2016.01.09

I'm having a real hard time with this.

MW has Huntington's disease, but I'm keeping this fact from her. In the shadows of my heart, I think she suspects the truth. Every so often she’ll drop a bomb like – “How will you act when I’m really sick?” or “Would you take care of me when I’m really sick?”

Like that.

So far I’ve been smart enough to play that noise off and continue with stat. quo. Smart? Maybe suicidal enough….

Here’s where I’m at:

I’m sick.

I’m not sure if it is a symptom of my enthusiastically embraced alcoholism, my self-diagnosed hernia, or something more sinister; but on a daily basis now my heart will pick a random time to start hammering against my chest and I’ll find myself short of breath. My vision will become unfocused. I’ll start to sweat just sitting still. Of course this perpetrates a kind of panic, with me looking for an escape – where will I go to lay down? Can I get there in time?

But…. Not because I’m worried about dying. I’m not. I just want to be out of the way. I don’t want to be an inconvenience for anyone. I certainly don’t want to wind up in a hospital. Rather a morgue.

Look. The only thing keeping me alive now is the fact that MW can’t function without me. Truthfully, it’s not like she’s doing great with me. So were I gone?

Better. All around, better.

Probably. Maybe. Who knows? Goddamnit.

One thing is for certain – I can’t just get sick. I can’t wind up with a health problem that requires any kind of prolonged treatment. I can’t have a stupid cancer or heart problem. I can’t have surgery – hell, if I could do that, I’d get this nuisance hernia fixed. No. Nothing that would require MW to be responsible for the house for anything more than a six or eight hour period would work.

It’d be better I die. Then she’d have no choice but to have real, professional people intervene. Not just me fucking everything up all the time.

So this is the tightrope I’m on – is the sickness where I’m at now bad enough to knock me off into my reward or is it some survivable trifle? If I were to stop drinking – ha! – would my heart settle into a peaceful rhythm? Have I gone beyond that?

Would it make a difference?

Every night lying in bed, aching and miserable, I swear I’ll never imbibe another ounce. Come morning I’m doing a mental inventory of every bottle in the house, planning my day. If I knew this would land me in the hospital, I’d stop. I’d totally stop. I’d be a religious convert. John Barleycorn must die like he was in a Tarantino movie.

But….

If my drinking will kill me? Like, one moment typing on the computer; next, gone?

Well. Pass the bottle.

Because at that point MW will be someone else’s problem. Someone more qualified than I.

I’m a monster. I’m a monster, aren’t I?

Hello?