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I WANT TO LIVE – By: Mike Rudon Jr.

I WANT TO LIVE – By: Mike Rudon Jr.
November 23
11:43 2018

By: Mike Rudon Jr.

A couple things right off the top – because people look at me sometimes and see all this absolute, wonderful gorgeousness and sex appeal, intelligence which is pretty damned amazing and, the cherry on the top of the cheesecake, a sense of humour which sparkles…and they think I am as close to perfection as it gets. I’m not.

Right now I want a drink. I’m dead serious. I am writing this on a Thursday, and I am imagining the first ice cold rum & coke after work, and the many that would follow. I crave the comfort of it, the solace from the realities I face every day. I crave the soul-deep peace of not caring if people think I’m fat or stupid or a drunk. It’s as simple as that. I know a lot of people understand what I’m saying. Because life can be tough. Me, I’ve made my bed and can’t blame anybody but myself for my problems, but that is little consolation when my world crumbles – alcohol provides that consolation. Just saying.

I wasn’t going to write my column this week. I just couldn’t. Too much has been happening in my own life and the strain of trying to smile and laugh and joke and be everyone’s affable clown is wearing thin. I’m a music lover. I think I’ve said this before. Music makes me smile and it can make me cry – all different songs from all different genres. It’s just the way they make me feel. But this week I haven’t listened to even one song. Normally I disturb the entire office with my loud music, and for fun I’d play country followed by metal followed by a soulful Spanish ballad. But not this week. I’m not feeling it. That’s how bad it is. My heart is just broken – in pieces. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

So I wasn’t going to write. And then one message from a friend – just one line of chat to say she is looking forward to my column because she needed the motivation. And I knew I had to write. None of these columns is ever easy for me. And it hasn’t gotten easier. But this one is for my friend. She will understand, I hope, where I’m coming from.

I was chatting with another friend this week who, like me, wants to change his life but, like me, is a slave to alcohol. I was sober, and giving advice as I do often. After all, this is a subject I know well, right. I was telling him that he needs to come home to be with his family, that family is everything. I told him how much he is loved, and how much his children need him, and how he needs to be somebody they can always look up to because in the end, when all is lost, family should be the rock you stand on. I believed with all my heart every word that I was saying. But as I wrapped up this round of advice, I was overcome by a deep sense of shame. Because it could have been me I was speaking to, and there are so many times I have not listened. And I started to believe, in my heart, that maybe I am a hypocrite. Ha…you seven faithful persons reading this should see me typing with my two fingers and brows all knitted up because I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I don’t.

A couple days ago I was down. And all I could think about was finding a place to crash, since home no longer felt like a sanctuary. I wanted a place to crash, and a place to quietly drink all my problems away. And then, I got a chat message from that friend whom I am writing this column for. And she spoke to me about some of the problems she is experiencing, and I realized that she was speaking to me. I mean, everything she had gone through my wife had gone through and is still going through. Everything she described to me, I had lived it. My family had lived it.

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