Lost

Just over 3 years ago now, my ex husband, Miroslav John Patcha (Miro), died alone in a hospital bed in Cape Town, South Africa. Riddled with tuberculosis (TB), cancer and possibly HIV, he had been living on the streets in a township just north of Cape Town when he was arrested for drug possession. This was not for the first time, but became his last when he contracted TB in the unsanitary and inhumane conditions of the prison he was interned in, released to his parents with the knowledge he was dying.

Miro's freedom of choice was always more important to him than having a roof over his head. He appeared never to care what people thought of him, and pushed buttons and boundaries to the extreme. Incapable of working for anyone, he would choose unemployment and freedom over an income. However, where his freedom of choice failed him, and put him in a permanent prison of his own design, was in his addiction and an inability to stop the destructive behaviour that made it impossible to house him. Chronically addicted to heroin, crack and later on methamphetamines, from his mid twenties, having had short periods of sobriety weaving in and out of the fabric of his adult existence, he rarely seemed comfortable with being at home, the shame and responsibility of which seemed too big a burden for him to bare once his addiction had taken him. Yet the yearning for a home, or perhaps more importantly acceptance, was what he most desired. Growing up and into his early twenties, he had been shy and retiring and preferred nothing more than being at home with his parents in the house that he had grown up in. His addiction came as a shock to many, not least of all his loving parents.

When we met in 2004, I found myself struggling with the responsibility and burden of life in general, lost to myself, a smokescreen masking every step that I took in life. Charismatic and seemingly comfortable to a fault within his own skin, I was instantly mesmerised, lost and completely besotted with him, his energy, his entire existence. Dare I say, as was he with me. A cosmic event happened the night that we met, that took away our breath and befuddled our senses. The term 'Love at first sight' could not adequately describe the moment we met, nor the depths the journey of our lives would become until his death. He was, in my eyes, the key to my freedom, though it would not happen in the fairytale way I foresaw. It would come from the absolute destruction of everything I thought I was, both inside and out. I would lose myself so utterly and completely in him, in his addiction, in my own, in order to find my truth, my peace, myself. I would find myself so far removed from reality with no hope of a return, and it would be all consuming.

Living with an addict is indescribable and unbearable. The pain, the destruction, seeing someone you love lost in a world you cannot enter. My oldest sister had been an addict whilst I was growing up, and I swore that I would never succumb to such 'weakness'. What I could not have foreseen or understood until it hit me, that being as lost as I was, would leave me no choice. A far cry from it being a weakness, this path would require me to delve into a depth of strength I never believed I was capable of, as she had once done. There was a gaping hole within my soul, and to lose myself in it fully and without abandon, would be the only way out. It was dark and black and nothing, not Miro nor any drug, would fill the oblivion that lay within. 6 years in to our relationship, I lost it all - my career, our home, my dignity, my entire life. Addiction to heroin and crack cocaine a poor excuse for the destruction, only later would I understand the true reasons why we enter this rabbit hole. That losing it all is exactly what is needed.

I had struggled with a deep insecurity my entire life. My identity was entirely based on what others expected, or more importantly, what I had thought others expected of me. My prison lay in the opposite to that of Miro - I would perform like a circus monkey, constantly compromising who I was, what I believed in, my standards, in order to keep a job and a roof over my head, to make others happy, to prevent conflict. I was so far interned in this way of life that nothing but a cataclysmic event would have shifted it. Meeting Miro was my salvation, and it had to be what it was in order for it to work, it had to lead me to my own demise. I saw it. I saw my own death. Quivering in the not so distant future, waiting for me. Sick and sweating and vomiting on a floor in my parents house, naked, I knew. Death was what was coming if I continued.

10 years on I am grateful for the day this is all I could see ahead of me. 10 years on I am grateful for the day I chose to enter the rabbit hole that changed my life. 10 years on I am grateful to the man who lovingly facilitated that journey so that I could return to myself. So that I could return home. However, Miro never feared death, and nothing could persuade him to come back to life or to me in this world.

The night he died the hospital called me. Misunderstanding the call I thought they were asking for money to pay one of his bills. And then it hit me. I knew. On arriving at the hospital they initially couldn't find him. I doubted his death. Saw it a prank, the likes of which he often played. He was there - in the TB ward, his lifeless but still warm body still in a bed at the door. I called a nurse, 'He isn't dead, he's still warm!'. The being who lead me back to me was gone, my 'home' gone too. I thought in that moment I would now be lost for eternity.

What I realised in the months after, what he gave me, where he had lead me, will always be home to me. How could I ever be lost again having had the privilege of the love of this man, my husband, my love, my key to freedom? He lead me home. No matter where I am, alone or in company, I will always know that I am eternally at home.