He continues to waste away. He gave me the number of a former psychiatrist of his to call, just to see if she has any suggestions. She will probably tell me to call 911 for starters. (He would refuse to go anywhere.) But I’ll need to have something more than that for him, some hope of decent treatment and options beyond his current state of severe (beyond severe) depression. Unfortunately combined with narcissistic personality disorder, which drives the psychiatric professionals trying to help him out of their own minds.
And he’s been kicked to the curb. And he wants at least one of those professionals to give him some hope. To not discharge him in the same severely depressed state he arrived in. To care and to work harder/longer to make him better. But (and here’s the problem, always): on his terms. And it can’t be on his terms. His terms are what have gotten him where he is now, which is a terrible, terrible place to be. And the wasting away is a horrifying thing to bear witness to.
And oh God would I love to turn the clock back about 17 years and just be coming out to myself and the world, and feel like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon, like a soul about to take flight from a high and wondrous cliff! But: I am not a butterfly. I am a soul currently wading my way through muck and sorrow.
One way or another, this too shall pass. Probably not the way I want it to, but … it will pass. Then the next chapter will open. And there is support, which is good. If only all the people who love and care about him could get through to him. Alas, I am the only one he sees; there is only one other person to whom he will talk. Oh.
I hope for happier, lighter entries. I hope for the return of my muse, because poetry can be born from every stage, every season, every condition of life. Just now, though, I need to pour out this helplessness and despair and sorrow any which way it comes out of me. So for today, this is how it is.