Sam and Olga had concluded that only involuntary treatment could break Andrei's cycle. It's an open-ended treatment that combines long-term injectable drugs with intensive therapy and counseling.
These are part of a larger ideological shift occurring as communities seek ways to manage their swelling homeless populations. California was one of the first states to turn away from involuntary treatment, passing new laws expanding involuntary treatment. New York City is investing billions of dollars in housing, psychiatric beds, and wraparound services.
Sam was pinning his hopes on Washington. New involuntary treatment lawAnd when Andrei was released this fall, he was angry that the new system had not yet been activated. His complaints were often directed at civil rights activists who opposed forced treatment.
“They have an agenda, and that agenda is not to help him,” he said. “Their goal is to just drive him crazy. It includes violence, assault, living in squalid conditions, living in filthy conditions himself, starving, eating moldy food. That's his right.”
One day, while making calls, Sam found himself in an argument with Kimberly Mosolf, director of the treatment facility program at the nonprofit Disability Rights Washington.
She explained her point. Putting people like Andrei back on drugs will likely backfire and make them more resistant to treatment, not less.
she pointed Seattle area dataThey found that almost a quarter of people who were forced to take drugs had been forced to take them three or more times in the past. 7% of them had been forced to do so more than 10 times.
“We are looking at a stirring effect,” she said. “These short periods of incarceration and short stints in public service are destabilizing. That's what the data tells us.”
She advised me to proceed more gently and slowly. If Andrei is able to get permanent housing without any conditions, the outreach workers will be able to build trust and gradually bring up the topic of medication. This approach, known in the policy world as “housing first,” Main strategy For tackling homelessness in American cities and allowing authorities to clear out tent encampments without violating civil liberties.
This was the path open to Andrei.
It was a chilly, gray day in late November when he got the call. In his room, he was recording his torrent of new ideas, like that his mother had been inseminated with Joseph Stalin's sperm or that the government had planted a bomb in his brain and detonated it. The front desk called and said his caseworker was coming to see him. She had great news.
The local housing authority had offered him a one-bedroom in Central Park Place, a low-income apartment building on the grounds of Vancouver's Veterans Affairs Hospital. Most of its residents were military veterans, but rooms were also set aside for people with mental illnesses. The rent was $590 a month, which could be covered by a disability check.
This arrangement solved several problems at once. No more risk of freezing to death, jamming courts, or scaring pedestrians. For caseworkers, it was a rare victory. And for Andrei, it meant relief from pressure. He had a safe place to live that didn't require him to take medication.
When Olga arrived at the hotel on a December morning to help him move, she was surprised to find him awake, eager to pack his belongings into six bags and leave. All that morning, he seemed like a different person – alert, motivated, and funny. He charmed the caretaker of his clean, bright apartment, decorated with Christmas decorations.
He signed a document promising not to punch walls, start a fire, or smoke inside the room. The building's manager apologetically asked him to show him what to do with his belongings “if something were to happen.”
he blinked. “You mean, what if I die?”
She nodded. There was a small, awkward silence.
“Damn, man!” he said, and everyone in the room roared.
“Fill me with what's mine!” he exclaimed with glee.
They laughed again. Then, with great ceremony and grandeur, the building's caretaker handed him a set of keys in a blue fob.
Next to the other residents, men in their 60s and 70s, Andrei seemed energetic, charismatic, and full of the natural talents of youth. His apartment was small but clean, with windows overlooking the sunny street. He accompanied the caseworker to the elevator bank and took a souvenir photo of him.
Then the door closed and he was in a small room with his mother.
