Of all the insights addicts' loved ones have ever shared with me, none makes more sense than the approach a father in Tennessee takes in dealing with his 30-something daughter who stops and starts and stops and starts again with opiates.

He first shared it with me a few years ago, and his "Four Steps to Sanity" made it into a book I wrote and a subsequent column that continues to guide scores of parents and family members. They are:

—I love my child.

—I forgive my child.

—Never give up.

—Turn it over to God.

I won't regurgitate the finer details of these steps here. Space is tight. But I bring this up again because of something he told me just the other day when I asked for an update. Ask a dad for an update on his loved one and inevitably the dad leads you to how he's doing, too. Addiction is a family disease, after all.

"She has her good stretches and then goes off again, gets into trouble and makes trouble for us. Then somehow she gets back again to a better spot, and I'm relieved — for a while, as long as it lasts, and I am grateful for the serene times, but I am much better now with the bad times because I'm no longer timid. I'm strong. I can tell her the truth about what she does to me and to all of us."

"What do you tell her?" I ask.

"I say: 'You hurt my feelings. I disagree with what you're doing. It isn't right. Your behavior harms our relationship. Your problem is your problem, not mine, to solve,'" he responds. And he emphasizes proudly: "I never yell or get (angry) or say, 'To hell with you.'" It takes effort, he says, to keep cool. "If I don't raise my voice or try to match her vitriol, I improve the opportunity to get my point across. Plus I don't destroy my insides," he says.

This from a man whose outward demeanor belies a fiery internal hard drive that has made him tons of money, earned him civic accolades and helped him achieve political success; just about everything he touches seems to turn to gold. Except when it comes to helping his daughter stay sober. That doesn't mean, however, that he prescribes to the commonly endorsed approach for families whose lives are tormented by the addict. Here's where he adds a fresh insight to his own approach:

"She does all these things to me, and I tell her I don't like what she does, I don't agree, but I always remind her that no matter what she does, I'm not going away."

No parent or spouse or grandparent or sibling wants to go away from or turn his or her back to the addict who suffers. Yet too often, people are told to "let go" because they are powerless to change that person. Though it is important to set boundaries and enforce expectations to protect everyone else's well-being, cutting all ties usually won't salve the hurt, much less free anyone from the worry and the need to know what is happening to the addict. Besides, as this father points out, often the addict runs out of everything else except the love shared by a family that never dies. It is this love, expressed in the unambiguous language of "I'm not going away," that often is what allows the addict to finally ask for and get help.

"'I'm not going away' means there isn't anything she can do or her drugs can do to her that will keep me from caring, keep me from being there if and when she needs me," he says. "Reminding her that I am hanging around gives me the power to choose to love her even though I hate her behavior under the influence."

He likes to add something else, too.

"Let's go to dinner," he usually tells her. "Sometimes hope is best nurtured with a good meal."

William Moyers is the vice president of public affairs and community relations for the Hazelden Betty Ford Foundation and the author of "Broken," his best-selling memoirs. His book "Now What? An Insider's Guide to Addiction and Recovery" was published last year. Please send your questions to William Moyers at [email protected]. To find out more about William Moyers and read his past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.