How much help should we offer an addict?

Vincent was sitting on the sidewalk in front of the clubhouse where we hold Resilient Recovery Groups on Tuesday nights. [6:00 PM, 5740 W Baseline Rd, Laveen, AZ 85339].

His knees were tucked up into his chest, making him look like a small bird.

He looked much worse than the last time I saw him. His clothes were dirty. He had scratches on his head. His lips were parched and his eyes were glossy.

“Sorry. I am drunk.”

He explained that he tried to hang himself earlier in the day using a belt. Once the belt began to tighten he cried out, “Jesus! Jesus! Help me.”

His hand was swollen and puffy from extricating himself from the belt. “It hurts,” he said gesturing toward his hand and his neck.

Unlike previous times that Vincent came to the clubhouse, he decided to come inside and attend the meeting.

Sitting with his arms on the table, hunched over, and staring straight ahead, he was mostly able to follow the format of the meeting. However, his state of inebriation did cause him to speak out of turn a couple of times.

Once it was to declare that sobriety was a [extremely vulgar curse word]. He paused. And then declared that alcohol was also the same curse word.

Whenever he spoke, he said sorry a lot. Even when asked for water. “Sorry. Can I have some water?” “Sorry. Can I say a prayer?”

After one of our silent prayers, he began to pray out loud for forgiveness for his drunken state and his suicide attempt.

Watching Vincent is like watching someone with the flu. On the one hand, you’re watching a person deal with something that you can’t do much about. So, you take an emotional step back. On the other hand, you want to offer something—even if it is largely symbolic: a blanket, some water, a little soup, a cold washcloth.

We tried to get him help.

He accepted an offer to use my cell phone to contact a relative. He also accepted some snacks, two bottles of water, and a postcard with information about Phoenix Rescue Mission’s excellent addiction program.

He almost accepted treatment at one of the local treatment centers where I provide Resilient Recovery Groups. However, delays in responses from their intake lines seemed to dissuade him—as did the [necessary] requirement that he receive medically supervised detox services before entering the treatment center.

We also called the police to see if they could take him to the psychiatric hospital for evaluation given his suicide attempt. However, the police determined that he was not an active threat to himself and chose not to take him for evaluation.

The call to the police happened before most of the group arrived. When one of the group members asked why the police were called, I replied matter of factly that he had attempted to hang himself earlier in the day and we were looking to see if he could get help.

The member’s lip quivered. Some tears fell.

Now I was the one saying, “sorry.” I thought about how abruptly I conveyed the information. Had said the facts too harshly? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.

The member said that Vincent reminded them of times when they felt their own life didn’t matter.

I paused. I’ve had those times, too. I also know people who completed suicide. Although I was quiet, each memory was a door flung open revealing another door that was also flung open. A chain reaction.

As Vincent walked away from Resilient that night, with 2 water bottles, 3 snacks, and 1 postcard in hand, there was a collective ache to see him helped.

We wondered if there was more we could have done.

As if to soothe ourselves, we counted up the positives from the interaction.

• He has been coming around for a while and this time he entered the group.

• We expressed our love and concern for him.

• We gave him all the help he would accept.

• In his prayer, he called us his “friends”

• When he left he asked, “Am I welcome back?”

It’s a good list. But, the ache remains.

We collect prayer requests on cards during the meeting. The majority included a request to pray for Vincent.

Because he used my phone to call a relative, I have [Name] in my call history, the one last thing I can do is call that number today while at one of the recovery homes I visit.

I’ll express my good wishes for Vincent, see if there is a way to get him enrolled in treatment at the home—and if nothing else—provide the contact information for the home along with my recommendation that it is a clean, safe, and effective treatment facility.

Maybe it’s too much. Maybe it’s not enough. Maybe no one knows the answer.

UPDATE: While at rehab, I called the number hoping we could coordinate treatment. No one picked up. Voice mail was full.

I sent this text:

Hey, this is Jason. Vincent used my phone to call you the other day. I wanted to see how he is doing.”