We've been hearing--from lots of people, actually--that this man we know has been at it again: calling, showing up at people's houses at all hours of the night in a state of paranoia. We've seen him like this before, a couple years ago, but we had effectively removed ourselves from his inner circle of go-to contacts, and he adopted other, more loving and compassionate people, to turn to when times got tough. They get tough a lot.
Last night it was our turn again.
One o'clock in the morning.
Phone rang. It took me a groggy minute to realize who was on the phone.
"Emily, They are trying to steal my truck again."
"Who is trying to steal your truck?"
"THEY are. I know exactly who it is. They're watching it. They want my truck."
"Call the police."
(Probably this is what a lot of people tell him to do. He sounded exasperated.)
"The police won't do anything until they actually steal it! They are trying to steal my truck!"
"What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know. Maybe I could park my truck at your house. . . ."
"No. If people are really trying to steal your truck, why would I want it at my house? I'm not going to put my family in danger."
He hung up. I was groggy no longer. I was wide awake. I really don't enjoy middle-of-the-night phone calls, especially worrisome ones. I started to play out all the ways this man could hurt himself or someone else. I wondered if he might target my family or someone we know sometime in one of his fits of rage. I don't actually think he will, but I couldn't (can't) help but wonder. My last experience with someone on meth ended with a gunshot and me with five children in the car calling the police, and then an arrest and nine months in jail. Then an apology to me and my family, then a relapse and jail again. I lay wide awake, having minor bouts of not being able to breathe well (red flag, Emily! don't let anxiety take over! suppress the need to breathe so heavily and eventually that crazy feeling will go away!), wondering what any of us can do to get this man into rehab, or into counseling. Maybe it's not drugs. Maybe I'm misjudging him and he has a serious mental illness. How does Heavenly Father want me to interact with this person with more behavioral and emotional troubles than Anyone I Have Ever Met? Is there any possible thing I can do to help him? All I know is, he cannot park his truck in my driveway when "They" are going to steal it. He cannot stay at my house when he gets evicted from his apartment. He cannot come over and expect me to listen to him rant with fervent irrationality about all the very people who have done nothing but try to help him.
Steve was wonderful and helped me fall back asleep.
I dreamed about harvesting a weevil colony in my kitchen, and having to finally take it outside when black worms began infesting the food in the pantry.
Don't do meth.