Slipping Away

Slipping Away

WARNING: This story may be HUGELY TRIGGERING for some. Stop reading now if descriptions of using substances or the real stories of people suffering from untreated concurrent disorders trigger you.

The story you are about to read is true. To protect the privacy of the person, names and identifying details have been changed. These changes may include, gender, age and race.

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Tyler woke up to the sound of muffled footsteps, the rhythmic thump of feet hitting concrete. The sun is already piercing through the cracks in the cardboard he has propped up as a makeshift shield against the light. His head feels like it's been hit with a sledgehammer. He winces, rubbing his temples, fingers touching the grit embedded in his skin, the grime of a thousand days spent on the streets.

He lifts his head and looks around. The alley is empty, save for a few rats that scurry away as he shifts his weight. His body aches. Every joint, every bone protests.

He can feel the sores on his feet through his worn-out sneakers, the blisters from too much walking, too much running from people, - from himself!

Reaching into the pocket of his dirty, tattered jacket, he pulls out a small bag of powder. “Down,” he mutters, just to hear the sound of his own voice. Fentanyl. His saviour. His curse. A brief escape from the endless maze of his thoughts, a momentary peace in the storm that rages inside his head.

Tyler knows he shouldn’t. He knows the risks. He's seen too many people go down and never get up again. He's been saved too many times himself by the Narcan kits that dot the streets like some ironic lifeline thrown by a world that’s otherwise turned its back on him. The paramedics, the volunteers — they know him by name now, know him by the broken tattoos on his arms, the way he sways when he's high, and the glazed look in his eyes when he isn’t.

But today, - today, like so many other days he needs it. The noise in his head is too loud. Voices, all different but somehow his own, screaming, whispering, mocking. He can't tell where “they” end, and “he” begins. He doesn't remember when they started, maybe when he was a kid, maybe when his mom told him he was worthless, or when the first of the stepdads slammed his head against the wall, his body a ragdoll in their hands.

With his back pressed against the cold, damp wall, Tyler takes a deep breath. The coldness seeps into his bones, mixing with the warmth of his sweat. His fingers work deftly, pouring the powder into a small piece of foil, hands mostly steady from years of practice and muscle memory. Digging his lighter out, he flicks it once, twice, - the spark catches. The flame dances, and he’s entranced for a moment by its small, defiant glow.

Then a huge inhale. The smoke fills his lungs, heavy and thick. Tyler closes his eyes, waiting for the familiar rush, the sweet numbness that takes the edge off, that quiets the voices, if only for a little while. And there it is — that wave of warmth that starts in his chest and spreads out, dulling the pain, blurring the edges of the world. Leaning back, letting his head rest against the wall, feeling himself slip away into blessed oblivion.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time means nothing in this haze. Tyler doesn’t notice the sun climbing higher, the alley growing warmer, the world continuing its indifferent march around him. Like so many times before, he hears footsteps again, they seem faster this time, but distant, as if they’re coming from the other side of a thick pane of glass. Someone calls his name, or maybe they’re talking to someone else. He doesn't care.

“Tyler! Tyler, hey, come on, not again,” a voice says, closer now, tinged with a mix of frustration and concern. It’s one of the regulars, one of the ones who hasn’t given up on him yet. He opens his eyes, sees a blurry figure kneeling beside him, feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He tries to focus, but his vision swims, the light too bright, the world too loud.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, the words slurring together, his tongue feeling too heavy in his mouth. But he’s not fine. He knows it, they know it. His heart is racing, his breaths coming too fast, too shallow. He’s teetering on the edge, dancing with the devil, as he likes to call it.

The figure pulls out a small nasal spray, the familiar white bottled spray dispenser. Narcan, again! Tyler closes his eyes, wanting to disappear, to vanish into the cracks of the pavement. He feels the cold mist enter his nose, the sting of it, the rush as it spreads through his system, fighting the poison he’s willingly put there.

He hates this part. The waking up. The coming back. The realization that he’s still here, still alive, still stuck in this endless loop of pain and numbness. They’ve ruined a perfect dose of fentanyl and wasted his money. He hears the figure sigh in relief as he coughs, sputters, gasping for air. The world sharpens again, the sounds, the smells, the sights. Too much. Too fast.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, not really meaning it, but feeling like he should say something. The figure nods, gives his shoulder a squeeze, then stands up, walking away, leaving him alone again in the alley.

There he is, back again sitting for a while, feeling the weight of his existence pressing down on him like a boulder. Why is he still here, he thinks? Why isn’t he among so many other friends, the ones who didn’t make it, who slipped away quietly in the night, their bodies found cold and stiff in the morning light? He wonders if they’re the lucky ones. If they finally found the peace he craves.

