Before it's too late.

I know a woman going crazy. She used to be a close friend. More distant now. Because she's sort of pissed. At me. For writing about her. Like I'm doing now. I keep her anonymous. But when she reads this, she'll know it's her. And that will make her more pissed. Because she thinks I'm invading her privacy. But I really ain't. Because this could apply to all sorts of people that I know. She's a nervous wreck. In withdrawals. Because at the moment she's trying to quit smoking. After almost an entire lifetime of addiction. I've tried to get her to quit. Even chastised her about the smoking habit. And how destructive it is. And that I'd never want to live with her. Because she smokes. I abhor secondhand smoke. Anyway, she does other things to hurt herself. In a sense, she's committing suicide. Slowly. Bit by bit. By being less than kind to herself. Downright mean at times. She puts limits on our friendship. Refuses to write to me about the significant and meaningful aspects of life. Refuses to confide. Because I tend to tell her what she doesn't wanna hear. The truth. But still, I think she's nice. A decent human being. I wish she'd fall in love. With life. She disdains so much of life. When she doesn't have to. Of course, that's just my opinion. Maybe she's got diseases that I don't understand. Addictions. Compulsions. An inclination to depression. Chronic unhappiness. And maybe I should show more empathy. I've tried. In many different ways. With varying degrees of success and failure. Mostly, she needs to talk. And maybe I need to do more listening. And less talking. Anyway, I'm a little bit encouraged. Because I heard she's taken to an electric cigarette. In a genuine effort to quit smoking. Maybe that's a sign that she wants to live. And to savor life. Before it's too late. --Jim Broede