I used to live in the Kensington encampment. The city’s callous approach won’t help the people there.

I come from a loving suburban family, I work and live in the city of Philadelphia, and for years I was homeless in Kensington.

I’d like to be clear that my experience there wasn’t special in any way. I injected the same drugs, slept on the same sidewalks, and made money the same way as everyone else trapped under the El.

I ate at the same soup kitchens, washed in the same bathrooms, and endured the same random violence that every homeless person suffers through. In Kensington, I was shot in the arm by a young drug dealer. I was pistol-whipped and beaten multiple times. These are not particularly unique experiences for a homeless person. And these were not the “wake-up” calls most people would expect them to be. Experiencing violence did not inspire any meaningful change within me — bruised and undaunted, I continued to sleep alone on the sidewalk.

I read the newspaper about the recent clearing of the homeless encampments along Kensington Avenue and wondered what I would have done had I still been there. The answer is obvious: I would have done the same thing I did when I left the hospital with a bandaged head. The same thing I did when discharged from the rehab or was released from the county jail.

I would have suffered from addiction and continued to suffer.

One day I was struck in the head with a hammer at MacPherson Square, a place better known as “Needle Park.” While the blood was running down my face, I sat down and cooked up a bag of fentanyl. The police arrived, and as we waited for an ambulance, a police officer stopped me from shooting up. One of the neighborhood drug dealers tried to explain that I wouldn’t go in an ambulance without “getting well” first. For a person like me, using came before everything.

This is the language addicts use: we “get well,” we “fix.” It reflects what the drug does for us, the purpose it serves.

When I was on drugs, my life was divided into two different states of being: well and sick. Feeling well was fleeting — the drugs helped with that, but only for a short time. Sickness was eternal. The need to be well superseded every other desire.

The cop held firm; he wasn’t going to allow a junkie to fix in his presence. The dope boy made a pretty compelling point by telling the officer that getting me to the hospital was more important than enforcing the rules. That a little leeway would be fair in that moment. The cop countered with a reasonable concern about me potentially overdosing.

As they argued about what was best for me, I wiped the blood out of my eyes, picked up my syringe, and walked off. I could hear my own blood squishing inside my shoes.

I was one of those belligerent homeless people you find in our city’s hospitals. I hadn’t changed my clothes or showered for weeks. My hands and arms were swollen with infections from reusing needles in filthy living conditions. My feet were cracked and red from something called trench foot — a common condition among the homeless in Kensington, although we lovingly referred to it as “Kenzo foot.”

I thrashed around, withdrawing on hospital beds, pleading and cursing with the staff. Eventually, I’d sign the form for discharge “against medical advice” the nurses would offer. Before leaving, the doctors are legally obligated to warn a patient of the potential outcomes they may face. In my case, it was usually amputation or death.

Upon hearing this, I’d sign the necessary paperwork, change back into my dirty clothes, and limp off toward the nearest El stop.

I’ve been tackled a few times by the same kind of Philadelphia police officers who cleared the encampments earlier this month. They weren’t wrong for doing so — I was breaking the law. I was arrested for participating in the typical hustles addicts support themselves through: shoplifting and dealing dope. They’d pitch solutions to my drug problem while we drove to the station. I’ve had cops suggest maintenance drugs, rehabs, even herbal remedies to me. I remember a particular narcotics detective promising to hose me off before taking me to jail because of all the dried blood on my skin and clothes. He did exactly that.

I sat before the judges, I entered the rehabs, and every time, I ended up right back on that sidewalk, alone and dope-sick. I don’t mention my experiences with any of these services in an attempt to discredit them or garner sympathy for myself. These are people doing hard, necessary jobs.

I was not a pleasant or rational person to deal with at the time. I was still a person, though, and these are my experiences. I do not believe it is fair or realistic to expect much more from these professionals. A police officer is not a social worker. A nurse is not a social worker. Rehab isn’t a magical place that cures addiction in a 30-day period. The jails are overcrowded, and we do not need any more nonviolent drug offenders within their walls.

Had it not been for harm reduction organizations like Prevention Point, I would either be dead or still suffering on those corners.

Harm reduction organizations provide an invaluable service that the hospitals and jails and rehabs aren’t able to provide. They meet people where they are. In whatever condition a person is, they are treated with dignity and provided with the help they require at that moment. They don’t make demands of sick people. They nurture and support us. They don’t displace addicts or dump us in rehabs and congratulate themselves afterward.

It’s disheartening to see our city behave like this, to see our mayor be so willfully ignorant in her approach to Kensington. If a change of scenery and a brief stint at a rehab were sufficient in treating addiction, why were there so many homeless in there to begin with? What good does cutting funding from a syringe exchange do? Where were the outreach workers those people so desperately needed?

I know I was incapable of adhering to our mayor’s expectations for years. I know being forced into drug treatments failed multiple times for me. I know that if I didn’t have access to clean needles, I would have shared them. I know taxpayer dollars would have paid for my hepatitis or HIV treatment. I know violence and threats of amputation didn’t hinder my drug use. I know the threat of jail didn’t stop me.

What helped me get through my time in Kensington was the unconditional love and support of harm reductionists. In that moment, they kept me alive and met my needs. Only later, in this supportive environment, was I able to seek out rehabilitation on my own terms. It is that kind of progressive attitude we need in this city.

We started with simple goals and built them up as time progressed. The beauty of harm reduction is whether or not those goals were met, they’d still be there. For a person sleeping on a cardboard bed every night, I can tell you that having people like that in your life reignites a sense of importance, dignity, and value. You’re reminded of your significance — that even you are deserving of health and safety.

What harm reduction services know — and Mayor Cherelle L. Parker doesn’t seem to understand — is that it is up to the individual what they do with their life. If you ask any recovering addict or alcoholic, they will tell you the same thing: You are the only person who can get you sober.

My early encounters with harm reduction groups like Prevention Point were brief. I would go pick up syringes or get something to eat. At the time, that was all I was looking for. Occasionally, they’d give out clothes. Eventually, I was assigned a caseworker who introduced me to a maintenance doctor who is my doctor to this day. She supported me from homelessness until where I am today, working in a pizzeria in Fairmount and living in an apartment in Roxborough. I would not be alive if it weren’t for her.

When my head was bleeding and I was wandering dazed through the streets of Kensington, I walked to Prevention Point. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to me at that moment, but I needed to see a kind face. The social worker who called the ambulance that day would later help me write a résumé for a job. That résumé got me the job I have today. She helped me get my ID and health insurance. She showed up to court dates. She is another reason I’m where I am today.

There are numerous other people from Prevention Point and other organizations — including Drug Court — who were there for me when I needed them most. These people make it their mission to care for others. They work difficult and sometimes dangerous jobs and are rarely thanked.

Through their combined efforts, I am here today. I am grateful for them all.

Theo Fountain, who lived on the streets of Kensington from 2019 to 2021, is approaching two years of sobriety, lives in Roxborough, and works at a Fairmount pizzeria.