When it really is suicide.

Pardon me. If I have no pity for drunks. I won’t tolerate them in my presence anymore. Especially the mean-spirited and belligerent ones. That don’t even care if they drive drunk. I have a friend. Who turns nasty When she’s drunk.  When sober, she’s nice.  When she’s drunk, I will write her off.  As well I should. Maybe that’s unkind. On my part. Maybe drunks should be pitied. But I tell her, don’t look for pity from me. Get help. It’s up to you.  Not me. I can’t require you to get well again. You have to take the bull by the horns. And wrestle with it. You’re the decider.  And so far, you choose to be drunk. Virtually every week. I refuse to be your enabler.  You claim not to be suicidal.  Of course, if you keep drinking to the present extent. Won’t surprise me if you’re dead in a year. But it won’t be called suicide. When it really is. --Jim Broede