In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction

by Gabor Maté

So this was the perfect home Serena grew up in, under the care of a grandmother who, no doubt, loved her grandchild but was utterly unable to defend her from the predatory males in the household or from her own alcoholism. And that grandmother, now deceased, was Serena’s sole connection to the possibility of sustaining, consoling love in this world. “Have you ever talked with anyone about this?” In the Downtown Eastside this is almost always a rhetorical question. “No. Can’t trust anybody.… Can’t talk to my mom. Me and my mom don’t have a mother-and-daughter life. We live in the same building; we don’t even see each other. She walks right by me. That hurts me large. I’ve tried everything. There’s no point. I’ve tried so many years to see if my mom would get close to me. And the only time she gets close to me is if I have some dope or money in my pocket. It’s the only time she’ll say, ‘Daughter, I love you.’ ” I wince. “The only time, Maté. The only time.” I have no doubt that if Serena’s mother spoke about her life, an equally painful narrative would emerge. The suffering down here is multigenerational. Almost uniformly, the greatest anguish confessed by my patients, male or female, concerns not the abuse they suffered but their own abandonment of their children. They can never forgive themselves for it. The very mention of it draws out bitter tears, and much of their continued drug use is intended to dull the impact of such memories. Serena herself, speaking here as the w...