December 16th, 2015
“Why waste your time
with these people?” my friend asked. Though nearly ten years ago, I can still
hear his frustration. ‘These people’ was an alcoholic who wanted something from
us, who was putting us to a considerable amount of trouble. In the vein of
‘Tuesdays with Morrie’, I said, “I'm hoping somehow, somewhere, a seed is sown
toward more enlightenment.” But it did not satisfy. Alcoholics take more than
they give. One can but humour, or visit, or spend time remonstrating and
pleading and hoping and even praying. Mostly, in my experience (and evidently
in my friend’s too,) to no lasting avail.
I sit in the dark of
my car and type this. I'm deeply affected by the moment. I recall as a child
the fears of fragmentations of the senses. Drunk adults could never be trusted.
Their promises were broke. Their tears were crocodilian. In the morning, or
later that day, or at least all too soon, they'd eschew their vows and along
with it my hopes. The obligations to stay beside them, to attend them, to nurse
them, or even to humour them grew in me like so many prison sentences.
Disgusted, I wanted so much to be out and free and beyond their reach. For
always.
I sit in the dark of
my car on the street outside a house and type this. Inside the house some poor
sick soul is hurting and succumbing; and with his own inability to surpass the
disease, he takes up an other’s time. I understand it to be more than
psychological. I understand it to be more than physiological. I understand it
to be a congenital condition handed down by the proverbial sins of our forefathers.
And I understand addiction. We each have our own little demons to bear. Mine is
to be productive; it seems harmless enough. But it swallows up time from others
who would have more of me. So, in the darkness of your own being, what's yours?
I sit in the dark in
my car on a cold December night outside a person’s house; I am not the one prepared
to go in there and talk to the drunkard. Words do not register. And the ill-one
cannot but help to tell a story, over and over. No, from my car I can see into
the living-room window where that demised head bobs while in consort with his
interlocutor. And should there develop a problem, why, I'll move from my car,
and male-like, go to the rescue. There’s enough fire in my bones to do that. Yet
I feel guiltily impatient with the afflicted. They've a wound that won't heal
because they won't, cannot, and don't let heal. Worse, they draw on the
attention of others to have themselves attended. Then, alone, they rip off the
bandage! Booze does that.
Others are very much
better at this than I: Doctors; Nurses; Psychologists. I confess to an ugly
impatience. Say it, do it, and move on. Even if it's your dad or your mom or
your wife or your husband or your uncle or your friend. “Why waste your time
with these people?” It resonates.
I am a lot like my friend.
Not like the one in the house helping the drunkard. Certainly not like the
drunkard himself. No, I'm like the one who challenged me, “Why waste your time?”
(After a hand-up, help yourself!) But alcoholics, once given a shoulder, keep up
a never-ending need out of the very despair of their own illness. How sad. How suffocating.
Surely it's different if one’s loved one is stricken with a physiological
disease. They need nursing. But drugs? Alcohol? Surely after attending the most
expensive programs the result is the same: “Look after yourself!”
Perhaps the most difficult thing to do is accept them with all their failings, and let go of ones need to enlighten. Many years back I struggled with forgiveness, as I thought that it meant I had to include that person in my life if I forgave them. I spoke with someone a whole lot wiser than me who said that I could forgive someone, and that could be enough. I could still chose whether or not I wanted to "invite them over for dinner". Not doing so didn't mean I hadn't forgiven them. While not exactly the same as you are experiencing, I have remembered that for 30 odd years, and have applied it in many circumstance.
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