Despite city efforts to ban camping under this Eugene bridge, the protection from stormy, Eugene nights during winter is pertinent to the youth that must sleep outside.

This is the story of Connor Mahan, a 20 year-old homeless Eugene resident. In just 24 minutes, he told me his narrative; it is one of tribulations, of pain and loneliness, and of finding hope in the darkest times. Indeed, his resilience is inspiring.

 

Sydney Padgett

The familiar words of the Beatles ring through Connor Mahan’s camp and the warm fire crackles in response. Mahan sits among the five closest friends he has ever known; together, their laughter sustains their positive spirit throughout one of the coldest times of the year. Mahan has not had a permanent residence for five years, though his friends and sobriety at this camp have shown him hope—something he has not felt for eight years.

“Living here ain’t easy, but I haven’t been strung out in ten months, so living here is like a beacon, you know?” Mahan said.

A fight breaks out at a neighboring fire and Mahan’s friends prepare to intervene. Mahan simply stares into the flames, the destructive flares and shouts a reminder of the substance that almost destroyed him. His past, riddled with loneliness, brings tears to his eyes.

When Mahan was 11, his step father beat him so mercilessly that his mother sent him to his grandfather’s house in Portland for protection. This was the first of many residence changes for Mahan, the changes that convinced him that he did not belong anywhere, that no one loved him.

“When my grandpa died, I crashed at a buddy’s for a while. Suddenly, I was a nomad, a piece of luggage that crappy people passed on from one to the other.” Though Mahan was rarely alone, the five years he spent camping and sleeping at trap houses were characterized by solidarity. It was this loneliness, along with an inability to sleep through freezing Eugene nights, that fueled Mahan’s heroin addiction.

“For almost four years, I didn’t know what was real,” he said. “Man, that shit made everything numb.” This addiction that defined such a large portion of Mahan’s life seemed inexplicable now. As he stroked the scars left by needles, he said, “It felt like heroin solved everything. God, no. It ruins everything, even when you don’t got nothing to start with.”

“One morning, I woke up with nothing and no one around me. I was shivering and filthy. I just thought to myself, damn, I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

Almost as quickly as it started, Mahan quit. He was aided by the rehabilitation services at the White Bird Clinic and a certain sponsor, James Tollefson, who carried Mahan through recovery. Tollefson’s admiration was undeniable. “This kid—no, this man—has been thrown nothing but shit his entire life,” he said. “Yet that smile is undying.”

Almost 20, Mahan’s future is comprehensible. “Now, my money isn’t going to drugs. It’s going to me and it feels like I’m finally working for something meaningful.” Two tests away from his GED, Mahan’s future is blissfully unwritten.