2014.01.21

Bad stretch of time. MLK day - another long weekend with MW and she was in rare form. Saturday morning was brutal. MW is clearly experiencing the chorea now, early stages, but still unavoidable. Saturday she recognized this and spent the morning grilling me on why she doesn’t have HD. Once again, I explained that none of the symptoms she described are indications of the disease (yeah, right) but this time she wasn’t buying it. She asked - if I did suspect it was HD, surely I would do something? Surely I wouldn’t just lie about it? Well. Fuck. Of course it is HD and what choice do I have but to lie? Once again, as she was going about the business of devastating me, she stated that she would never take medication for the disease. So what can I do? What the fuck can I do?

Turns out I can drink. It is becoming a problem. This past weekend MW made us drive up to Austin for a couple of days. That’s two days I wasn’t able to sneak drinks. I was feeling terrible and, upon reaching home, the first thing I did was drink.

I stay late at work now just to drink. I’ve developed that alcoholic’s savant where I can judge how much booze I’ll need to get me through the day and plan accordingly. I’ve added Altoids to the list of must-haves for my pocket gear.

I’m a little drunk right now.

Jesus. I never wanted to be this.

But the drinking levels the playing field. Sometimes I wonder if HD is really just like feeling drunk all the time. If so, MW is a sad, sad drunk. Could be worse. She could be an angry drunk.

You think I’m a coward for not confronting MW with what I know? Yes, yes, again yes. But I know it will have to happen anyway. So what’s the problem with waiting? Giving her as many days as I can before even she has to face the facts? Look, you ask if the rolls were reverse, if I had the disease, what would I do?

With a snootful, I can say 100% certain positive I would kill myself. Immediately. No question. Come back when I’m sober-ish and I’ll say the same. I’ve seen what this disease does. I would never allow it to happen to me. Or, rather, because I have no idea what it actually feels like (there doesn’t appear to be any pain) I would never ever allow myself to become such a burden on others.

But if MW asked me for help committing suicide? What would I do?

Oh God Jesus. I need another drink.