Before our falling out, my friend Thomas and I used to have bi-weekly Rock Band nights. Usually they were Friday and Saturday night, but occasionally on Sundays as well. They consisted primarily of us drinking beer, bullshitting about work and school and life, and playing the addictive rhythm game for hours; he on guitar, I on either drums or bass, both of us occasionally attempting to sing as well as play our instruments. Our musical tastes were varied, which made it all the more interesting to see the eight-song setlists we created, taking turns picking songs. One song we mutually agreed upon was this, Aqualung, by Jethro Tull. A colourful description of the titular hygiene-challenged bum, it is fun to play and fun to sing, a little silly, but it ended being the source of a very disconcerting incident.

It was late (or early, depending on your perspective), about 3 a.m. I was starting to wear down and my playing reflected this. As I was butchering this song on hard mode drums, Thomas suddenly paused the game and turned his back to me.

"Sorry I'm sucking. I'm pretty wrecked."

He says nothing. Then a sob, the familiar bullfrog-throwing-up sound of a crying drunk.

"What's wrong?" We've been down this road before, and as callous as it sounds I am out of sympathy for this guy and his issues that only seem to surface when lubricated by booze.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "It's just...this song reminds me of my dad. My real dad."

I'd already heard the particulars on this dude. A career drunk and drug fiend, he abandoned the family at some point during Thomas' early childhood, but not before wreaking every form of traumatizing horror and abuse known to man. I can't remember most of the stories, at least not in lucid detail since they were relayed to me through a filter of screwdrivers and late-night confessional haze. I do recall a heated re-telling of an incident that involved beating newborn infants' heads together. While I was busy wrapping my head around this surreal bit of the macabre, he had punctuated his story by wrapping his fingers around my throat, as he so desired to do to his birth father. I consider myself a friend and a compassionate person when the need calls for it, so instead of telling him to go fuck himself as I was so tempted to do, I recommended that night that he seek psychiatric help. I wasn't surprised when he didn't.

So here we are. I'm slumped on the drummer's throne awkwardly twirling drum sticks between my fingers and he's wiping his eyes and turning and kneeling beside me.

"I don't want to become him, Chris," he said. "Please don't let that happen. I hate him. I hate him for what he did to my mother. To our family."

The advice to give him is obvious, but it would be hypocritical for me to give it to him. Quitting drinking is a great start to avoid that dark path he so dreads, but who am I to tell him this when I can't seem to enter his family's home without being offered, and happily accepting, a drink? His mother, whom he was and I assume still is living with, puts herself to sleep every night with at least one bottle of Chardonnay. He can't (read: won't) remove himself from this environment and I can't make him, nor can anything I have to say convince him he should. With his mindset, his problems will only follow him.

That night I offered only my standard issue cookie-cutter advice; you'll be fine, you're already leaps and bounds ahead of him, never forget yada yada yada. This may sound harsh, but keep in mind this man would later prove to be a very destructive force in my life. I began a slow dive into drugs and booze and a very cavalier attitude toward life because of him. He broke into my house one night to hack into my computer to find out who I was talking to "behind his back". He attempted to sexually assault me while I was passed out drunk, a hard-learned lesson about whom I could safely indulge with. He sent vaguely threatening text messages, always with the underlying pretense of "you don't understand now, but you will." Always with the "I-told-you-so". I don't like when people like him are right.

As hard as that year spent with Thomas was, I'm glad I met him. I don't hate him even now. It took me a long time to come to this, but as I always say, everything happens for a reason. Some people consider this a cop-out for those who are unwilling to accept responsibility for their own actions, but as for me, I believe that even the people who had nothing but negative impact on one's life and come and go like a destructive storm still leave some goodness in their wake. Sometimes that goodness is our ability to see our own faults and shortcomings when they are reflected in others.