2018.07.18

Once again suffering under a panicked compulsion to write something, anything; no matter how awful. Indeed I am drunk. And forewarned - it will be awful.

Two things:

1) In the shower Saturday morning dreading the day to come. I can't escape to work, so it'll be 48 hours under the scrutiny of MW. She will say ugly things and complain the entire time; but we will get nothing done.

I'm sick thinking about it. Another two days, destroyed. Precious time squandered. MW has started falling down. A lot. An absurd amount of tripping over, basically, nothing. Her own feet. This makes her furious. And confused. The entire house needs to be rearranged in a way that makes it impossible to fall. Make-shift railings made from dog-gates have turned the kitchen into a maze. Sofas, chairs and beds all shanty-town now.

I'm to blame for a lot of it. Still not sure why, but I am.

MW is constantly pissed at me.

Hot water from the shower rolls down my back, but my stomach grows cold.

The way out. The ultimate end.

It is no longer abstract. Concrete plans form in my mind. The ledger tilts too far and I have no counterbalance argument.

I see it. I want it. Part of me aches for it.

A release.

Why don't I?

No response but the background static that has existed since the universe began.

2) Part of the ongoing charade of normalcy is MW searching for employment. She can work another twenty years, you know. Sure. Her Aunt worked until 60 (never mind that MW is now fifty. 60-50=20?)

Since quitting her job last September, she's applied for over 1,000 jobs. And when I say she's applied, I mean to say I've applied for her. And taken all those bullshit employment test you have to take in today's job market.

I pass the tests, she gets the face-to-face interview, and they don't hire her.

I wonder why?

So I'm doing another one of the pre-employment screening tests for MW and it's a dozy: all sorts of complicated word problems, math, and an intricate computerized VR environment simulating a call center. As I'm plowing through, I think about deliberately fucking it up so MW doesn't get the interview. Wouldn't that be for the better?

An interesting moral question.

Which led to another dilemma: all the test require the candidate to "do their own work". Yeah, right. It's gotten to the point where I wouldn't trust MW to enter her own phone number correctly. So by doing the applications for her, I'm lying and cheating the system.

But I'm doing it for loooooove.

Right?

***

More of the same. No solutions, just fuck-ups.

Depression. Booze.

And in the background, static. Like old television at three in the morning: white and black dots buzzing on the screen.

Suicide.

2018.07.13

There I was, congratulating myself on making - once again - a commitment to sobriety. I'd fallen hard off the wagon and was teetering on the abyss, when I realized - "Hey! It's already July! October is just around the corner. Don't you want to be around for one more Halloween?"

Sure.

So I put the bottles down with the promise that I would return to them on November 1st. After that, we could consider our escape plan.

Then MW called me at work.

Crying. Wailing. Making inhuman sounds. Babbling incoherently.

Eventually I pieced enough information together: she'd fallen. In the kitchen. And was worried that it was a symptom of Huntington's Disease.

Ah. Fuck.

So I'm drunk now. At work. I don't want to go home; I can't go home. It's so easy lying to her over the phone: of course not; you don't have HD, no, of course not, everybody falls. I fall all the time. Why, just the other day somebody here at work fell. Seriously. Had to go to the hospital and everything. Shoo. Falling? Shoo.

But at home? With her twisted, contorted face looking hurt and confused?

Oh Christ. I can't do it.

But I have to. What choice do I have, besides the ultimate. Here, let me take another drink and think about it some more....

What are my choices?

***

When MW was on the phone just.... just breaking apart. Oh God, the sounds she was making! Like she was in hell. In hell.

And I lie to her and tell her it's okay and I'll be home as soon as possible (point for me: Since MW doesn't let me drive anywhere, I have to take the bus, but it doesn't start running until late afternoon as it's one of those Park 'n Ride deals. Bonus for me! I have a couple hours to drink at the office!)

Anyway, as I'm on the phone, just lying my ass off, I start to think: who would do this for me? Who would protect me from myself were I going crazy?

Not a single, solitary person. Oh, certainly not MW. Not that I blame her at all; but she wouldn't/couldn't deal with it. Even if she were healthy, I know, 100%, she wouldn't put up with it. She has (had) too many friends, too much family. They wouldn't let her lose everything to take care of somebody who was so... hopeless.

They would tell her to put me in a home or something.

And they would be right to do so.

It's all academic anyway. I'd've killed myself. For certain.

Hell, I'm barely hanging on now; and only because....

Because....

Little help?

***

Not a single person. My mother couldn't - she can barely take care of herself. My father's dead. My brother and sister would also put me in a home (again, right to do so) as they have families.

I have no friends.

None.

Because Huntington's Disease has driven them all away.

***

I'm drunk, but I don't have much time.

Soon I'll have to leave the office and go home to face MW. She'll spend the evening - likely well into the next morning - making plans to safeguard the house that won't amount to anything.

And I'll lie and tell her everything is okay and we'll do whatever she says. It'll all work out.

Tomorrow I'll try to sneak some cheap wine.

Sunday is dry because Texas doesn't fucking allow spirits sold before noon and MW doesn't like to leave the house when it's hot.

Monday I'm back at work and I think I'll go to Spec's for lunch and buy the hard stuff.

And we'll see where that takes us.