As a social worker I visited a young man for a while back. Lets call him John Doe. There are many John Does out there. This John Doe is a drug addict with psychological problems and socially excluded from society. He has no where to live. Lives here and there. He has three children, all with different women. Child welfare has taken over the care for the three children and placed them in foster homes. All three children have learning difficulties and the youngest one has also severe psychological and phsysical problems because of her mothers drug addiction during pregnacy.
I have known John for 15 years. I think I know just about everything there is to know about him, but what do I know. He has been beaten and sexually misused by his father as a child. He stopped going to school when he was 10 years old. He says he has never had a childhood. Never had a job. Has been on disability pension since he was 18. His mother took her life when he was 12 and he had to live with his alcoholic father until he ran away from home as a 16 year old. He has never received help from child welfare, a school psychologist, or recieved any form for psychiatric help. He has been in prison for eight years, mostly in solidary isolation. All of his convictions have been for violence against authorities, like me. He says he is good with his knife that he always bears on him. His younger brother killed himself with a knife last year. Cut his throat. I knew him also very well. Had the same upbringing as his elder brother John.
John and I sit on the floor and talk about all the years we have known each other. I ask him why he trusts me and has never been violent towards me. He answers that he believes in me. Everyone needs to believe in someone, he says. "But I have never be able to do anything for you", I tell him. And he looks at me, with almost glowing eyes that lay deep in his eye sockets and smiles, " No. But you've never promised me anything either, you've just been here for me", is his answer. John becomes more and more unjust during my visit, he becomes restless and starts to say some weard things. He goes to the bathroom and takes a syringe of morphine that he has got from his doctor. When he comes back, he's calm and smiling. He says that after taking his daily dose of morphine, he feels almost normal. Without morphine, he says he feels sick.
That has my visit with John. A Christmas visit. He lead me to the door, opened it for me and I steeped out. I reached out my hand to him, but he wouldn't take it. We looked at each other for a couple of seconds, before I wished him a Merry Chirstmas. He looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "A Merry Fucking Christmas to you too". He closed the door and I had also tears in my eyes as I left him behind me.
This Chistmas, my thoughts go to John and all those who have difficulties with Chirstmas. A Merry Fucking Christmas to all of you, and take care.
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I have known John for 15 years. I think I know just about everything there is to know about him, but what do I know. He has been beaten and sexually misused by his father as a child. He stopped going to school when he was 10 years old. He says he has never had a childhood. Never had a job. Has been on disability pension since he was 18. His mother took her life when he was 12 and he had to live with his alcoholic father until he ran away from home as a 16 year old. He has never received help from child welfare, a school psychologist, or recieved any form for psychiatric help. He has been in prison for eight years, mostly in solidary isolation. All of his convictions have been for violence against authorities, like me. He says he is good with his knife that he always bears on him. His younger brother killed himself with a knife last year. Cut his throat. I knew him also very well. Had the same upbringing as his elder brother John.
John and I sit on the floor and talk about all the years we have known each other. I ask him why he trusts me and has never been violent towards me. He answers that he believes in me. Everyone needs to believe in someone, he says. "But I have never be able to do anything for you", I tell him. And he looks at me, with almost glowing eyes that lay deep in his eye sockets and smiles, " No. But you've never promised me anything either, you've just been here for me", is his answer. John becomes more and more unjust during my visit, he becomes restless and starts to say some weard things. He goes to the bathroom and takes a syringe of morphine that he has got from his doctor. When he comes back, he's calm and smiling. He says that after taking his daily dose of morphine, he feels almost normal. Without morphine, he says he feels sick.
That has my visit with John. A Christmas visit. He lead me to the door, opened it for me and I steeped out. I reached out my hand to him, but he wouldn't take it. We looked at each other for a couple of seconds, before I wished him a Merry Chirstmas. He looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "A Merry Fucking Christmas to you too". He closed the door and I had also tears in my eyes as I left him behind me.
This Chistmas, my thoughts go to John and all those who have difficulties with Chirstmas. A Merry Fucking Christmas to all of you, and take care.
Kaare T. Petttersen
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