Down the path. To destroyed lives.

It’s sad, sad, sad. Watching addicts kill themselves. When I know. That there must be ways. To save them. By some form of enlightenment. If only one knew what worked. A magical potion.  Brilliant counseling.  Maybe a prayer. Too often, nothing works.  Because we haven’t discovered a sure-fire cure for destructive addictions. I grew up. In a family. With an addicted father. Yes, sad, sad, sad.  No, my father wasn’t an alcoholic. He was a habitual gambler.  The night he committed suicide. When I was 13. And he was 38. He borrowed $2 from me.  Yes, he was flat broke. And he had immense gambling debts. With unsavory characters. I’m told that in his suicide note (which I didn’t see), he asked mother to pay off his debt to me. I can’t recall ever getting the money back. Doesn’t really matter. What matters. Is that sad stuff happens. Every day. As a result of lethal, untreated addictions. And I’m watching, watching, watching. Sometimes feeling helpless. Because I have several friends. Heading down the path.  To destroyed lives.   --Jim Broede