I lived in Vancouver, well, more accurately Burnaby, from 1996 – 1998. I’ve written about my experiences at various times, usually when I get ‘home sick’ for my home away from home. At the time I lived there Canada’s worst accused serial killer Robert Picton had started abducting and murdering women, the X-Files (and many other shows) was being filmed at locations throughout the lower mainland, and heroin and crack cocaine use was destroying the city. The shocking contrast between where I’d come from and what I was now living amongst was staggering. I’d never seen a homeless person until I landed in Vancouver let alone a hooker or drug addict. I could see multiples of each just driving along Kingsway of an evening.

I look back now, the images of the past tinted that familiar rose colour that comes with time passing, and sometimes I think “It wasn’t so bad” – but really deep down I know it was. It was worse than bad. I’ve never spoken at length and with full disclosure about the things that happened while I was there, the things I saw and was a party to. It seems so very unreal now. All the setbacks, the disappointments, the fear, the destitution, the hopelessness and horror. Bad things happened there and all of it seemed to occur around me.

At the time of my arrival a person called Hannibal was living in the basement room. Unbeknownst to me, Hannibal was a heroin addict who spent most of his time hanging around Hastings St. He had unsavoury predilictions the least of which was his habit of watching me from the darkened kitchen while I sat and watched tv in the loungeroom. I don’t think he realised that I knew he was there, but I did, and to this day it makes my skin crawl. I believe he thought of himself as some kind of vampiric creature or something similarily insane. One day he didn’t come back home – I’m not sure what happened to him after that but I do know he left the basement crawling with scabies.

Everyone there had an edge or an angle and it felt like everyone was out to screw me over. Perhaps it just felt like that because I was alone, unprotected and so very naive. At the time I had to ‘rely’ on someone who was totally and utterly unreliable, someone I couldn’t count on to protect me from harm. There were often times when bills couldn’t be paid, food couldn’t be bought and I’d go to sleep, alone, wondering why I was living in this fucked up situation. This period was the catalyst for a lot of issues I still have today relating to a whole gamut of things. I wonder if I will ever be rid of them.

I’m not exactly sure why I started writing this – I guess it needs to come out in some form for me to move on. It’s barely scratched the surface of the beginning of the tale but at least now it’s out of my head and written down. I’ve got more stories – some you wouldn’t believe.

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