward and I hadn’t slept for days. I desperately needed sleep. A new substance was offered to help, and they called it “down.” I did not inquire about it much, and I tried it. It was fentanyl, and I coded almost immediately. When I woke up in the hospital, the staff seemed to treat me differently than I ever experienced before. I was offended. My ego told myself, “don’t they know who I am?”

I imagine it’s hard to see people touch a hot stove, treat them for the burn, and then see them come back with the same burns at a later date. Nothing anyone said to me could help me. Getting sober for any reason other than myself was like watching a toddler scramble for a few good steps, then fall flat on their face.

I lived in a nice three bedroom house at the time, and my poor ex-wife was truly confused when I responded to Narcan. She was adamant that I didn’t do drugs to the EMTs. She actually called a chiropractor she knows before calling 911 because I was complaining about my back right before I died. When I turned a deeper shade of blue, the chiropractor wisely told her to call an ambulance.

I did the rehab merry-go-round for a while. I ultimately lost everything, got divorced, and ending up wandering the streets content with being homeless. I only sought a temporary relief from my negative thoughts through drugs. In the summer it almost felt like a vacation from responsibility, until it turned into survival. “This is temporary,” I told myself.

It’s a whole different world out there. It can be dangerous, but there are plenty of kind-spirited people that I met along the way.

There were some that extended their hand and helped me when I needed it most. Sometimes it was fellow homeless people who knew the ropes. On other occasions, it was people showing compassion from a better position in life. People walking by and just acknowledging my existence as a human being kept my life from being that much darker.

At times there were nice people stopping to offer cold water, leftovers from dinner, or the occasional freeze pop during a heat wave. Sometimes parents would have their children hand [the items] over to teach them a lesson in life. I applaud these parents.

There was a local church that walked around with wagons providing hot meals. Baked beans and hot dogs doesn’t sound like a gourmet meal to someone with regular food intake. My muscles were being consumed for protein, and I pushed the envelope towards atrophy by the end.

Regularly, I would see social workers offering a friendly smile and an ear to listen. They would either be at shelters, resource centers, or at the needle exchange.

Harm reduction was off my radar at first. I didn’t use needles, but I needed pipes and they were “free.” I see how providing needles through an exchange system prevents the spread of HIV and hepatitis. It also keeps dirty rigs from being tossed on the street and in public parks. The social workers running these exchanges are willing to get you into recovery if you ask. They also get an opportunity to collect real-time data on those in our community who are struggling with addiction.

I have received several “nudges from judges” over my time. Once, I was arrested for stealing hot dogs from Walmart. I was in jail for three weeks on a small bail. I manipulated a person from my past to pay for the bail. I told him I was going to pay him back. It took over a year before he got that bail money back from the court. I went right back to active use when I was released.

There were other times I would get out on personal recognizance and be told to go to Doorway. If I did go, I would take a picture of an appointment card and buy time until the next warrant for skipping court.

My last time in jail, I couldn’t stop thinking about my daughter once the fog began to clear. Her first words were “dada.” I missed it. It was tearing my soul apart. But I was still trying to get out and go for “one last time.” One day, I was talking to someone about paying for bail when I heard my best friend’s laughter right behind me. I snapped my head around, but I remembered quickly that hearing my friend’s laugh was impossible: he had died almost two years ago. I couldn’t stop crying. I was desperate not to die. I was granted a gift of desperation.

I set out to get sober from that day forward to simply be proud of myself, and to live a better way. I seek real peace of mind, and I am grateful for the tests life has granted me. Hard times seem to be lessons of blessings: I can’t always see them until much later.

While homeless, I slept upright for almost a year because I was scared to lay down and be prone. When I went to lay down in a sober house bed while I was in treatment, I cried tears of joy and sadness at the same time. I don’t know if I had ever experienced true gratitude until then.

Locking people up is not a cost efficient way to try and get them sober. It’s also not a very humane way to treat people. If we push people into treatment, some will run, as I’ve seen that happen. A guy once jumped out of the “druggie buggie” van driven by an employee for the recovery center. I’m sure he wasn’t running down the street thinking twice about his potential bail-jumping charges he was going to catch.

Recovery centers allow people to clear the fog and be in a safe environment to begin recovery. Sober living teaches people hitting a hard reset on their life responsibilities and integrates them back into society. Staying sober is different for everyone. Connection allows an individual to thrive, and various fellowships provide this opportunity. The community has a chance to work with, or work against, these individuals.

I don’t know the solution to homelessness. I do know that a country divided is the opposite of unity. I hope we can find a way to set aside our differences, and work together to end homelessness.

I’ve been in a hopeless state of mind before. People showing me compassion and providing the potential for meaningful connection allowed me to regain hope. Hope is more than a campaign slogan. It turns tides, and builds a stronger community.

Thank you for all who gave me hope. I’m grateful for your help out of the darkest days of my life.