Molly and me and the crack makes three
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In writing about my discovery that the one I live with has become addicted to crack I've forgotten to say anything about the here and now.
He is staying at the house of someone he's known for a long time. He has no money, no car. Mostly he sleeps.
In a sense I'm using the other guy's home as a sort of halfway house. It keeps him from harming himself or me.
Next week he'll make arrangements to be classified by Duke University Medical Center's substance abuse program.
I have little faith in the therapy racket. In my heart I'm already single again and if I could find somebody to spend time with I would. In a heartbeat.
Technically I'm giving him one more chance. But there doesn't seem to be much – any? - feeling left. Again, if the right person were in reach I'd be stretching my arm out.
His love of his drugs is so deeply rooted I think he'll have to lie in the gutter to be made well again. Or die. If one weighs a life by the relative measure of pain and pleasure then death may be a mercy for him.
Pity there's no one for me to take in my arms and rest with.