Apr. 06, 2002 ~ The truth is...
it's not that I don't feel like writing, it's that I don't like how I'm feeling right now. A long, long time ago, there were a number of alcoholics in my life. Some of these I chose to associate with, but most were relatives. Some have died, some have sobered up, and others... are just no longer in my life. My choice, totally, and not an easy one to make. Those were painful times, and I'm glad that they're in the past.
But...
You saw that coming, right?
A casual acquaintance, someone we barely know... it turns out he has a serious drinking problem. And for whatever reasons, he has latched on to us as if we are his last hope, the lifeline of a drowning man. But for my own sanity, I want nothing to do with him. I'm past all this, and don't want to be a part of it. That may sound cold and callous, but I just don't want to have anything to do with him. He is talking of suicide. I still don't want anything to do with him. People find that shocking; they thought I had a tender heart. Guess there are some tough places in that tender heart. He isn't willing to seek or accept professional help, and frankly, I don't want to even get started listening to his excuses or his sad stories, and sure don't want to feel responsible for him. Been there, done that, don't want to do it again. I'm no therapist. I can't save anybody. I can't even steer anyone in the right direction if they aren't willing to go. He's not.
I hate the way this makes me feel. It's like stepping back in time, to a place I hoped never to revisit.
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