There's something quite exhilirating in standing no, crouching, bottom up to the too blue sky, and having the first wee of the day. The hot liquid melting the ice on the grass, only just splattering my shoes.
And then I walk back indoors.
To my mum, shreeking, and crying and agonising in her head.
I want to make it all stop for her. End her life, get her a new one. This one, her head, is broken, just like her heart.
Every minute of her body is aching from a breakup. But it's more than that. It's a life of no horizon.
It's a life like the one I glimpsed when I took mushrooms and was stuck in a lifetime-hour of dispair and blinding darkness.
I can see the hoziron for her, but I can't make her touch it. Can't show her it's there. I've just got to watch herself drag herself, on her tummy, through shattered glass on the floor, while I'm up here, standing, with shoes on saying "don't worry, you'll get through this, the glass stops in a bit." "When?" she asks, "I don't know, but it does." I try, encourage her to stand up too, but she must put all the weight on her hands for that, and oh the pain, things will get worse still. And once up, yes, maybe standing is better, you can see the end but there's still a hell of a lot of shards of glass to step on bare foot.
So smoking helps, it numbs. Sleeping helps. At least she's not moving, not rummaging through fresh wounds. But time to get moving always comes.
I can hear her weeping downstairs as I write. I should go, I should assist. This isn't a daughter's role, but it's mine.
I roll her joints. It would be cruel not to. I didn't smoke last night, maybe tonight she won't too. But I'll roll it if she asks.
I found her a therapist. I cook her food. I encourage her spiritual practises. I try and follow mine, I often follow her. I drive her around, I listen to her, try to find something different to say, a new twist on the "you're not alone, you'll get out of this"
I get irritated.
I'm going downstairs, my presence will calm her weeping, relieve her body from the bad thoughts, they'll still be in her mind, but just that bit quieter.