His brain goes back to thinking about his mom. It always goes back to those memories. It’s as though he’s in a groundhog loop, doomed to always relive the horror. The way she screamed at him, called him crazy, called him useless. About the bruises, the broken bones, the nights spent hiding under the bed, waiting for the storm to pass. He thinks about the stepdads, each one worse than the last, each one leaving their mark on his skin, his soul. Why him? What did he do to deserve all of this? Guilt washes over him like suffocating drowning. Somehow this is his fault. For some strange reason, he accepts this guilt, but what his mind always struggles with is what he did wrong. That is the part he has never been able to figure out.

Reaching into his pocket, his fingers brush against the crumpled bills, the few coins he’s managed to scrape together since yesterday by collecting bottles. Enough for another hit, maybe two if he’s lucky. He feels the familiar itch, the pull, the need. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it could be the last time. But maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe he’s ready to slip away, to finally let go.

Tyler stands up, his legs unsteady, his vision still blurry. He stumbles out of the alley, into the bustling street. People pass by, their faces a blur, their eyes avoiding his and his eyes avoid theirs. He’s invisible, a ghost in the daylight. He wonders if anyone sees him, if they see the pain etched into his face, the scars on his arms, the hollow look in his eyes. Or maybe they see nothing at all, just another junkie, another lost soul.

There is enough left in his legs to make his way to the corner where the dealer waits, leaning against a lamppost, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Tyler hands him the money, takes the small bag in exchange, feels the weight of it in his hand, the promise of oblivion.

Stumbling back to the alley, back to his spot, his sanctuary. Tyler sits down, takes out the foil, the lighter. There isn’t an ounce of hesitation. He knows what he wants. He knows what he needs.

He inhales, the smoke filling his lungs, his head, his heart. He feels the rush, the warmth, the peace. He closes his eyes, leans back, lets himself slip away.

And for a moment, just a moment, the pain is gone. If he were conscious, he would tell you it feels like freedom.

Author's Note:

I am always reluctant to be the narrator of such personal tragedy. It's not my place. However, the real "Tyler" asked me to tell his story. He felt it might do someone else good. His words, "Perhaps some will understand better."

Tyler's story is not unique, but it is deeply tragic. His struggle illustrates the complex and intertwined web of social determinants that contribute to his situation — factors beyond his control that have shaped his life and continue to push him deeper into despair. These determinants, such as poverty, Inter-generational trauma, childhood trauma, lack of stable housing, and limited access to quality mental health care, are all pieces of a larger puzzle that society ignores or fails to address adequately.

Tyler began his life in an environment filled with abuse, neglect, and instability. This early trauma had a profound impact on his mental health, leading to a diagnosis of schizophrenia — a diagnosis he struggles to accept, not because it isn’t accurate, but because society’s stigma has taught him to fear being labelled "crazy." In an attempt to quiet the overwhelming delusions, hallucinations and sometimes voices in his mind and numb the pain he endures daily, Tyler turns to drugs like meth and fentanyl to self-medicate. For him, these substances provide a fleeting sense of relief, a temporary escape from the torment that has become his constant companion.

Self-medication is a reality for many people like Tyler who find themselves with little or no access to effective mental health care. When mental health services are inaccessible, either due to lack of resources, stigma, or systemic barriers, people turn to readily available substances and, unfortunately, deadly. These substances provide a brief moment of peace, but they also carry a heavy toll — addiction, physical deterioration, and the constant threat of overdose.

Our social and health systems are failing people like Tyler every day. Mental health and substance recovery services remain underfunded and inadequate, often only available to those who can afford them. Harm reduction strategies, like safe consumption sites or overdose prevention programs, are under constant scrutiny or political opposition, even though they have been proven to save lives and offer a pathway to recovery. There is a lack of supportive housing, which means that many who are mentally ill, like Tyler, have nowhere to go. Instead, they are forced to navigate the streets, constantly exposed to the elements, violence, and the very substances that keep pulling them into unimaginable circumstances.

Hopefully, readers will see through to Tyler’s humanity and recognize that the issue is not just about individual choices but about the broader social determinants that drive these choices. It’s about the lack of accessible mental health care, affordable housing, and comprehensive support systems that address the root causes of trauma, addiction, and mental illness. Until we address these systemic failures, people like Tyler will continue to slip through the cracks, unseen and unheard.

Tyler's story is a call to action. It is a reminder that every person on the street has a history, a series of events and circumstances that led them there. It challenges us to look beyond the surface, to advocate for better mental health care, stronger social support networks, and harm reduction policies that save lives. It asks us to extend compassion, not judgment, and to recognize our shared responsibility to create a society where no one is left to suffer alone in the shadows.

The Author: Ron Merk – Ron advocates for people and families experiencing concurrent disorders.