beautiful boy

Nic's friend Stephen speaks. He describes his lifelong 'dance' with alcohol-- he was ten when he got drunk for the first time. His wife cries continuously.
'We love you so much,' she says to Stephen when it is her turn, 'but I have heard your remorse before. I have heard your promises. I can't live this way.'
James's wife speaks about how he has plummeted from 'the person I respected most in the entire world, my soul mate,' to someone consumed with pills at the expense of everything else. 'He went from being the kindest, gentlest-'
The counselor, in a quiet, even voice, interrupts. 'Try addressing him directly,' she says. 'Talk to your husband.'
Looking into James's eyes, trembling, she continues: 'You went from being the kindest, gentlest man I had ever know in my life to a stranger, yelling at me, listless, depressed, unkind, and unable to share any kind of openness and intimacy. I keep asking myself...'
She begins to cry.
And then another, and another. They tell their stories, address their loved ones, apologize, rail at them, and weep. Our similarities are profound. To varying degrees, we have spent years accepting and rationalizing behavior in our loved ones that we would never tolerate in anyone else. We have protected them and hidden their addiction. We resented them and felt guilty for it. We have been furious and felt guilty for it. We vowed not to take their cruelty or deceitfulness or selfishness or irresponsibility any longer and then we forgave them. We raged at them, often inwardly. We blamed ourselves. We worried-- worried incessantly-- that they would kill themselves.