The Alley: A Vancouver Addiction Recovery Story

By Norman Fox

A Chilling Encounter in Vancouver's Eastside

On a cold night in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside, I found myself trapped behind a dumpster. I was three days deep into addiction, lost and unaware of it at the time. All I felt was an overwhelming paralyzing fear. I was terrified, deeply sad, and utterly alone.

I had been stuck there for hours, likely since early evening. My feet were soaked in a puddle of rainwater—probably dumpster runoff, which was worse. Disgust was a feeling I could no longer afford. Fear consumed me, mixed with a crushing disappointment in myself.

The alley separated the city into two stark realities. To the west, a side street had been under construction for what felt like ages. A tall wire fence blocked the alley entrance, limiting access to one single point.

Two Worlds Apart

On one side of the alley stood an old brick building, home to single-room occupancies (SROs). These places were often shelters for those with nowhere else to go. The people inside fought to hold on to life, clinging to any semblance of dignity.

On the opposite side, more upscale condos lined the street. They weren't luxury by any means, but they shone brightly. I could see fairy lights twinkling in what appeared to be a communal garden. That side painted a picture of everything I once dreamed of—safety, community, laughter, and friendship.

The SRO side told a very different tale. Rainwater dripped from broken gutters, pooling on the ground. The downspouts were ineffective, splattering whatever debris they could onto the pavement.

Dark alcoves—resembling caves—reeked of urine and decay. Yet, people still ventured there for shelter from the rain and anonymity in the shadows. Survival became a daily struggle. You learned to avoid getting too close to the walls, especially beneath the windows. Some nights, objects would rain down from above—bottles, garbage, and other undesirable things.

This place was undeniably perilous. For many, that dead-end alley represented the last refuge.

A Haunting Memory

My nose had been bleeding for hours, a direct result of my dehydration. Wearing a once-white T-shirt, I had streaked my face with blood while attempting to wipe it away.

Then, from above, a voice broke through the despair.

“I saw the best minds of my generation…”

I paused, heart racing. It took a moment to verify that I wasn't hallucinating.

“…destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked…”

It was Allen Ginsberg. Somebody halfway up the SRO had placed a tape deck on their windowsill, playing a recording of Howl—the live reading from San Francisco in 1955.

Although I had heard the poem before, this was different. It resonated with me in a way I had never known—sitting on the ground, crouched behind that dumpster, caught between two versions of my life. One was spiraling downward like the runoff rainwater sprawling in the alley.

That night didn’t alter my life completely. I didn’t find sobriety the following day. Yet, it sparked something inside me—a reminder that I was still part of humanity. Someone above, playing poetry into the night, was an act of kindness amidst the chaos.

The Cycle Continues

Eventually, I made my way home. My place was just a few blocks away, near the Hastings Viaduct and the train tracks. After showering and eating, I collapsed into bed for two full days.

On the third day, I convinced myself that things had changed. I thought I had regained control. By nightfall, I was back in the alley, chasing something I couldn't reach, slowly killing myself in the process.

That night wasn’t my turning point. However, like so many pivotal moments in addiction recovery, it crafted a significant part of my story.

Five months later, I achieved sobriety, and I’m proud to say I remain sober today.

Reflections on a Poetic Night

Sometimes, I reflect on that night—the blood, the garbage, and the echo of a poet's voice resonating from above. It wasn't meant to save me; it merely served as a reminder that I was still human.

If you find yourself lost in despair—scrolling through your feed seeking something genuine—perhaps this message can be your voice.

You, too, deserve to hear something that affirms you are still human. You are not alone in this struggle, and there is hope for a different tomorrow.

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If you or someone you know is facing addiction, please reach out for help. Resources are available to guide you toward recovery.