I realized the other night, when we drank at the local bar and grille, you habitually drive drunk. Not buzzed, nor tipsy, but drunk.
We celebrated, with our classmates, the end of our class. We still have that final portfolio to finish, which I’m sure you’re not nearly done with. You drank a few glasses of old-fashioned bourbon and a bottle of craft beer. You hugged me goodbye, with your car keys in one hand, but you could barely stand up.
I’m disappointed in myself for not coming to this conclusion earlier. You commute over an hour from campus. That means every time you show up to class smelling like whiskey or bourbon, you’ve driven about an hour while drinking from that flask that’s always in your pocket.
Calling you an alcoholic is an understatement, since you’re a recovering addict. I’d prefer hard liquor to heroin. I’m proud of you, in a warped way, because you’ve stayed clean. However, I’m worried about you, because you endanger yourself and every one on the road with you almost every day.
I don’t know how to convince you to stop, but I feel obligated to try, because I have knowledge of you doing it at all.
I had to text you and make sure you were okay. It was emotionally exhausting to not only hear you complain about your girlfriend at the table with our classmates, but to also live with the fact you could die in a car crash from your carelessness.
You were fine.
And you will be fine.
Until the day you finally get into an accident.
I hope that day will never come.