Head-check time:
Suicide. I tend to beat around the bush about it, but there it is.
The solution.
The only solution?
What this head-check is all about.
***
First, the weekend. As always, hellish. The high point was a refreshing blast of self-awareness as to the numbness that allows me to continue walking upright instead of curling into a ball, ripping out my guts.
It can't hurt me anymore. I'm beyond pain.
Jesus. Did I just write that? *sigh*
Details, if you need them, though they're not much different from any (every) other weekend:
I get one chance at the grocery store. MW drives, because she doesn't trust me, but she won't go into the store because she doesn't want people looking at her. Ergo, I shop; she waits.
Ah, but this is summer time in Houston. She won't wait long. I'd better hurry my ass up! And if I forget or don't buy enough of something? Capitol T trouble.
So before I leave the car, I ask MW a few times if she needs anything special. She'll say no; then I'll start listing off the stuff she has wanted in the past, and might want again. Occasionally I'll hit on a winner, but when she's in a mood, this type of OCD grates her nerves and she'll snap at me to "go and hurry!"
Just so this weekend. I'd asked about some things, she crossly said she didn't want them, and I skedaddled.
That was Saturday. Sunday she wanted the items I'd asked about; but I hadn't bought them.
Yup. An apocalypse. By the time she'd finished flaying all the flesh from my body, hours had passed and the air around my head had turned India-ink black.
And all I could think about was the comfort of the grave.
***
Nothing new, though, this is how I spend most of my time at home. Wishing I were dead.
It has gotten to the point where I feel, well, dead already. MW screaming at me, berating me, lashing out at me - do I flinch when her clawed hand rakes the air at my cheek? No. Do I imagine that same hand closed around a pair of scissors or a knife?
Sure. Be better. Bet a LOT better.
And I wouldn't flinch.
***
What's holding me back? Why haven't I killed myself yet? Where's my head at?
***
When I became certain MW had Huntington's Disease, I foolishly assumed there would be some sort of help for us. Friends, family, doctors, medicine; something to make it manageable.
Nope.
We're alone and there is nothing we can do to manage this. It won't get better until one of us dies.
That's it. Carved in stone. One of us has to die for things to improve.
And every day I chose not to kill myself is another day where, in the back of my mind, I know I'm counting on MW dying first.
Five years of this, and I loathe myself. Obviously it's been too late for MW for a long time now. Since she was born, actually. Recently, though, I've come to realize it's too late for me as well.
If MW does die before me, I would not be able to rebuild a normal life. I don't know how to be around people anymore. There are days where I go without speaking more than perfunctory greetings to co-workers. My voice, when I use it, is thin and strange to me. So many years of being torn down for every utterance have left me uncertain and afraid.
I don't trust myself. I don't trust anybody. Words are grenades; even facial expressions can invite shrapnel. I can sit at a computer and work, but that's all. If MW dies, that will be what's left of me. A mouse and a keyboard and a paycheck.
Why bother?
***
Here's where it gets maybe a little complicated:
1) MW can't take care of herself.
2) I'm the only one around.
So. I need to be around to take care of her, yes?
Yes.
EXCEPT! What if I'm doing a terrible job? What if, in fact, I'm putting her at great risk by shielding her from reality.
Case in point: Should she be driving? Probably not. I've tried my best to keep her from behind the wheel, but I've fucked it all up and she wants to drive exclusively.
That's the big one; but there are myriad little things I do that, out of context, seem downright cruel. Or, hell, maybe even in context. I've no idea. Take for example her job-hunt. I fill out all her applications and take all her assessment tests so she gets interviews which she bombs (no help for it - she sounds crazy over the phone and in person? Best case they think she's drunk).
I tell her it's okay. I tell her to keep trying. I tell her they're the one's who are crazy.
I keep her going.
Just the other day she got in her mind to ask some former supervisors for references. She composed an email and sent it to a vice president of Chase Bank.
When I got home, she showed me the email.
It was nuts. Indecipherable. So confusing, in fact, I could imagine the recipient being slightly frightened.
I hedged and said it could've been clearer, then wrote another version for her and sent it off; but I did tell her that he probably already moved it to spam so she shouldn't expect a reply.
She's humiliating herself and I let it happen. I enable it. Hell, I encourage it. If she's busy harassing some company's HR department, that's less time she's spending tearing me down.
I'm not at all certain this is the best way to handle somebody with Huntington's Disease. Even if they've been adamant about not wanting to know; and they're not likely to take any medications - even still.
I'm probably balling this all up.
***
So where am I at? Do I start making definitive plans today or do I wait?
How many more days can I look at myself in the shaving mirror and think, "Maybe MW will die today. Wouldn't that be something?"
That's no way to live.
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