There is no such thing as "tough love," because love is never tough. To love someone is easy. There are, however, tough choices to make when addiction tries to compromise love.

In San Francisco, an interventionist directs the parents of a young woman to cut all ties to her as long as she continues to refuse to stop drinking and taking drugs. This includes shutting down her cellphone, which they pay for. The result: They lose contact with her. "The silencing is maddening," the father tells me, and I tell him to restore her cell connection. He does. In 36 hours, she calls her parents. "I'm on the streets. I've had it. I really need help. I'm ready," she tells them. Today she went to detox. In a few days, she'll reach treatment, one hopes. At least she's got a chance again because her parents made a tough choice not to disconnect.

I have a friend in Memphis, Tenn., who was utterly powerless to help her adult son get clean and stay that way. No amount of money, manipulating, pleading or even "letting go" had a sustainable effect. "It seemed I was damned if I did (help him) but damned if I didn't keep trying," she recalls. "How could I love somebody who hated himself, hated his illness, probably hated me at times, too, but that's what I did — loved him through it all." How? She invited him over to the house for Sunday dinner every week, despite her therapist's stern warning she would be "enabling" him.

Sometimes he stops by hung over, and occasionally, he's under in the influence. He's always hungry, though, so she feeds him, and they share table talk for hours on end until he leaves again and fades into the shadows of his addiction, only to re-emerge hungry for food and for his mother's love, the sustenance of their relationship. It's been more than a year, and still he fights his illness. "You know, I'd rather see him struggle than not see him at all," she says. "He knows I'm here for him, with him." She's hopeful he'll make it, eventually.

My friend and author Karen Casey reminds me that detachment is the toughest choice people make when the person they love is suffering from addiction. "Detachment truly is a gift, but it is often a misunderstood gift because it doesn't mean cutting ourselves off from people. No, detachment is a decision made in the mind and then held in the mind. We can detach our emotions from anyone anytime we decide to do so, with the result being we never become a hostage to someone else's behavior, even while we choose to continue to stay connected, see them, love them."

Easier said than done, for sure, though Karen suggests this approach: "I consider detaching to be a lot like brushing my teeth; it is a decision that needs to be made again and again." (For more of her insights, read "Codependence and the Power of Detachment.")

What prompted today's column is Peggy P. She was quite a character in my recovery community, an effervescent, loud, funny and often aloof woman whose story included scores of treatments for alcoholism and bouts with mental illnesses. At one time, she had nine years of sobriety.

She was 58 years old when she was found dead in her apartment this week, probably as a result of her illnesses. Peggy had been dead for about 30 days. In other words, she was missed by nobody for too long.

That's what happens to people under the influence who give up hope or stop trying. They retreat to the perverse solace of their substances, isolate and disappear out of sight and eventually out of mind, unless those who still care for them make the tough choice to reach out and stay connected no matter what.

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 "Now What? An Insider's Guide to Addiction and Recovery." 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.