Her pain fills my head and turns my stomach.
Her body is scarred
And her soul is being stepped on.
I recognize the symptoms
In this good person, this person so amazing,
the person beside you, exhibiting the oblivious practice of lunacy and cruelty
that accompanies addiction.
My own soul screams with fury
to know that she experiences NOW
the desperation still resident in myself after so many years passed.
Her pain is fresh and worse for it,
Compounded by a body weak and torn
by a sudden barbaric disease
treated with equally barbaric physical loss.
It is wrong. I am angry – so angry
desperate to alleviate the pain impossible to appease.
The physical will pass after a time,
A time too substantial.
Yet the anguish that tears your life from its moorings,
And requires an overwhelming strength and a responsibility of self to break free,
that pain lays minefields in your head and redirects life itself,
it is here and laying lifelong traces.
Now is a terrible time for recognition's appearance and pain's awakening.
Will the body allow her head to enact the motions necessary to save herself?
Will the crushing responsibility of SELF set her free?
Or will it bury her under the debris.
And here I am,
Hundreds of miles away again.
Trying to work out what to say, or do, or not do.
What to think, how to help.
The world feels like such an evil and acrimonious place
offering only the feeblest of comfort or hope.
I love her so much.
I would give anything.
I only want her to be okay.
I want to help but am helpless.
I feel it throughout – I know for certain.
It’s too much.