“To me the sound of a metal bottle cap
unscrewing against a glass bottle is
the worst sound in the world.
To my husband it is heaven”
We love them when they are sober, so we try to stop them drinking.
We beg, cajole, bargain, argue, and try to make them see reason.
We tell ourselves that somehow we are to blame, and we keep it a secret.
Most of all we try our utmost to help them. And still they drink.
You will discover that your own life with an alcoholic partner is reflected in these pages. Somewhere along the path you will see yourself.
You will learn that you are not alone. You are not imagining the situation. It is not your fault. Neither is it your problem to fix.
You will realize that no matter how much you help them, you will not change the alcoholic.
Most importantly you will learn to look at the problem from different angles. By doing this you will discover choices can be made to improve your life.
No one sets out to be the best alcoholic they can be.
So why do some people become alcoholics and others don’t?
Why do alcoholics feel compelled to drink?
Why don't they stop?
If they do stop for a while why don’t they stay stopped?
Why couldn't I help my husband?
Why didn't counselors and 12 step programs help?
If he loved us why did he keep drinking?
Why did the craving for alcohol get worse over time?
Excellent books and websites are discussed which offer personal health plans with a high success rate.
70 years after they were written during the Italian Campaign the letters sent home to New Zealand were found all in their original envelopes and numbered as they were received between May 1943 and December 1945.
Every single letter begins “To My Darling Wife” and finishes ‘Your loving husband, Henry’.
We know how the outcomes of World War ll played out. We know precisely what happened and when. But the soldiers did not have the hindsight as we who are reading these words now have. Each day could easily have been their last day.
Uncle wrote about his every day life, snippets he thought would be of interest, his mates, his love for family, presents he was able to make or buy, the food or lack of it, the countryside, the cost of ordinary things, the goodness of the local people, everything but where he actually was.
Some are funny, some sad, all are interesting and a wonderful insight into his daily life, trying to stay alive, at the same time doing what he saw as his duty to the country of his birth, New Zealand.
He was not trying to record history in these letters. He was merely writing home as often as he could to reassure my Aunt that he was ok and hoping it would soon be over.
Gifts and letters sent from Italy and precious soap, sweets and cake sent from New Zealand were received with the knowledge that love had also been enclosed. I am sure the letters and parcels were more important than we can ever imagine.