Room for Rent; Part II – By Marc McMahon

Back in September, I shared with you all about some roommate issues I was having and the changes I made to remedy the situation. Here we are seven months later and guess what? New roommate issues. First, let me ask you this; have you ever had roommates? Ah, then you know at times it can be an arduous task, not for the faint of heart that is for sure.

It is one thing to have allowed an almost stranger to sleep under the very roof that you do, but given time their problems tend to start to become your problem’s and vice-versa. Even for two people who have their lives together, all their ducks in a row, I have seen this sort of thing happen. Now imagine two guys in early recovery trying to live together under the same roof in perfect harmony. Can almost see the writing on the wall, can’t you?

I noticed it slowly over the past few months. At first, my roommate would leave for work at the same time every night and return home about the same time every morning. He attended the same support groups that I did and his schedule was almost as predictable as the Sahara Desert weather. His bills were always paid on time and he was an incredible blessing to my life and my recovery.

Then I noticed last month that my roommate was beginning to come home from work later every morning and was struggling to get up and out the door at his usual time. Rent went from being paid on time or early, to a day or two late. Then it went to “well can I pay you half my rent this check and the balance out of my next?” His attendance at our support group meetings was beginning to dwindle and his overall appearance was starting to show the inevitable signs of relapse.

This saddened my heart deeply. I had really taken a liking to this gentleman yet I knew I could not effectively work a program of recovery knowing there was someone living in my home using the very substances that threaten my existence on this planet. So, one Saturday on his day off I made us both a nice breakfast and sat down to have a little chat with my friend and see if we could not work out a solution to this problem.

My hope was that by letting him know that I was aware of what was going on in his life and with his recovery, he would open up to me. I hoped he would admit was using again and he was in desperate need of help. Things did not go to plan, and if you have ever had to confront an addict who has just relapsed about their use, then you know they can react quite defensively. I know I always did.

When I mentioned to him that I knew he was using and I was legitimately concerned about his wellbeing and future growth, I saw a side of my roommate that I just did not know existed. This calm middle aged Asian man jumped up from the breakfast table faster than a bullet and called me every four-letter name in the book (both the English and Asian versions.) Then went on to tell me how I did not know what I was talking about and who the hell did I think I was anyways thinking I knew everything. After all, he did have two months more clean time than I, supposedly! Proudly showing me his appreciation for my concern he held up both his hands and gave me the bird, then stormed off to his room.

A few hours had passed when I heard a crash come from down the hall followed by a mumbled plea for help. As I ran down the stairs to his bedroom I heard glass breaking and the sound of someone moaning and thrashing about. As I swung the door open to my roommate’s bedroom there was poor little Mi’ laying on his back on the bedroom floor, a bag of methamphetamine clenched tightly in his left hand and convulsing uncontrollably. My roommate was in the middle of a full-blown seizure and it was all I could do to get the bookshelf out of the way before he bounced into it knocking it over on top of himself.

I could not believe what was happening to him, and in my house. After what seemed like at least a decade the convulsions stopped. Staring up at me with the blankest, saddest stare I think I have ever seen, a tear formed in his left eye and began to slowly run down his cheek. I sat down on the floor next to him and propped his head up on a pillow. He asked me to call him an ambulance. He wanted to get help.

Mi’ checked out fine at the Emergency Room and a social worker who spoke with him had, with his consent checked into the Behavioral Health Unit on the campus. She said that she knew of an open bed at a treatment facility in town that would be available in five days and wanted to keep him until then. He would be transferred to inpatient when the bed became available. My roommate happily signed all the consent forms and was given some medication to help him rest. Before I walked out of his room to head home I assured him I would be back to visit in a day or two.

I walked into my home where I knew I was safe and nobody was around. As I sat in my recliner I immediately started to weep. He could have died….and in my house! It brought back a flood of memories from just before I got clean this time. I had the very same thing happen to me. For a good ten minutes, I cried….and I cried hard. They were tears of sadness for my friend, tears of terror of the memories racing through my mind from my overdose, and tears of frustration, for knowing there was a problem but not being able to do a damn thing to prevent it.

When I regained my composure, I called my Sponsor. I informed him of the situation and his response was exactly as I thought it would be. He said to me “well at least he is alive and you should thank God that you were able to move him out of your home in such a rapid manner.” I thought to myself you heartless son of a bitch! He went on to say, “now you do realize Marc that he is a total threat to your recovery and him moving back in with you after treatment should not be an option, don’t you?”

“Yes sir”…I said, then I hung up the phone. As I sat in my recliner and tried to wrap my head around the day’s events and what my sponsor had just told me, I could feel anger building up inside of me. At first I wasn’t sure why, then I put my finger on it. Although I agreed with the principle that my sponsor had based his advice on (the safety of my personal recovery program) I disagreed with the heartless manner that he so casually presented it and his opinion was not at all in agreement with what my heart was telling me to do.

I jumped up from my recliner and dialed my sponsor’s number. When he answered I politely told him that I would no longer be needing his services as my sponsor and thanked him for all he had done for me. I then hung up my phone and turned the power off. As I paced the equivalent to a very quick half Boston Marathon to and fro in my living room, my heart made my decision for me. I quickly could feel God’s peace begin to once again fill my body. With a heavy sigh of relief, I sat back down in my recliner and prayed.

I thanked God that afternoon for surrounding me with people in my life who refused to give up on me. For not allowing my own struggles with my addiction to harden my heart to the point that I could not see the good in others who were having a tough time. And for giving me the desire to want to help my friend with a place to live after he graduated treatment despite the threat it may pose to my own recovery.

Is this a wise decision? I do not know, but one thing I do know is this. Everybody needs somebody to believe in them. Everybody deserves to know that somebody cares, and everybody deserves to feel loved by somebody! It was done for me and I will be damned if the chain of goodness is going to stop here. You got to give back what was freely given, right? Well then damn it, that is what I am going to do, because…. “WITH LOVE, ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE!”