Where there's life. There's hope.

My friend Julie. Is a strange one. Profoundly strange. Julie is an alcoholic. Trying to recover. Trying to learn to control her insatiable and perplexing addiction. She’s in and out of treatment. One might say she’s making progress. She doesn’t drink on a daily basis anymore. But she still drinks. Occasionally. Four times in the past two months. She hasn’t yet learned to fully resist temptation. If she stumbles across a stash of wine. That she had so adeptly and cleverly hidden in the past. She’ll imbibe. And later feel sorry about it. But still, it’s so sad. To watch the personality change.  It’s as if Julie becomes a drunken sailor. Complete with salty language. Julie’s mind has been warped. To the point of having completely forgotten some of her drunken escapades. One of which was almost lethal. She could have lost her life. It was touch and go in the hospital. Julie doesn’t remember. If she did, it would be easier to quit. That’s the fervent wish of Julie’s many friends. That she becomes so scared. That she quits. Once and for all. Meanwhile, progress is progress. Where there’s life. There’s hope. --Jim Broede