2015.12.27

Rough - super rough - time of the year. No point cussing about it; not anymore. Suffice it to say Christmas was pretty awful. Again. But we made it through. New years shouldn't be quite as bad, and, once that's done, maybe we can keep on rolling another 365 like this.

Maybe.

It is too depressing to get into - depressing and repetitive - so I won't rehash every little bullshit HD thing that made this holiday season balls (imagined illnesses, sleepless nights, terrifying mood swings). Still, perhaps a little elevated from last year because during one of MW's horrific rants about how bad of a person I am - she asked me to go drop a gift off at the neighbors. They weren't home. When I came back she accused me of not even trying to give the gift. This set her off for a few hours of an absolutely vicious and vitriolic diatribe against me. And, yes, she became physically violent. Nothing I couldn't handle, but then, I'm a big guy - anyway, in the course of shearing me down one side then the other, MW mentioned that - if this was how I'd treat her when she asked for a simple thing like delivering a gift - how bad will I treat her when she really does get sick and need help.

Huh?

Headlights. Deer.

Is this a sign of self-awareness? Should I take the moment to suggest seeking help?

Of course I didn't. The tempest raged awhile longer then subsided. And I was able to drink my decision to make no decision away. Status quo retained through liberal application of wine and vodka. Oh, yes, of course that combination makes me sick.

Eh. I deserve it.

There is a particularly cruel philosophy of war that it is better to wound an enemy soldier than to kill him. Because the soldiers next to the wounded man will also be taken off the battlefield as they tend to their injured brother-in-arms.

There you go. Huntington's Disease proves that nature is a lot like the Russian paramilitary.

This time of year. This miserable, hateful, abhorrent time of year. When every where you turn is a reminder to "celebrate with family". Huntington's Disease has taken both MW and I off the field. Neither of us can maintain relationships now. I have become a human shield protecting MW from the world, allowing nothing in that could possibly upset or confuse her. That includes.... Every fucking thing.

The Russian paramilitary has another motto: "Strike first. Keep striking."

Yup. Huntington's Disease 101. MW isn't even 50 years old yet. I myself ain't even 45. She's ten, maybe fifteen years away from the grave. And, if I keep drinking like this, I may beat her there.

God but I hate the holidays.