A MASTER OF REJECTION, DRUG ADDICT FINDS HOPE

Shane Hodgson gets up early. He puts on his glasses, pants and ballcap, and
gathers up his black jean jacket, medical receipts and disability documents.

He leaves his room in a boarding house on Richmond Road for downtown, with
bus fare donated by his brother.

Almost an hour before an 11 a.m. appointment, he paces down Pandora Avenue.
"I'm a little nervous," he says. He feels certain he couldn't handle having
to ask for help one more time.

The 35-year-old hasn't touched crystal meth or crack in 24 days. In that
time, he has mastered the routine at several walk-in clinics.

He tells anyone who asks that doctors have diagnosed him with
schizophrenia, depression and suicidal tendencies.

Next, he lists the prescription pills he takes daily. He answers the
mandatory questions about his disability pension and if they delve further,
he'll talk about his nine-month stint in a mental institution. But no
matter how much he tells them, he says, the reply is always the same.
They'll put him on a waiting list, but don't count on hearing back for at
least three weeks, maybe five.

"I used to be ashamed I was an addict. But I was even more ashamed that I
had a mental illness," he says. "The last time I was high, I looked in the
mirror. I didn't recognize myself. I've had really bad psychosis and
delusions and I've done a lot of self-medicating."

Hodgson says he doesn't have three or five weeks. If he can't get help now,
he'll return to his old friends -- the drugs -- to make life bearable. His
eyes fill up a couple times and he glances down often, but mostly his face
is a blank. He doesn't try to hide the rot in his teeth.

The previous day, he asked for help from Open Door, a drop-in health centre
on Pandora Avenue, and that's why he has come back.

At 10:38 a.m. Hodgson figures it's time. He walks carefully up the steps at
the centre, past the men asleep on foam under sleeping bags and the
long-haired man poring over the keys of the beat-up piano on the porch. He
weaves through the clusters of people helping themselves to donated bread
and coffee, and the crowds around a collection of freebies, such as books
and kitchen supplies. He pays no attention to the woman shrieking into the
courtesy phone.

A few minutes later, a worker who identifies himself only as "Chris" greets
him. Chris sports a checkered orange shirt with a cap. He has long, wavy
hair in a ponytail, a pierced nose and earrings.

Quiet meetings here are apparently not the norm. Chris searches for a place
for the two, eventually finding a small room upstairs that's crammed with
books, supplies and junk. On one wall, a newspaper clipping tacked to the
bulletin board announces the opening of the centre; surrounding it are
pictures of staff and visitors, encouraging poems and encouraging words.

Hodgson starts off by announcing he's mentally ill and an addict, but still
has goals.

Chris remains silent as Hodgson talks, except to offer the occasional
supportive word. Occasionally he pushes up his glasses and jots down a note
or two in a notebook. He inspects folded pieces of paper that list
Hodgson's prescriptions and dosages. He glances at the form that that
confirms Hodgson is on disability.

"I don't want to be one of those old guys talking to myself, pushing a
shopping cart and gathering pop cans to survive," said Hodgson. "I wanna be
a chef. I've taken a course."

When Hodgson finishes listing his concerns, Chris looks up. And, as if he's
expecting the worst, Hodgson looks down.

But then the unexpected happens. Chris writes down his cellphone number and
offers to take him to meet some people who may be able to help him. They
talk about getting him a doctor, counsellor and a psychiatrist.

"We can get you in there pretty quick," says Chris of Cool Aid, an
organization that offers services that may help. "And on Monday nights
there's a dual diagnostic meeting," says Chris of a support group for those
with addiction and mental-health problems.

Hodgson walks out of the centre with a paper listing Chris's cellphone
number and the addresses of places to go for help, but he also has
something he hasn't had for too long -- hope.