We’re there again. Well, we’ve actually been here for several weeks; keeping in “the routine” of getting up, going to work, come home, go to bed. Wish I could find the inspiration to write when he is up; this blog looks like nothing but depressing moments. That’s not true; there are many really, really good moments, and I’m too happy living them to sit down here and write. Those are what make living through times like this bearable.
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I shouldn’t say that. I feel like I’m doing OK “this time.” It’s like… I don’t know. I guess I have been able to separate what he’s going through from my own ego, if that makes sense.
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One of the things that bothered me in the beginning was when he’d be depressed, when his thoughts turned dark and he didn’t see anything good to stay around for… that there was nothing in existence that could show him it was better to be alive than dead, the same questions would run through my own mind:
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What about me? Am I not enough?
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It really is an affront to be told (albeit indirectly) that your love, affection and very presence isn’t enough to inspire someone to live a good life. To actually *live*. That’s not what Disney taught us.
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And it’s really selfish.
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He’s told me he’s fighting really, really hard right now; that he’s having a hard time hanging on. This makes me filter what I say to him – the last thing I want to do is give him that one, last piece of “evidence” he needs to say fcuk it. Things I would normally talk to him about, I keep to myself. Things I’d want his input on, I’m making the decisions without him.
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Can’t wait until you come back; we have so much to talk about 
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