I am two-thirds through my degree, but the course is starting to do my head in. I sit in the Union bar, the fire provides warmth, its flickering light illuminating the gloom of my thoughts. Do I really want to be a Social Worker?
There are two empty schooner glasses on the table beside me, I am working on the third as my mind continues to wrestle with the realisation that I am pursuing the wrong career path! Why on earth do I think listening to other people’s problems, offering a sounding board, a reflective space is for me? I have enough demons running through my own system without loading extra baggage!
Despite enthusiasm, and promises made in the dead of night to walk a new, redemptive road, I fall off my perch regularly. Two years wasted, and I am also now the owner of a significant HECS debt.
My entertainment, my escapes have broadened somewhat from my earlier dalliance with weed. I now have a serious engagement with ‘the dragon.’
It is easily found, in the right quarter. It’s where I meet Sheila, a final year Med student and we quickly become companions: bonded journeymen. When the Student Allowance hits my account, I have the wherewithal to buy us a snorted entre’, and a few hours later, an injected piece de resistance. We fly to exotic destinations, places where life’s worries and cares are just a breeze. Long-sleeved shirts conveniently cover our travail.
Sheila finishes her basic medical studies, an Internship at St Vinnies follows. Her script-pad provides a wonderfully handy accoutrement. But she gets sprung early in her placement and is now receiving rehab servicing at Long Bay. That’s an absolute bugger, as treats become just that much harder to score!
Despite my self-assurance, my studies slip. My feelings about the course harden: I skip classes, a new crowd gathers in the dark recesses of my days. I still occasionally catch the bus to Uni; at the back of the Union is a good place to score.
A couple from the Salvos find me: in amongst the refuse skips off Victoria Street. Several of the staff at St Vinnies remember Sheila. One of the nurses tells me she visits Sheila every other month: she is clean and uses her time to study for a Social Work qualification.
I ease my withdrawal with naloxone, pampered but after three weeks, I discharge myself. I walk with high intentions into the bright sunshine and score a kip with Mum and Dad for a few weeks. I even start to attend lectures again.
But it’s not long before the uppity lecturers start to climb my nostrils again: how on earth would they know what the people on the streets need? Listen, show compassion, offer advice, provide advocacy: yarda, yarda, yarda.
I tell Mum I have an offer of a shared flat. I meet Tom, Gary and Felix at the back of the Union. We score, and share a couple of preliminary hits.