Another in my series of therapeutic letters, this from a recent dark day's musings:
I worry about you. I worry that this disease of mine is ripping you apart, munching holes in the important bits, slicing away support beams until you will collapse into an overheated pile of useless mush.
I worry about our future. I worry that years of this up-and-down cycling will compromise you, jeopardize our longevity or simply ruin our later years. Worse, that we'll get stuck in "down."
I worry that trying drugs again would only make you weaker, and let's face it, you're not the picture of health as it is.
As much as I worry, I also hate. I feel angry, frustrated, and betrayed. I want to bash you about with a giant wrench. I want to you cut you away from my body and leave you on the side of the street, somewhere dusty and inauspicious. I want to literally kick you to the curb.
In my dirty fantasy, I imagine you sitting near a street drain. Oily water surges over you as traffic charges past, each wave of cars causes you to lurch ever closer to the dark entrance before you vanish with one final teeter. Not a smooth glide into the drain like a little boy's paper boat, no, not for you. For you I want the repulsive, awkward stagger of roadkill on a rainy day.
I wish I could replace you and yet even more I wish I could heal you. As much as I hate the pain you cause me, the bad memories you cling to, you're still mine. I want things to work. So I keep going with you, as much as I wish for some relief, some easy way out. There are no restraining orders, no shelters, no vacations to take me away from you...
It's you and me brain. To the end.