Double Misery - Two Posts in One

If you read “Michael and Me,” you already know that I am depressed.  There is some kind of glitch with the comments button that I have been unable to fix.  I did copy and paste one of the comments that was e-mailed to me but was unable to do it a second time.  If you read me over there, try to comment, but if you can’t, please e-mail me your thoughts.  Later - I think I have it fixed now?

And now for today's posts.  You are getting two for one.

Yes, I am still depressed, though less so than yesterday, I think.  It is cool enough this morning to sit on the deck and write while my dogs doze.  It would be perfect if there were not heavy equipment digging a drainage ditch next to my house.  They start at 7:00 AM and have been at it for most of the week.  I would like to march over there and grab a shovel and hit somebody over the head.  7:00 AM.  Really?  Soon they will be digging under the street, and I will have to take the long way out of my neighborhood.  Not to mention the noise that would come with digging up the street.  And all this when I have several days off to relax and read and write.

Poor me.

This depressive event has me questioning everything about myself.  My internal dialogue is toxic. Here are some examples:

“cj, why are you such a fuckup?”

“I can’t do anything right - not even being depressed.”

“Why am I so lazy?”

That’s a representative sample; it goes on ad infinitum.  The most troubling aspect of this backslide is that I don’t want to get un-depressed, at least not now.  I want to wallow in it, punish myself with it, feed on it’s poison.  

This time, I am not afraid of the Dark Hole.  Does that make me crazier than I think?  Maybe it means I’m not as crazy as before.  I think I can climb out.  Maybe I came here to hide for a while

LIGHTBULB MOMENT!..................It’s not just depression.  It’s Parrish.

The Rest of the Story

Well, I was wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Parrish has decided, against my wishes and my fears, to move back to Atlanta.  Here is his plan:

He plans to leave Miami at the first of September, taking his disability check with him, and go to Atlanta.  He has not said what he plans to do with his things he can’t take on the Greyhound with him.  He will present himself at the emergency room at one of the hospitals and tell them he is mentally ill and needs to go to the state hospital for the mentally ill, Georgia Regional.  He says he will stay there until they place him in some sort of housing and a program that supports sobriety and compliance with medication orders.  He tells me this, but how do I know it’s the truth?  He says the hospital can’t dismiss him until he has a place to go.  What about all these budget cuts for Medicare and Medicaid?  He has both.

Shit a blue brick.

He has talked this way before, but since my visit in July, he has been on this bandwagon again.  How could I have been so blind?  I found him better than he has been in years, thought, believed that he was telling the truth when he said he was going to make his living situation work for him.  I wrote a poem about how good he was doing, for God’s sake.

No wonder I’m so depressed.  I guess I knew somewhere in the bottom of my heart that this was coming but just wanted to ignore it.  

We argued about this yesterday and again this morning.  I finally threw up my hands and cried “Uncle.”  He is, after all, 42 years old, and I am not his legal guardian.  I have tried for years to get him to give me guardianship, but he has steadfastly refused.  Now, legally, he can do anything goddamned thing and go any goddamned place he wants to.  I cannot stop him.  I cannot save him from himself.

His argument?  He only has ME (Can you say passive-aggressive)? in his life and seeing me only three or four times a years is not good enough.  He wants to be near enough for me to visit him every two weeks!  He is bored with Miami, participated in all the programs that are available to him, hates his housing situation, hates everything about it.  All this from the man who, last month seemed settled and resigned to his situation.

There is no good to come of him moving back to Atlanta, where was homeless, jacked upon cocaine and drowning in Budweiser.  His old drinking and drugging buddies are there, and he will seek them out because, if and when he gets settled in housing, he will think he is better than everyone else, that he grew up privileged and should not have to live in humble circumstances with people who are just as sick as he is.

I can see it playing out in my mind.  No, I am not running down the road to meet trouble.  It has found me, and I know from long experience that this move will lead to disaster.  I have told him repeatedly that I will not support him in this decision.  

I have lost this battle, and I need to prepare, once again, for my heart to be broken.