Steve

I met Steve at 'Marvellous', a Sunday indy-club night in Brixton. He was dancing with a friend of his when I first saw him, and my first impressions were of his shoes. He was wearing brogues with jeans and I remember thinking that this was aesthetically wrong, and that his dancing was not too my taste. On reflection I must have fancied him to have been so clear in my initial assessment. And to be sure, not long afterwards we were talking at the bar and Steve was charming, sexy, slim and good-looking, and as he was also attracted to me we ended up going back to his flat in Chelsea.
There were all kinds of clues that this was to be doomed but he was a very charming, very sexy, and on his good days fantastic to be with kind of guy. Steve had bipolar disorder and instead of taken his prescriptions he self-medicated with a mixture of alcohol, marijuana and crack cocaine. It was the latter that was the real issue for him. And for us. I had my first (and only) experience of visiting a crack-house with him - I had a choice and he was apologetic and guilty about it. Of course we had good times together and he was a tender, affectionate, and very loving man. But there were also times that were less good and his life was becoming more and more chaotic, as he became in debt to dealers and was spending lots of time with new girl-friends who were also on crack and selling themselves to pay for their addiction. It bacame too much for me, especially as my Dad was/is an alcoholic so I knew how little I could do to change or halp change the situation Steve was in, and it was painful to see the harm he was doing and to feel so powerless to do anything about it. So I bolted and one night talked through why I could be his friend but I couldn't be his boyfriend any more. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It was made harder a week later when we were out and Steve claimed not to remember that this had happened - I don't know whether that was because he didn't remember or that he was in denial about it. I felt that I was letting him down, even though I knw this wasn't rational or real, and also that I was losing someone I really cared about.
I tried keeping in touch but he wasn't in often and didn't reply to messages. A couple of months later I was mugged and injured quite badly. I tried to get in touch with him but he never rang back. I felt let down and that I needed to concentrate on looking after myself. I kind of gave up on him.
Sometime later I heard from a mutual acquaintance that he'd been in prison and had just got out. Not long after that I got a call to say that he'd died of lymphatic cancer. I went to the funeral and met some of his friends who I hadn't met when we were going out. It was nice to meet people who had also seen the best of him and cared about him. His life hadn't got any better after I left him, and in fact had gone from bad to worse. I sometimes still wish that I could have done more. His death filled me with pain and there is still a raw spot in my heart for him.