Why the hell am I writing this?
First, spare me and yourself the it’s so sad, how did this happen garbage.
Second, there is no shame, no blame, no hate, no embarrassment, no resentment that I bear my daughter. On the contrary, my love for her is immeasurable, my respect for her immense, she is in my heart and soul, unconditionally. She has a disease. I am humbled at how she continues to endure what is a life-long hell on earth. She is a beautiful, artistic, graceful, fragile creature of air and light who didn’t choose bi-polar, heroin addiction as a life path. She has a disease, for which this country offers jail, institutions, or death as the treatments of choice.
Third, I, we, her family, finally have our backs against the wall; the only way we can help her now is to deliberately, even callously, leave her to her own devices. And baby, that sucks every ounce of strength I have. So I thought, write. I know there are so many people out there in the same stinking boat, feeling the same stinking way, so I thought, write it out loud, write the truth, because it’s not just about me anymore. And maybe, somewhere in these words, I’ll find some peace of mind, some piece of my mind. And maybe more people will realize that her disease is not a crime, not a choice, and that families are no more equipped to treat this disease on our own than we could cancer.
Fourth, and utterly essential to my survival, is because if she can suffer this, I can goddamn well be her mother through it, even if it’s from a self-imposed, soul-tearing distance, and I can goddamn well not pretend she doesn’t exist, or that everything’s peachy-keen, or that I have a clue how to keep it together.