June 29, 2004
Another crisis out of the way. I think it's out of the way. The worst of it is dissipating, dissolving, melting away, and we can go on now.
I think. He kept saying he was headed for this, and I kept saying, "Why? How do you know?" I didn't want it to be true of course, and kept denying it. Every day I'd say, "But you're doing so much better . . . " but he wasn't, or the fact that he was didn't negate what was going to happen anyway. Staying on an even keel is no easy matter around here.
"What's wrong?" I'd ask.
"I don't know," he'd say, in obvious pain, frustration, turmoil.
"What do you mean, you don't know? You must know." This is me being obtuse, as usual, and insisting on answers that don't exist. He really doesn't know.
He felt violent. Suicidal ideations. I'd say homicidal inclinations, but that would sound as if he's dangerous, and I've never believed him to be dangerous to anyone but himself. To himself he's a menace, his worst enemy, but I don't believe him dangerous to anyone else. At least no more dangerous than the driver of a car who has a sudden aneurysm burst and loses control of the vehicle. Hey, these things happen. That's life.
He has a few scratch marks on his face -- unintentional. He was playing with a knife, one of those bright shiny objects that are so fascinating when he finds himself deep in the pit. He didn't cut intentionally; he did that about a week or so ago. But nothing else this time, just running a knife over his face and not realizing it was a bit closer and sharper than he realized.
You think this doesn't sound normal? I'd welcome you to the club, but we're not currently taking new members.
He's coming back. It's as if he goes as far down into the pit as possible, total immersion in a world that is nothing but pain, and he must go that far before he can come back up. Maybe there's a springboard down there that allows him to come back up. It's also true that maybe, just maybe, it's not as deep as it used to be. This is a possibility, or else it's my new world view making it seem so.
The world is brighter and shinier now. Maybe it's the constant sun we've had in Seattle, something which is, for us, quite unusual. Maybe it's something else. Despite setbacks and the feeling that I'm treading water in a pool of sharks (how the sharks got into the pool is a mystery that I have no answer for), I have much hope for the future, for the possibilities that exist everywhere, for what might be. I have much hope for him, that he'll find his way, though he often has none, but he does not know himself like I do. His perceptions are skewed, just a bit off . . . more than a bit off, but all the same. He has things he is meant to do, as we all do, and he has value that he can't see.
He's emerged on the other side again. And he's becoming more independent. I often don't know what he's up to, or what he's doing, or how his ebay selling is going, because he's just doing it. This is all good. Daily check-ins are done of course, but all the same . . . he's coming along, he's doing well, despite the occasional plunge into the deepest part of the pit.
And my plunges into the pit? They're more infrequent, and manage to be dispelled rather quickly. More like a quick dip into the quagmire, then I'm out again. Of course, sometimes I'm rather spent from pulling him back out, but that's to be expected, isn't it?
I see progress being made every day. In one form or another.
I think. He kept saying he was headed for this, and I kept saying, "Why? How do you know?" I didn't want it to be true of course, and kept denying it. Every day I'd say, "But you're doing so much better . . . " but he wasn't, or the fact that he was didn't negate what was going to happen anyway. Staying on an even keel is no easy matter around here.
"What's wrong?" I'd ask.
"I don't know," he'd say, in obvious pain, frustration, turmoil.
"What do you mean, you don't know? You must know." This is me being obtuse, as usual, and insisting on answers that don't exist. He really doesn't know.
He felt violent. Suicidal ideations. I'd say homicidal inclinations, but that would sound as if he's dangerous, and I've never believed him to be dangerous to anyone but himself. To himself he's a menace, his worst enemy, but I don't believe him dangerous to anyone else. At least no more dangerous than the driver of a car who has a sudden aneurysm burst and loses control of the vehicle. Hey, these things happen. That's life.
He has a few scratch marks on his face -- unintentional. He was playing with a knife, one of those bright shiny objects that are so fascinating when he finds himself deep in the pit. He didn't cut intentionally; he did that about a week or so ago. But nothing else this time, just running a knife over his face and not realizing it was a bit closer and sharper than he realized.
You think this doesn't sound normal? I'd welcome you to the club, but we're not currently taking new members.
He's coming back. It's as if he goes as far down into the pit as possible, total immersion in a world that is nothing but pain, and he must go that far before he can come back up. Maybe there's a springboard down there that allows him to come back up. It's also true that maybe, just maybe, it's not as deep as it used to be. This is a possibility, or else it's my new world view making it seem so.
The world is brighter and shinier now. Maybe it's the constant sun we've had in Seattle, something which is, for us, quite unusual. Maybe it's something else. Despite setbacks and the feeling that I'm treading water in a pool of sharks (how the sharks got into the pool is a mystery that I have no answer for), I have much hope for the future, for the possibilities that exist everywhere, for what might be. I have much hope for him, that he'll find his way, though he often has none, but he does not know himself like I do. His perceptions are skewed, just a bit off . . . more than a bit off, but all the same. He has things he is meant to do, as we all do, and he has value that he can't see.
He's emerged on the other side again. And he's becoming more independent. I often don't know what he's up to, or what he's doing, or how his ebay selling is going, because he's just doing it. This is all good. Daily check-ins are done of course, but all the same . . . he's coming along, he's doing well, despite the occasional plunge into the deepest part of the pit.
And my plunges into the pit? They're more infrequent, and manage to be dispelled rather quickly. More like a quick dip into the quagmire, then I'm out again. Of course, sometimes I'm rather spent from pulling him back out, but that's to be expected, isn't it?
I see progress being made every day. In one form or another.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home