For better or for worse.

I keep confronting my dear alcoholic friend Julie. With what she doesn’t want to hear. The brutal truth. Julie is living on the edge. She’s gone 16 days. Without a drink. Only because she’s in the early stages of treatment. And has no access to alcohol. The detoxification has taken a heavy toll on Julie. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Julie bounces in and out of reality. She doesn’t fully understand why she’s in her current treatment facility. She doesn’t remember much of her inebriated past. I asked Julie yesterday. If she knows why she’s being confined. And why she feels lousy. And confused. I ask Julie if she can recount how she got into this mess. I try to tell Julie the truth. About her sad plight. But Julie would rather forget. Because it would only drive her into deeper despair. I write to Julie. Every day. To tell her the truth about herself. About her fractured life. Because I truly care. Because I want Julie to get better. But Julie refuses to read what I write. Refuses to listen. Makes me wonder. If I’m doing Julie  more harm than good. Maybe I should butt out. Mind my own business. And write off Julie. Just let her live life. In whatever way she chooses. For better or worse.  --Jim Broede