Holding Vigil

The night of November 12, 2023 I hardly slept. Over the past several months I had become very close to a friend in recovery, who had recently moved from his home country to Australia. We texted daily and also spoke, by FaceTime, often once or twice a day. Given the time difference, I was starting my day as he was ending his. Our conversations had become the framework around which I built my days.

In September he went silent for several days, and I feared he had relapsed.

He had. But after a few days he reached out and let me know he was ok. He was scared and remorseful after slipping into a nightmarish long weekend. The rhythm of our emotionally resonant lives picked up again.

“I know I’ll be ok for a few months,” he said. “I always am.”

But as it turned out, he wasn’t. Although he did not yet know it, his addiction was accelerating quickly.

The night of November 12 he had not called, texted or responded to messages for over five days. I went out on my balcony throughout the night, and gave up on sleep sometime before dawn, as low clouds hung behind me. A selfie I took that early morning is the heart of this piece, Holding Vigil.

“Not well, to be honest,” he replied. “Things have gotten bad. I feel quite isolated.”

He had been on a seven-day run; had almost died when a companion overdosed him; and was alone and feeling helpless on his birthday.

“If our situations were reversed, what would you want for me?” I asked.

“That you get to a safe place,” he said.

He told me he needed to go back to treatment, to a safe place, what he would want for me if I had been in his situation. But his options were few in Australia, and he told me his parents were reluctant to pay again for residential care there or back home. And in just a few days he disappeared again.

Fearful for his life, I found a way to contact his family and let them know how bad things had become.

They wanted to help him, understanding the gravity of the situation. He finally surfaced again, in early January, and was grateful to have their support. He was ready.

But the window of willingness is often very short. He wavered in leaving Australia and going back home, where he could be safe and begin a healing journey addressing addiction, and profound underlying childhood trauma, in a safe setting.

We still spoke, but as he delayed departure and it became clear he would not go into treatment, I knew something was off. My relief, knowing he would be safe, was hollowed out with the dread knowledge he would not be. He started disappearing again, but just for a day or two, a different pattern than before. He remained thin, not regaining the several inches in his waistline he had lost during December. There was a new barrier in our communications. But still, when I said “I love you,” he usually replied “I love you too.”

Until the end of January approached.

He had not called for a day or two when I heard from someone else that my friend had been using every day. That explained what I had been seeing and feeling.

But this confirmation of my suspicions put me in a precarious spot, in deep emotional pain.

I knew I had to put boundaries on this long distance, but emotionally intimate and intense friendship. And when we finally spoke, and he told me the truth, that he had become a daily and somewhat functional drug user and was still refusing to get long-term residential treatment, I knew I had to break away completely.

As did he. We agreed not to contact each other again.

I didn’t know any of this would happen that long night, back in November. I was afraid, but I had hope. I was holding vigil.

In a way, I still am. My friend and I will probably never see each other. We will likely never speak again.

But I will always remember the many months of friendship, of love, and of waking early or staying up late for a treasured conversation. I will remember the texts. I will remember the hope. I will remember not feeling alone. I will remember the great love and compassion I felt for him, and from him.

Creating this piece, and writing this blog, are ways to heal from emotional loss. Something internal transformed in the process of creation. Deep sadness remains, but the sharp, debilitating pain I felt for awhile does not. Color has returned to my life, perhaps not as vivid as before. Perhaps it’s easier with time to accept that all of us are frail, imperfect versions of what we want to be.

And I still hold hope my friend finds his way, in his time. I hope he acts to save his life, before he loses it, and with it all the dreams I trust he still has in his heart.

Godspeed mister. I love you.

Two Pieces at Five Deuces Galleria the month of March!

Bender and Header, two fun recent pieces that play on colorful, overlapping patterns of lines, are part of the new Abstract Art Exhibition during the month of March. The opening reception will be Saturday March 2 from 6-9:00 pm. And the Gallery will be open for St. Pete Art Walk Saturday March 9 from 5-9:00 pm. Check out the website for other events throughout the month, or to arrange a private showing. And enjoy all the cool stuff from resident and guest artists!