Semantic Maze of Circular Logic

Semantic:  Of or relating to the meanings of words.

I'm afraid I'm in trapped way down deep in one of those semantic mazes of circular logic.  If I sit quietly, take a deep breath, and let my mind fill it's always the same thing right now.  I have nothing new to say so I'm condemned to repeating myself over and over and over . . . 

I want to help but I don't see the point in offering help to someone who doesn't want to be helped.  It's a waste of my time and it's an annoyance to the person I'm tormenting.  I don't like Brussels sprouts so quit telling me about the great new sauce you have for Brussels sprouts.  I can still taste the Brussels sprout flavor which I find objectionable.  Unless you have chocolate sauce dissolved in marshmallows and coated with melted Velveeta it's enough with the Brussels sprouts, already.

So much of my worldview is shaped by The Program.  If someone wants help we'll go to the wall trying to provide it - if they don't, we let them be.  There is nothing worse to an active alcoholic than having someone who isn't drinking telling you to stop except, of course, not being able to drink at all.  This is the 12th circle of hell.  This is infinitely worse.  A good drunk can parry the thrusts of the most dedicated proselytizer.  

So here's my father refusing to make use of any services, getting more and more miserable.  I'm buying into this bullshit a little but not too much, I'm proud to say.  Last night he stunned me by saying he wanted to go down to dinner.  There was a line to get into the dining room - maybe a five minute wait.  The muttering and bitching started.  "Where do you have to be?" I wanted to ask.  We were seated with a couple of very nice women who live on dad's floor.  The service, of course, was molasses that night.  It really was slow.  Dad got more and more agitated, finally getting up and leaving without a word to anyone.  I didn't go.  I ate my dinner with these very nice ladies.  The food is pretty good here.  I stuffed myself unabashedly.  The ladies insisted on having the dining room staff box up dad's dinner so I could deliver it to him.

"Fuck that," I almost said.  He was right down here - if he wanted the food he should have waited.  They were so nice I did take the food up, which he picked at and then fed down the disposal.

What can you do?