I have a firsthand view of the drug crisis. No, none of my family members or close friends are serious substance abusers, at least not that I know of, and I am not a recovering drug addict.
But I see it every working day. In fact, I have a literal window into it. My workplace in downtown Morgantown is next to a secluded walkway that has become a popular location for individuals to abuse heavy drugs.
And it is getting worse.
A year ago, you would see a couple drug users every few weeks, then it was every week, and now it is every day. Substance abusers gather in the shaded spot on the steps, where they smoke or inject with drugs.
Then you see the effects, depending upon the drug. Some lapse into a stupor, slumped over, unaware of what’s going on around them. Others become manic and hyper, flailing about.
Nearly every day, I end up peering out of the window to watch this unfold, and it is disturbing for a variety of reasons.
Watching it makes me feel like a kind of substance abuse voyeur. I am safely tucked away inside my building while staring at the misery of others. I’m ashamed, but I don’t look away.
So, then what to do? As someone once said, there are no innocent bystanders.
A drug counselor suggested I meet these people where they are, ask them how they are feeling and if they need help. But then, what if they do? My guilt is not strong enough to motivate me to do something.
Yesterday morning, I thought seriously about taking a coffee and a protein bar to a young drugged-out woman who was slumped over, but I didn’t do it. That might have eased my conscience, but would it have helped?
Sometimes I get angry at the addicts who befoul our neighborhood with trash and used needles. I resent them for wasting their lives when I have a dear friend who is battling life-threatening cancer. It seems unfair.
When things get out of hand—someone had a gun the other day—we call the police. They come and chase them away, but they soon return. Nobody is arrested. Nobody is helped. Nothing changes.
Still, I keep thinking about what I might do. I want to help, but I’m also wary of committing. I remind myself that these are my brothers and sisters, but I’m still disgusted by their behavior. I feel safe and secure in my building, except for the window that shows me a constant reminder of the suffering just outside my door.