ADDICTION'S EVILS CAN TOUCH US ALL

He threw hard, and as a relief pitcher with the San Francisco Giants,
the Cincinnati Reds and the Detroit Tigers, Frank Williams's best
assets were a 93 m.p.h. fastball and what the commentators call a
"slurve" -- a cross between a curve and a slider. He had fierce
intensity and, on his good days, "nobody could touch him," someone
who played with him said this week.

Frank Williams ended up living on the streets in Victoria, drifting
in and out of shelters and detox facilities. He died a week ago at
the age of 50.

The arc of Williams's life is a remarkable one: From the pinnacle of
fame to the depths of alcoholism and despair. But in some ways, it's
all too familiar to those of us who have had someone we love touched
by addiction -- and that is most of us. According to experts, between
four and six per cent of Canadians are alcohol-dependent. Alcoholism
cost the Canadian economy $14.6 billion in 2002, the last year for
which statistics have been released.

Not all alcoholics are homeless, of course. And not all homeless
people are alcoholics. But there is a strong relationship between
substance abuse, mental illness and homelessness.

According to the Mayor's Task Force on Homelessness, more than half
of those living on the streets in Victoria are drug or alcohol
abusers and 40 per cent are mentally ill. That translates to almost
800 people who are grappling with forces that are beyond their control.

Treatment facilities on the south Island are distressingly inadequate
to handle a problem of that scope. There are seven detox beds, 10
post-detox stabilization beds, where recovering alcoholics can stay
for a 28-day period, and 10 beds in supportive recovery houses.

Those facilities will increase significantly next month, when the
Vancouver Island Health Authority will open 14 new detox beds and
seven post-detox stabilization beds. In March, 10 new supportive
recovery beds will come onstream. That's still nowhere near what we
need to address the problem.

What causes addiction? In spite of decades of research, scientists
still don't know. One thing is certain, though. No families are immune.

That wraithlike man on the corner of Pandora and Cook with his hand
out, the woman huddled under a blanket in a doorway on Fort Street --
each of them, and the other people who share the cold, damp streets
of our city, had homes and families who loved them and love them
still. Each has a story like Frank Williams's, maybe not as dramatic,
but undoubtedly just as sad. Until we address the addictions that
brought them there, those tragic journeys will continue.