Sketches from the Bottom: Quietly Drowning

Part 4 in a series.

Have you ever watched someone self-destruct?

When I met Leonard* as a summer intern at a homeless rescue mission, I thought he was a staff member. The front desk buzzed me in, so I pushed open the door and there stood Leonard in the entryway with a smile and a “Praise the Lord!” He wore a white goatee, bandana, and enough cologne to clear any clogged sinuses.

Leonard came to the mission because of an alcohol addiction. At his peak, he played ball on an exhibition team that traveled with the Harlem Globetrotters. Traveling with the team took him around the world and brought him into contact with people like Calvin Klein and Broadway star Patti LuPone. Somewhere in the middle of this glamorous lifestyle, his drinking turned into something he couldn’t live without.

My co-workers suspected that Leonard never acknowledged his addiction or other personal issues; he retreated into spirituality instead. (Recovery looks different for every person, but the Twelve Steps are often a crucial part of the process.) After graduation, we saw him infrequently and figured that he wanted to distance himself from that embarrassing stint in the recovery program.

He moved to an apartment nearby, tucked in a neighborhood between two hills with an excess of broken cars and rickety homes. On his walk to the bus stop each morning, he passed a dive bar on the corner. Up the street were two more bars and a drive-through beer distributor.

How could he maintain sobriety while walking past neon “OPEN” signs and happy hour advertisements? Not easily.

Several months later, he came to our office with a confession brewing in his face. He told us that he missed an opportunity to show compassion to a beggar during a recent missions trip, and he felt guilty. His voice wavered and tears flowed, and then the real reason for weeping leaked out: he was drinking again. It had progressed to the point where he needed a beer to get to work, a sign that his alcoholism was returning.

He said, “I was in a bad place, but I’m coming out of it. I’m reading my Bible and trying to think pure thoughts.”

I cannot remember how many times he shared the same story, complete with repentant tears and spiritual language. Each time, we told him, “We aren’t meant to struggle alone. We need other people. None of us are perfect.”

He would nod and wipe his eyes while we hoped that something would sink in. After promising that things would be different, he would leave our office with his head up. We would listen to his steps on the staircase, knowing that he would relapse and descend into depression again.

When I walked to the gym after work, I would often see him waiting by the alley for the bus, head wrapped in the familiar bandanna. I would stop and chat, encouraging him to visit my boss and I. He often promised but rarely came. One day, he told me, “If I keep drinking, my health is going to collapse.”

The last time that I saw Leonard, I imagined how his life might have turned out differently. What if, for example, he was a banker who helped patrons with homeowners’ loans or new savings accounts? Or an athletic coach, showing younger players the ropes?  But instead he was sitting with a battered sports bag and cooler with beer underneath the awning of an old porn theater, waiting for the bus to take him back to his apartment and his demons.

I still drive past his place on my way to work, and my heart bottoms out. It’s like watching a person drown. He occasionally surfaces and grabs a life ring for a few minutes, only to let go and slip beneath the water again.

You can’t make someone hold onto a life ring. You can only watch and pray.

Read the next story here.

*Name has been changed to protect privacy.