Christmas this year won’t be merry for one family I know. They recently lost a dear one. They lost him to what has nowadays become a very familiar foe.
Randy was only 22. People his age are typically full of promise. They could become the source of good fortune for their families. Or they could become the good leaders the country badly needs.
The look in Randy’s eyes was revealing. You would quickly know that something was wrong. His eyes seldom looked normal; sometimes they were glazed, sometimes they were wild.
There were voices that he heard when people weren’t around. They constantly told him that he was a loser and had no use being around in the world. He soon believed them.
The dark fate started early with Randy. By the time he finished grade school, he was already smoking cigarettes and beginning to drink liquor. Although he belonged to an affluent residential community, he was frequently visiting friends in a depressed neighborhood nearby, where most kids were free to try anything.
The vices later included smoking marijuana, and then drug abuse. First, it was just medication syrups. But as Randy associated further with more experienced drug dependents, he went into injectibles and shabu.
Those senior drug addicts carried a complete drugstore in their jackets. And, much like the legitimate drug agents, they were always most generous in letting prospects have a taste of something new and “better,” initially for free. The new recruits would surely make a steady clientele for the pushers’ trade.
As the years rolled on, Randy slipped deeper and deeper into the drug world. He tried just about everything. To be able to support his vices, he did every odd job available — running neighbors’ errands, peddling stolen items, being a goon for hire, and pushing drugs. He even confessed that he sometimes sold his body as a male prostitute, just to be able to buy dope.
After a while, the things that used to be much fun for him no longer worked. Drugs no longer made him happy. Instead, his addiction was beginning to take its toll. He brooded a lot, was often depressed, and occasionally talked about “giving up.”
Then he went away. He drifted around the country for a long time, about two years or so. His family didn’t know exactly where he went and what he did. Randy would later describe it as a “trip.” A psychedelic trip.
But those trips did not make him find what he was looking for. He came back home, to the great joy of his family. His parents and siblings would insist to neighbors that Randy wasn’t an addict, that he was just a “user” and did not pose any risk to the neighborhood.
His mother would say that at home Randy was never high. But as his brother inadvertently divulged, Randy always had this glaze over his eyes. That he had this dangerous look sometimes. How could they be sure he was not high? You would have to run a drug test on the person to determine that.
Soon, Randy’s problem got worse. He began hearing voices in his head. The worst thing, those voices were giving him very bad orders—that he should kill himself!
A younger sister who was working as a domestic helper abroad told the family to have Randy see a psychiatrist. She was footing the bill on that. Randy agreed.
The psychiatrist sent Randy to a drug rehabilitation center. But the people at the center said that Randy needed more than drug rehabilitation. They suggested he be brought to a mental hospital.
Randy was turned off by what he thought to be an exaggerated professional opinion on his case. He left home again. For weeks he lived on the streets, and wallowed in dope.
One early morning, an emaciated Randy just popped up at their house, looking very frightened. The voices in his head were now really jabbering to him, he told his brother, who quickly brought him to the psychiatrist again. The doctor said that Randy was actively hallucinating, that he could harm himself or others, including members of his family.
His brother explained to Randy the need to commit him to a mental hospital. Randy understood. He knew he needed professional help, and he wanted help.
For lack of better option or of financial resources, the family brought Randy to a public mental hospital in the city. The place looked decrepit and smelt rather foul. But it was certainly much better than leaving their patient to wander the streets, talking to himself.
As muscled attendants were leading Randy down the hall and into the mental ward, his mother wept. She couldn’t bear the thought of her youngest son living among the deranged and the totally insane. She begged with the rest of the family that they take Randy back. They would have him undergo treatment at home, instead.
And so the family went home with their troubled Randy. Their dear one continued to hear voices and was acting strangely more and more. Someone suggested that Randy’s case could actually be demonic possession, and that a Christian pastor could possibly help. One night an exorcism rite was conducted on Randy.
Randy remained unstable. He peeked outside through every opening in the house for enemies who would come to take him away. He trusted only his mother for his food and drank only sealed bottled water. The voices told him that he could not trust anyone.
Three weeks ago, Randy finally heeded the advice of the voices in his head. Then he silenced them off forever… by putting a bullet in his head.
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