Then, one day, something happened that finally made me realize that I. WAS. DONE.

I watched someone overdose on the sidewalk one early afternoon, tons of people walking by without offering help, seeing if he was okay, NOTHING. I didn’t have a cell phone, and I had given my Narcan kit to another friend the night before since he uses needles (I have never shot up, I am terrified of needles).

I screamed and shouted for someone to call 9/11. I ran down the street asking every single junkie and person if they had a kit on them. Tears streaming down my face the whole time.

I ran back to this man, someone had called 9/11 and was standing watch over him, but I watched him closely — he was foaming at the mouth, he was suffocating, turning purple all over, and there was NOTHING that I could do.

I have never felt so fucking useless or guilty in my entire life. If I had kept my Narcan kit, I could have had a chance of saving his life.

By the time the EMT’s showed up, it was already too late. I had watched this man die, along with my heart shattering, my mind going in spirals, and tears pouring down my face.

I felt it in this moment — that I was finished.

I knew if I didn’t get the FUCK out of Vancouver, and fast, that it was only a matter of time, maybe even just days, before that would be my body, lying stiff on the ground in some random alley, turning blue and pale, the life just slipping from my soul.

Nickie talked me into going back to Buffalo, going to rehab (I had insurance in the US, but not in Canada), and ultimately being by my support system — my family. I talked to my family, and they thought it was a smart decision.

I agreed to, reluctantly. I bought my plane ticket for a few days later. I knew my only chance was to escape that place, and get somewhere safe. The addict within still wanted me to stay and feed the habit, tricking me into thinking I could somehow make it work.

I still had 2 days left in Vancouver, and I was living in a homeless shelter right down the street from Hastings St. aka Skid Row.