"I had been through detox a few times before and it didn't work," she says. "I figured that being in jail would be a start of getting me off meth. Kind of my version of being 'in-patient.' It worked."
DaCosta spent about a month behind bars (the charges later were dismissed after she completed a drug diversion program) and then moved into a residential program run by the nonprofit New Arizona Family.
Paul Rubin
Russ Jefferson delivers turkeys on Thanksgiving Day.
Liz DaCosta delivers turkeys on Thanksgiving Day.
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Shadow Dwellers: A Series
What's the one image you took away from the Tucson shootings? We thought so. That mugshot of Jared Loughner is haunting. And for the world, it has become the face of mental illness in Arizona. Here, we know that's not true. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but the story of what it's like to be mentally ill in this place cannot be told in a single photograph.
Tens of thousands of seriously mentally ill people live in Arizona. Some of them look
just like you.
Other stories in the series:
Tucson's Cafe 54 Is the Real Face of Mental Illness in Arizona, Not Jared Lougher, by Amy Silverman
Meet Raven, a Homeless Man with More Community Than Many of Us Have, by Paul Rubin
Why Did the Arizona Department of Corrections Put a Mentally Ill Man in Cell with a Convicted Killer?, by Paul Rubin
Mental Illness Hasn't Stopped Chris Shelton from Becoming a World-Class Boxing Historian, by Paul Rubin
Jan Brewer's Response to Jared Loughner: Slash More Than 35 Million in Services from an Already Beleaguered Mental Health System, by Paul Rubin and Amy Silverman
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In May 2008, she gave birth at St. Joseph's Hospital to a healthy daughter, Skylar, who now is 31/2. The child's father is in prison.
DaCosta lived for more than two years at UMOM New Day Centers on East Van Buren Street, Arizona's largest homeless shelter for families.
She says she stayed sober, steered clear of the temptations looming back in Gilbert, and devoted her attentions to her baby and her own recovery.
Community Bridges hired DaCosta as a full-time peer support specialist in 2009.
It has been a perfect fit. She is organized, diligent, and buoyant about life and its possibilities.
"I feel so good at the end of the day," she says. "I've already wasted so much time. I'm still an addict. But I don't plan on wasting any more time on bad things."
It is Thanksgiving morning.
Liz DaCosta picks up Russ Jefferson and another formerly homeless client, Dennis Eldridge, at their respective Phoenix apartments.
Jeanne Allen is off for the day, which she is spending with her family.
The three drive over to the UMOM center — where DaCosta once lived — and park near the big kitchen. They pack more than 40 hot turkey dinners into the Community Bridges van for delivery to the other Project H3 clients in Phoenix and Glendale.
Both men are happy to help and happy to get out of their apartments to do something positive.
Eldridge is a quiet man in his mid-50s, a Native American from New Mexico who used to run marathons. Now, decades of severe alcoholism and 14 years of homelessness have taken their toll.
"Don't get me wrong: I am really thankful for the break I caught with Liz and them," he says, "but I have a tough time staying off the booze — always will."
The trio delivers the dinners one by one, apartment by apartment, visiting for a minute or two with those folks who want to chat.
Russ Jefferson greets Lisa Stufano with a hug and tells her how much better she is looking these days.
"I knew her on the streets when we were both at the bottom of the barrel," he says later. "That's pretty low."
On the way out of the apartment complex, DaCosta spots a man reaching into an overflowing dumpster for something. His filthy clothes look as if they're welded to his body.
DaCosta stops the van and asks the guys if she should give the man one of the remaining turkey dinners.
"Sure," Russ Jefferson says. "Looks like he's down on his luck."
DaCosta steps out of the van and grabs one of the bagged-up meals from the back. She walks over to the man and says hello, immediately disarming him with that smile of hers.
"Hi," she says. "Would you like a Thanksgiving dinner? We have an extra."
The man does a little bow in gratitude — he surely needs a meal.
But then he says in a surprisingly gentle twang, "No, thank you. There are people much more worthy than me, ma'am."
DaCosta doesn't miss a beat.
"No one is more worthy than you or anyone else," she says. "What's your name?"
"I go by Stoney."
DaCosta offers her hand by way of introduction.
He declines to touch her.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Stoney says. "I'm really dirty."
Liz says she doesn't care.
"Please, enjoy this," she says, handing him the meal.
He takes it, smiling at her for a moment.
"Thank you and God bless you," Stoney tells Liz DaCosta. "You be careful, okay?"
She returns to her van, with several more stops left on her Thanksgiving run.
Stoney places his care package down on the driveway. He reaches back into the dumpster as she drives away.
