The death of another young man

There was a funeral today for a young man. Seventeen people attended, fourteen were professional support workers. He died from a heroin overdose but the naked truth is that he was close to dying from liver failure too. And he was close to dying by his own hand. And he was close to dying by being murdered by someone else. And he was close to dying from a blood clot caused by his reckless injecting technique. 

Even in the womb he was at a disadvantage- he came from a murky gene pool and had a high likelihood of inheriting many serious and life-threatening diseases. His young childhood was empty of parental love and, later on, empty of any parents at all. His teenage years were spent angry at the persistent rejection from everyone around him. He became addicted to alcohol at eight, cannabis, cocaine and other drugs by twelve, heroin by seventeen. There was still no love in his life except for that of nihilism. His life, all life, had no value. 

Then he developed bipolar disorder and spent many months deluded, paranoid, utterly secure in the knowledge that not only drug-dealers and the police but everyone else too wanted him dead. Through his twenties he dealt and abused legal and illegal drugs, he spent more time in prison, more time in hospital. His life was one of almost persistent detention. 

He never had the chance to develop a personality disorder or a psychopathic carapace to protect himself. He was always open. 

He never had a home of his own, never had the security of stability in any form. He lived wildly and was barely tamed by the institutions that surrounded him- he became institutionalised to the streets, trusting no-one, caring about no-one. He wore a sneer, on his face and in his heart. 

We all liked him. Everyone liked him. He was uncomfortably honest and upsettingly open about his life and his mind and his character. But he knew he had no chance and so did all the rest of us. We knew where he was from and how he lived. We all guessed correctly where he was going. 

Hundreds of professionals had contact with him over the years, me included, and we delude ourselves into believing we made minor differences here and there- I helped get a temporary roof over his head (until he attacked someone and had to leave), I gave him a few hours of my time as a listening ear (until he became abusive and rejected me). 

He died off the streets in a bed of his own. He hadn't taken his medication for weeks and had replaced it with vodka. He was twenty eight. 

What chances did he have? In 2017, in Nothern Europe, in a rich, major world city he had hundreds of chances. Some he took voluntarily, some were enforced, most he rejected. But the foundations were never set, his character waned and faltered and he slowly crumbled to death. 

We didn't save him we just cushioned his descent, the death of another young man.