The hardest relationship I ever had was with a man who would never love me as much as he loved a bottle.
Youth meant nothing to him. Dreams, ambitions, long lost. All that mattered was when he could get his next fix. A legal high, but a prison sentence of the mind.
Labels don’t define an alcoholic like time does. A thirsty second, a dry minute, an hour of a drought. Much worse the day of moisture quenching his body as the sweat of withdrawal overtook his every thought…if he ever made it that far. Which he rarely did.
Each time he said that was it. And each time I knew was a lie.
It’s not only the alcoholic who changes, but the victims in the path of the typhoon. Those in the eye live in the moments before the raging winds take hold again, treasuring every second of the…