I've made many false starts to this page. Things I thought were clever; some I considered tragic. All of them offset. As if my fingers misplaced on the keyboard while I, beaming over my shoulder, bragged about how I knew how to type.
Okay, so I do know, somewhat, how to type. Big deal. What I don't know is much more impacting. I do not know how to deal with MW who has HD and... And.... And that's it. I'm her caretaker. But it's complicated. Nobody knows she has HD because she hasn't been tested (Oh, it's fucking obvious! To me, anyway. Look at her mother's death certificate then talk - Jesus, just talk!- to her for awhile. She's done for.) Where was I? Oh, yeah. 2021. I've made a resolution to stop drinking for one year. I will not imbibe until 2022. At that time I fully expect to pretty much be a diving duck in a river of whisky. Lord, yes! But, for the next 365, I'll be sober. And morbidly depressed. Because MW has HD and no one - not one single soul besides me - who knows or understands what this means. I'll try to keep the truth away from her, as she's asked and as I've done for years; but this is rapidly reaching a terminal. I thought she was done 5 years ago, but she's still kicking. Kicking. Okay, I'm going to crawl into my bottle until 2020 is officially buried in the sand. I'm cross-eyed; I'm sick. I'll wake up tomorrow with a mouthful of cotton and a mind set on suicide. But I'll make it through breakfast and beyond. And beyond and beyond. I'll give it a year. One year. If, at the close of 2021 MW has not been "officially" diagnosed as an HD victim, or I haven't unraveled the suicide solution (apps, Osbourne.), then I'll bite the bullet. Well. I'm too much a pussy for that; but, I'll figure something. (Truth: my grandfather hung himself in the garage. Lot's of subterfuge and mumbling, but that fact eventually became clear. What's the shame? I now wonder. MW is... Beyond help. Not just beyond MY help. Oh, fuck no. I can't hold her hand and tell her it'll be alright. She has HUNTINGTON'S DISEASE!. It won't end well. She knows it (or maybe not - hard to tell with someone going through premature dementia) and I sure as hell know... This won't end well. The question the, is, how much to I suffer through? When do I pull the plug? Okay. I'm drunk right now and pissing on the keyboard. But this is my ultimatum to myself. No more drinking in 2021. Great! But when MW's rage or dementia takes control...? When do I pull the plug? And will it be upon the sink of my own mortality; or will I be brave enough to walk MW into her own washroom and stand her before the mirror and say.... You're dead. Walking dead.
I hate this. So much.
