2015.01.30

Lately I've been rough, downright cruel, in these journal entries. Blame it on winter. Also, I started drinking again and haven't yet reached the just-so saturation point of a sustained blissful haze - although that's coming along nicely, thank you.  

Nevertheless, I do feel bad about calling MW "the human paint-mixer" and "slightly demonic". Clearly, this ain't one of those hope and prayer type blogs. It’s a lot of pain and depression and futility. Anyway, I've said it before, and I'll say it now - mostly to salve my own guilty conscious - I am not the one dying a horrible death. That's on MW. I'm just the facilitator and equivocator responsible for making the transition either better or worse. 

And there's the root of this frustration: better or worse? I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing and lives are at stake. I'm not the right person to be in this position. I'm not strong. I'm not smart. Hell, I may even not be morally or ethically equipped to handle this. I have no religion; no empathy. The core of my personality would not be described as noble or honorable. Given a choice between doing what’s easy and what’s right; I’d go with easy every time.

Just my luck – there is no easy way out of HD. No right way either. When I first started this blog, I quipped that “murder/suicide” was in the top five answers to the problem of Huntington’s disease.

Ha fucking ha.

***

Speaking of “first started this blog”; remember when I thought it would be useful for tracking MW’s symptoms? Another laugh. Reading over it now, it’s just so much whining and self-pity. I know it’s a void, but if it weren’t – if someone did read it, maybe someone not familiar with HD, they would think I was the biggest bitch ever. Maybe I am.

So one last time, just to solidify my position: Yesterday MW bumped her head on the edge of the car’s glove box. I know, right? I didn’t think you could even do that, but she managed. Anyway, for the rest of the night she worried that the bump had caused some serious internal injury. She rubbed her head and asked over and over, “do you think I’m okay?”

Doesn’t seem like much, but this happens every night. No holidays, no vacations, 365 days a year MW spends the night worrying about her health while I stand there like a fool assuring her she’s fine. Is it a wonder why I drink? I want to sit her down and tell her – “No, honey. You’re not okay. You have Huntington’s disease. We need to get help.”

Or maybe just buy a gun.

And which of those choices would be easy? And which would be right?