WARNING TRIGGER: This post contains an account about domestic violence that may trigger some people.
“You can’t heal the people you love. You can’t make choices for them. You can’t rescue them.” ~Unknown
Each story begins at the beginning. How far should I go back? Birth?
I was born at Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Camden, New Jersey, in May of 1972…just after three in the morning.
No, wait. That’s not morning. It’s still dark outside.
Please forgive me. That’s an inside joke.
I remember a friend from thirty years ago who came to live with my family a few months back. Unemployed and alcoholic, this man had just been diagnosed with Stage four liver cirrhosis. We decided he could live with me for up to 8 weeks, without paying rent, until he was able to sort himself out.
Even typing this sentence makes me cringe. How did I ever think he’d sort himself out?
I believed people could overcome their problems with enough love and care. I never thought that people had to want to overcome their problems.
In a matter of days after moving into my apartment, the future job that he and I had both counted on was ruined by him insulting his boss. Six to eight week turned into eleven-and-a-half months. Sorting him out evolved into…