Vol III: #61 Meth And Love
“Fuck you anyway, asshole!” shouted the dusty, meth rattled, woman from the sidewalk outside Raley’s supermarket. She looked pitiful enough and my heart was sad for her. My sin was I had looked the other way as she stood with her sign and thus deserved her curse. As I drove off, I looked in the rearview for a last glimpse. She was emaciated, skin tanned and scabbed, her hair matted and oily. Beside her were two trash bags. I wondered what they held. Addicts tend to sell anything of value as quick as they can, so it had to be blankets or coats- something valuable enough to lug up and down Lake Boulevard but not valuable enough to sell.
When I pulled into the driveway I turned the car off and thought about the poor lady. Meth was her master now and whatever she said or did was in service to him. The addiction isn’t what bothers me. What bothers me about the addict outside the supermarket was her lack of self-worth. She knows her condition better than I ever will, but she doesn’t know how loved she is. This sister lives in a violent, ruthless world. Everything has a price and trust is a fantasy. Meth is the only guarantee.
I know how she feels. I know what it’s like to feel abandoned and truly alone in life. I was jobless, all the doors shut, even to bus tables or wash dishes. My roommate began to distance himself from me, always busy with friends or work. And at my worst, he belittled me when the rent was late. Unable to cope, I swam ever deeper into self-pity. I hated who I was and believed I would never rise from the despair. When I shopped for groceries, I hated everyone I passed and from my beat up truck I sneered at happy couples strolling through the neighborhood. I didn’t know or believe I was loved, not by the Lord, or my parents, or my friends.
It was the Lord who delivered me from all, because He loves me. What my friend on the sidewalk needs isn’t money or meth. She needs love. And I pray she accepts it.
