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Rooting me on

I held my daughters lorazapam in my hands. Ten pills. I wonder if I took them all, would I ever wake up? I could mix them with the last of the vicodine I have left over from my back injury. No. I won't. Sometimes I have these random thoughts. I want to sleep. Sleep and sleep and sleep. There is sometimes too much time in the world. I don't know how to fill it, I don't want to be in it and I feel guilty for this when I know there are so many others out there in this great big world that have little or no time left on this earth and would give anything for another day.

Depression stinks.

It's almost taken my daughter three--no, four--times. Each time we've pulled her back from the brink. Now she walks that high ledge. One misstep and she's gone for good, but still she stays up there, The air is thin, so she doesn't move much, conserving her energy to slide one foot in front of the other, then stopping for long periods again. Looking down, never up. My son has raced at breakneck speed along that ledge, dancing on the edge of death again and again. Heroin will do that. Feeling so good you don't even know that you're dying until you do.

There is church today. I won't go. Again. I know that I should. Add another heavily weighted charm to the golden crown of guilt that I wear. There is a family birthday party today. I do not want to go. I should want to go. I should go. I won't. Another weighty guilt-charm. The burden is cumbersome and makes it even more difficult for me to move from my spot for another outing. Soon I will be unable to move at all, rooted in one spot like a tree, unable to move freely through this world. Safe in my room, in my kitchen, in my bathroom. Protected from prying, judgmental eyes and knowing looks.

There is a kind of death in that, as well as peace.

I glance at the bottle of pills and go back to bed.

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The first picture is the day of the fall. The second is the day after. The black eye keeps blossoming. He has a gash on his head, hidden by his silver hair and he skinned his shoulder/arm. He's a mess.

Was he using his walker? Nope. 85 year old toddlers cannot be told what to do. Or rather, they can be told what to do, they simply won't comply. Ever. In fact they get down right angry and throw fits. It's not pretty.

His physical therapist came to the house the next day and strongly told him to use his walker EACH TIME HE STOOD UP. Has he? Nope. Nyet. He was very angry with me yesterday because I kept asking him to use his walker. Also, I asked him i…

Back

BACK

Back on the horse
Monkey on his back
I see no light
Not even a crack
Back to delusions
Back to the lies
I see through his words
He can't hear my cries

Back into his soul
Back into his veins
The poison he pours
Dark liquid his chains

Backed into a corner
Heartbroken and torn
Back into the needle
The eye of the storm

Back to the wall
Soul bruised torn and broken
Back to my pain
His eyes half open

Back into the horror
Will he ever come back
Back into the nightmare
A needle in a sack

Back into his childhood
I loved him with fury
Looking back on his life
His choices my jury

How did this happen
Back to evil and sin
How can he do this
Lines on his skin

Back to my weeping
Back to my sorrow
My son, my love,
Has no more tomorrows
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