The Painful Reality: I’m Powerless To Save My Addict Friend

When helping someone is actually hurting them

Photo by Nastya Dulhiier on Unsplash

“Help, I’m forty dollars short on rent, and my landlord is going to evict me.”

“I don’t get paid for two weeks. I’m screwed. I have to pay her today or I’m out.”

“Is there any possible way you can Venmo me?”

My first instinct after reading Brenda’s messages was to roll my eyes. I felt mean for doing it, but there she was asking me for money for the third time that month. She never asked how I was doing or what was new with me. It was always about the Venmo and how fast I could use it to send her cash.

To be honest, I did give her money early on a few times. She sounded desperate, and in those days I still believed her stories. I couldn’t think of a reason why Brenda would lie to me. I’d known her since we were kids in high school. Of course, she wouldn’t ask unless it was absolutely necessary, right?

After the third or fourth time, I started to have questions. Why did she keep having crisis after crisis? If she needed money that badly, why was she asking for only thirty or forty dollars each time? How had her life gotten so badly out of control?

Suddenly, the answer appeared in front of me like a neon sign. My friend had to be abusing drugs. The small amount of money Brenda was asking me for on a regular basis was going toward her fix for the day. She didn’t ever bother to have a real conversation with me because she was likely going through withdrawal and saw me as a possible resource to treat her pain.

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If I had shared my theory with anybody who knew her, I thought they would have called me crazy, if not downright cruel. Brenda had worked as a nurse her whole life, for God’s sake. She obviously knew about the dangers of drugs and likely had seen people suffering or even dead as the result of them. What right did I have to accuse her of being a drug addict?

I knew, though. There was no doubt in my mind. It looked just like I remembered it because I used to be that person constantly asking people for money, acting selfish and uncaring unless it pertained to my needs and telling so many lies that I couldn’t keep them straight. Brenda was me from a long time ago, but not so long ago that I couldn’t recognize it.

I reached out to a mutual friend of ours from high school. Jonathan was a lot closer to Brenda growing up than he was to me, so I thought he might have some insight. As it turned out, she had been hitting him up for money, too, and he was fed up with it. I asked him not to think badly of me for suggesting it, and I shared my suspicions about Brenda possibly having a drug problem.

“She won’t admit it,” Jonathan told me, “but she is totally addicted to pills.”

I wasn’t happy about being right. I knew what a rough and dangerous road Brenda was traveling on, and I was honestly scared for her. Those little pills had the power to make people act in ways that contradicted their character. When I was in full addiction, I would have done anything to get one. I sold everything I owned, and I owed people so much money that I could never pay them back. My addiction had cost me everything I ever cared about.

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I still hadn’t responded to Brenda because I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, but I knew I’d have to write back something eventually. I already knew I wasn’t going to give her money again and enable her. It wasn’t like I had any cash to spare anyway, but I still felt bad about saying no and not trying to help her in another way by suggesting AA/NA or trying to convince her to detox and begin working on recovery.

At the same time, I had to admit that I was afraid of Brenda. Her situation was too close to the way mine used to be. Those pills were little devils, and I knew falling back into a friendship with her would put me in closer proximity to them. I had been strong and sober for years, but those pills still had the power to tempt me if I was anywhere near them.

Part of me wanted to delete Brenda’s messages and forget I ever saw them. Maybe I could erase her, at least on social media, and the threat would no longer be there. She was still a person, though, and I didn’t want to throw her to the wolves without trying to help in some way.

There’s a big part of AA where they talk about altruism, basically being willing to help somebody without expecting anything in return. We were supposed to take what we learned in AA and use it to help our fellow sufferers. I remembered when I was still sick and received this blessing, but I also took note of when it stopped. I kept relapsing and, when I would return to the rooms, there were always less people willing to support me than before. I had used them up, and none of them wanted to enable me anymore.

I learned that it’s not possible to have unconditional relationships in AA. When I failed at sobriety over and over again, people I would have called close friends turned their backs on me. I resented the hell out of it until I realized that they were just protecting themselves. I was as much of a trigger to them as Brenda was to me, an example of the life they worked so hard to get away from.

When I got serious about being sober, I had to do it by myself with very little support because I’d wasted everybody’s good will. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I went to meetings every day and concentrated on my recovery instead of trying to be best friends with everyone. I actually read the whole AA book and tried to understand it for the first time.

In order to care for others, I had to learn to care about myself. Having friends and socializing would have to come later. I finally believed that things could get better, and slowly but surely they did. Most of my friends came back around when I showed them I was as willing to fight for me as they were.

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By the time I wrote back to Brenda later in the day, she thought I was mad at her. She had written several times begging me to not be angry and to give her another chance. I understood that she really didn’t want a chance to do anything but secure our relationship so she could continue to ask for money. I also knew she likely felt terrible about it.

I reached out and assured her that I wasn’t upset and gently mentioned that she might want to look for outside help that didn’t involve money. I told her the story of when I almost ended up homeless and moved into a women’s halfway house where they saved my life.

“I’ve been clean and sober for four years,” Brenda wrote back and insisted, probably not realizing she had just confessed to having substance abuse issues. “I go to meetings every day. I take it one day at a time. I know that I don’t have to pick up a drink or drug today.”

I knew there was more than a decent chance that she was lying. Recovery rarely looked like one crisis after another. When I was truly sober, my life always got better even if it took a while. After four years clean, most addicts have gained more than they ever dreamed about and are damn grateful for every bit of it. All signs pointed to Brenda still using and completely in denial about it.

Instead of calling her out or continuing to beg her to get help, I took a step back and ended the conversation. Maybe one day she would be receptive to what I was telling her, but it wasn’t that day. I told her I was sorry I couldn’t help her with the money she needed and meant it. I hated to turn away from a friend who asked for help, even though I knew sometimes it’s the most loving thing to do.

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If Brenda is lucky, she will run out of people to enable her. She might actually be threatened with homelessness someday or realize that she has alienated everybody she’s ever loved. Everybody’s rock bottom is different, but sometimes getting there is the moment that we finally start to dig our way out.

If nothing else, her inevitable tragic situation could force her to take a good, long, honest look at herself. She might realize she needs to change before it’s too late. I had my own “come to Jesus” moment in the midst of the lowest part of my life. If it hadn’t taken place, I’m sure I wouldn’t be alive today.

I have to love Brenda from afar right now, but I hope she gets to her own rock bottom sooner than later. It seems like a terrible thing to wish on somebody, but it may be the one thing that saves her life. I hope that when she gets there, she will find that tiny place inside her heart that is ready to fight like never before.

I won’t give her money anymore because it won’t do her any favors right now. She may not be happy about it, but my hope is that not helping her during her active addiction will truly help her find her way out of this mess. I care about her, and I would be there for her if she wanted to get clean and sober. However, the kindest thing I can do right now for both of us is turn her away.

I hope that one day she understands my reasons.