I keep saying that this account is a means for me to occasionally rid my head of all the shite that infests it. But what if the shite in my head isn’t really coherent? Or just plain fucking miserable? Do I self censor? Keep quiet? Or just say ‘fuck it’ and let go, come what may?
I’ve spent most of this past weekend either in bits or moping. It’s hit me that MW is now fecally incontinent. In reality, I’ve known this for a few months but I figured that instances of it were just anomalies that could be explained and it would all right itself in time. No. They weren’t. It won’t. There have also been moments where MW has displayed symptoms that I imagine have parallels with Alzheimer’s disease. An insistence that something exists where it doesn’t. A memory that seems vivid but has no basis in reality. Disagreements follow. Tears. Reassurances. More tears.
Imagine a grieving process that is like death by a thousand cuts. This is how I feel. Like the life I once had, and the life I thought would be a given, is being taken away very slowly, one cut at a time. That MW is being taken away one piece at a time. And it hurts like fuck. There’s always something new/different to grieve and I don’t know how to deal with it. I wouldn’t know where to start, or if I have the right to ask anyone to listen to me try. Would I if my circumstances were reversed with someone else? I don’t know. I like to think so but we all would like to think so. The net result is isolation. Loneliness.
“Are you alright?”
“Well, it’s like this… [opens hitherto well-barriered floodgates of emotions and experiences. Watches enquirer’s expression alter irrevocably.] erm…so, anyway, how are you?”
It’s like a very long blues song. And that’s a lot to shove on to someone. I don’t know if I can, or should, do it.
A Husband For A Carer 