There is always hope...

I was talking to my mom today about a family friend that I have. This person, who will remain nameless is a fabulous dutch man who my step-dad met while travelling through Europe. He is a kind and gentle soul.
I have fond memories of him. He taught me to appreciate the music of Santana; we used to sit in my house and he would talk to me about the music, the rhythm. He was the only adult I knew who understood my passion for music, how it brings a light into your heart, how it fills you up. Sure, your family is proud, and they come to your recitals, but he was different. In a way I loved him more because of that. He tried to teach me the coordination for drumming even, but alas that I could not do. I would sit in awesome facination as he would drum out a beat with his hands, timed to the music, yet somehow it was his very own. He had such kind eyes, and a warm heart.
He was having a lot of difficulties in his life at the time I met him. His wife, two children and him were not getting along. He drank alot. Alot. He was one of those people who would sit and drink glass after glass, he would polish off one of those four litre jugs of wine in an evening. I was too young to really understand all that was going on, all I remember is his face would get pink, his nose bright red. His eyes would look sadder. He would laugh a hearty laugh, but you could hear the resignation in it.
The last time I saw him, I was 22. It was just after Christmas, and we were visiting him in the hospital. He had to have surgery done due to his excess drinking. He and his girlfriend of many years had spilt up, and he was sprialing down into the depths of dispair, the depths of his glass. We went to the room where he was, he looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot, the blood vessels on his nose were broken. His stomach was distended from the surgery, and the staples were pulling on his skin. I cried. I thought what has life done to this man? What is it that make us do these things to ourselves? This gentle man, his family hates him, and he hates himself.
I was still a smoker then, and wheeled him outside while my parents talked to the doctor about his condition. We sat and smoked cigarettes, talked about life. We talked about music, like the old days. I told him I didn't really do it anymore, I never went to school for it. He looked sad. He said everyone needs a passion in their life. Don't lose yours. We chatted about our lives, about him. He had a hard time talking about his problems. I told him he was special to me. He told me his kids don't tell him that. Tears were in his eyes; he cried. I was looking at a man who felt as if no one ever loved him. I hugged him and told him I would always be there for him. I would always carry him in my heart.
I was so sad when we left. I cried in my room when we got home, listened to some good music, even tried a little rhythm myself, and cried some more.
I talked to him briefly at Christmas in 2003. He had heard that I was very sick, and that I was starting a new journey in my life. He was talking to my dad and had asked to speak with me. On the phone I could hear his soft voice, with his funny dutch accent. He told me that I saved his life, that he will never forget how happy I made him feel that day. That he would always, always carry that in his heart. I cried that night.
Just a few weeks ago, I got a call from my mother. It was about my gentle dutch man. He was living in his car, a completely desolate alcholic. My dad had gone to look for him, and found him. He was ready to end it all. My dad talked with him, asked him why. He said he felt so alone. He couldn't talk to anyone, he felt like a burden, a failure. That he has so few happy memories. Then he said that the memories that keep him alive are the ones when we came to visit him that day, how much that meant to him. He cried. He cried my mom told me. I felt so sad.

Today I found out that my friend is now in detox. He will be for a long time. He was going to commit suicide, but he stopped himself. My dad with a little help convinced him that this was not the way, that there is always hope.

Although I am not an alcholic or at the end of my rope, I am still terrible at telling people what I am truly feeling. Reaching out is never easy for me. In a way I am kind of like my dutch friend. We never want to bother someone, we never want to be a hassle, or a pain. When we do, we feel guilty. We feel bad. We think that the other doesn't want to take the time. Or we feel that way when they don't have the time, even if it is unrelated. So often we try to reach out, only to become mute by these feelings. We sit and instead of being open we ask inane questions. Deep at the heart of it, we want to talk, to tell, to cry. This is such an unhealthy practice - ultimately causing dispair.

I am glad to hear that my gentle friend is trying to get better. He is making a change. His life as it's been, is helping me change. I don't want to fall so far down that I can't get out. I am slowly starting to be honest about what I am feeling, how I am feeling. It's hard, I still trip over reaching out, not quite sure what to say, how to start. So many times, starting a conversation, trying - but not quite succeeding. I suppose when you take the first step, you have to realize that you are likely to fall. You may feel too weak in heart to do this, that it is too hard, but you must realize you took the first step. My dutch friend is taking his first steps, and is subsequently teaching me another rhythm.

Funny. I suppose in the end it is he who is there for me.