She can't be forced into happiness.

I’m trying to feel good. As an old coot.  Partly, by not focusing on my age. I’m assuming. That I can make of life. Whatever I want to make of it. In sort of a pretend world. That feels real. I suspect that most of us do that.  We create our own realities.  To some significant degree. I observe friends. Around me. One in particular. Lives in an imaginary world. That she doesn’t remember much of. That is, when she’s completely sober. Which happens on rare occasion. Could be. It’s just as well that she can’t recall yesterday. Or last week. Or maybe even last year. Because when she’s soused, she’s soused.  The sad thing about it. She knows she’s unhappy. But doesn’t seem able to do anything about it. She shuns psychotherapy. I’d volunteer to take her by the hand. And lead her to rehab. Other friends offer help, too.  But she hasn’t yet learned to accept help. From anyone. I’m told by so-called experts. That she has to ‘bottom out’ first and foremost. To become a willing participant. In the quest for recovery and a reasonably happy life. Such a shame, isn’t it? That she can't be forced into happiness. --Jim Broede