Stealth Bomber by William Moyers on Creators.com

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Stealth Bomber

Sometimes it is the immediacy of the moment's emotions that demands this space, and that's what spills forth right now. The best I can do is just lay it out; if I think too hard, I'll bury it in a neat and tidy column, and you won't know what I'm feeling.

Tonight a friend of mine is in the Union Gospel Mission. As homeless shelters go, it is a fine place. It's still a place, though, for people who don't have anywhere else to go. Many of them are addicts and alcoholics.

He is, too. But he had made a place for himself in St. Paul, Minn., since coming up here from a bigger city farther south on the Mississippi River last summer to get sober. He had his own room with a bunch of other guys and had secured a well-paying job as a waiter. Over the holidays, his baritone voice resonated at services at his newly adopted church. He was well-connected in the 'hood with a group of people who share his state of mind and body — addicts and alcoholics in recovery, people like me. I've been a mentor of sorts to him. But he's returned more to me than I've given him, especially now.

We had coffee about a week ago. He sounded and seemed solid. It was his turn to cook for the guys in his sober house. "I'm the culinary king; they always get us takeout, but I'm going to cook us a real meal," he laughed. He was excited to go the theater on his own. "My treat. I bought myself a ticket to see 'The Lion King.' I love that show," he said with a smile as bright as the full moon outside my bedroom window right at this moment.

Then he simply disappeared. He didn't go home or show up to work. He didn't make it to church or to "The Lion King." He didn't call his frantic mother far away or me down the block until today, when he somehow made it into the emergency room of a downtown hospital.

He was gone six days.

Where he was I still don't know. That isn't really important; what matters is that he's safe. He's still alive, so he gets another chance. That's remarkable because on previous binges, he's gotten stabbed in the heart, fallen three stories from a building and nearly burned his family's house down.

Man, I despise addiction. Unlike other chronic illnesses, it is a condition of extremes. Sober, we painstakingly restore and rebuild our lives. Relapse wipes it all out. Where is the middle ground?

I also hate the illness because of the behaviors of people like my friend now and me, 18 years ago when I relapsed. We scheme to drink or drug again in spite of the inevitable consequences to come. We're not blind to what we're thinking. It's only our friends and family who don't know, because we don't tell them. We convince ourselves it'll be different this time. It isn't. It is worse.

No wonder society struggles to embrace addiction as an illness. In moments such as this, so do I, because I have been there in my own life and know that our stealth willfulness is as dangerous to our health as the substances we put into our bodies. It shouldn't be this way. But we make it so over and over again until we finally understand that as sick people, we are ultimately the ones who are responsible for our own wellness.

William Moyers is the vice president of public affairs and community relations for the Hazelden Foundation and the author of "Broken," his best-selling memoirs, and "A New Day, A New Life." Please send your questions to William Moyers at wmoyers@hazelden.org. To find out more about William Moyers and read his past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.