Walk Down Misery Street


In substance abuse clinics, passions are boiling over. Women who have experienced debauchery, arrests, and violence flourish in drug clinics. Men compete for them and chase after them. Although we clinicians call on the patients to be celibate and refrain from intimate relations, romantic liaisons arise ceaselessly. In the soil of jealousy, conflicts thrive, threatening to escalate into battles—as in a tournament between knights from days of old.

Furious wives show up saying that they worked so hard to drag their husbands to the clinic to be treated, and then the bastard took on a mistress there.

Husbands wait in their cars not far from the clinic, watching so that their wives don’t get too involved, don’t forget they have a family, and after the therapy go straight home.

Sometimes this leads both to divorce and wife beating. Female drug users are often beaten. Their husbands, boyfriends, or simply other junkies beat them.




I once brought a patient named William to the restroom. We walked to the bathroom together, chatting along the way. I gave him the plastic cup.

My hand freezes above this white sheet of paper. I question if it is necessary to talk about this. The theme isn’t exactly literary. What should I do?

The poets and writers in the XIX century had it easy when the subjects of their poems and novels were forests, orchards, and flocks of cranes above the lovely meadows. Roses, nightingales. Poetry sang out, touching the hearts of readers and making them cry tears of delight for the beauty of life.