Friends,
In his book entitled In Arabian Nights, author Tahir Shah wrote, “Stories are a communal currency of humanity.” In the sharing of stories we learn. Validate. Heal. Grow. And come together.
I asked a community member recently if I could share their story with you all because, like many of the voices from our community, their experience is one that we have much to learn from, if we are genuinely willing to listen. It’s about love, being human and doing our best.
I remember the day this person told me about their new job, a few years back. They came into The Village and shared that they had interviewed and been hired and would start soon, and that the wages and benefits with this new position would make all the difference for them and their partner. Over time, and many conversations, they shared that their partner navigated substance use and was unable to work, and so much depended on what income they could earn themselves. As they expressed, going from part-time minimum wage work and no benefits, to this current job offer, felt a little like winning a lottery. They would be able to better afford rent, groceries and utilities, and have benefits for dental and medical needs.
This community member would pop into The Village every so often, to get clothing or food, and share with us that this new position was really going well. There was an excitement to them now, something I hadn’t really seen much of before. They explained that it felt great to go to work every day and that they were getting to know co-workers and making new friends. “Community and belonging,” I remember thinking to myself. This person seemed somehow stronger and more vibrant. Each time I saw them, I felt gratitude for how their life was becoming what they felt they needed it to be.
Several weeks had passed and I realized I hadn’t seen this community member for a while, so I reached out to connect. “Hey you,” I wrote. “How’s things? I haven’t seen your beautiful face for a bit and wanted to check in.” In short time, a reply came back. “Hey. I’m OK. I haven’t been to work for a few days. I’ve been sick, so I’ve been calling in and staying home.” I asked if there was anything I could do or if they needed something, but they replied that they were “good” and would hopefully get back to work in the next few days.
Several weeks later, they came into my office and asked me to help them write a reply to the employer’s human resources department. They shared that they had been terminated for missing so many days, without a medical note and, although they accepted that decision and this letter might not change anything, they wanted to explain to their employer why they were away, in an effort to suggest the importance of this company seeking out mental health or substance use disorder training for management. They shared that there is so much visibility around us, encouraging awareness of mental health and offering support, but questioned how authentic the support would be for those, or those with loved ones, navigating substance use disorders and understanding the impact this illness can have on every aspect of life.
As they sat in my office, the heavy weight of their story began to unfold. Their partner’s methamphetamine use had developed into a fentanyl dependency. Their partner was experiencing ‘non-fatal’ overdoses – which were non-fatal because this person was present, saw their medical distress and used Naloxone to prevent their death. I remember thinking as they spoke, with such strength and yet vulnerability, of how I could not begin to imagine what it does to someone, to live this fear every day. My soul ached, as I began to understand the isolation this person must’ve felt.
They went on to explain the profoundly immobilizing fear of trying to leave for work each day, knowing that their loved one might have a fatal overdose while no one was home to use Narcan or call 911. They shared how this fear made it nearly impossible to focus on their responsibilities while at work and how they used all their “sick days” to stay home and keep watch. Throughout our conversation that day, they expressed that they had wanted to speak to their manager on several different occasions, about what was going on at home. They expressed wanting to be transparent and honest, in hopes of being able to keep this job they loved. Maybe eventually their partner would be able to get medical help with their substance use. But they simply couldn’t find the words.
The shame and stigma that often accompanies someone’s substance use illness prevented this community member from reaching out, perhaps as it does with many of our community’s people, who love someone who is navigating substance use dependency.
They wondered out loud, as they sat in my office that day, what they would’ve even said to management about this very real and human situation, particularly if those handling the human resources administration had no training or little experience supporting people with similar scenarios.
What words would possibly have fumbled out of their mouth, they wondered, to share with someone they don’t know, a situation many cannot possibly fathom. So, they just stopped communicating. I felt that.
As we sat in my office, they spoke and I typed, until a letter they felt comfortable with was written. The beautiful community member reiterated “It probably won’t do anything, but I just need them to know that this is real. People live with this every day.” And the letter was sent. As they predicted, they received no reply.
Take good care of each other, friends.
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Andrea Charest is director of the Listowel It Takes A Village location.
