LoOk oF dEsPAiR AnD sAdNeSs

It always hurts deep down in a chasm of empty dark space. A place you have deliberately forgotten and worked long and hard to push down and far inside. A single tear of shame, sadness and worry that holds the key to your existence.

This is what I dredged up when I invited mum around for dinner two nights ago knowing that she would not taste a bite but instead feel betrayed and carted away by two young and diligent police officers just doing their duty. I had felt extreme guilt for this act of bastardry and still it lingers like smoke in my hair. The stench of it can not that easily be washed off with two or even three decent scrubs. It is thick in the back of your throat like a pending and threatening virus that constricts your breathing and makes you feel rotten to the core.
I looked in to her eyes, my eyes just 32 and 11 months older than mine, and no words were needed for her to tell me I was a horrid person to send her back to that place. The place that she hates, despises and has no warranted need for. Only she does. A chemical imbalance, a mental illness, a sickness of the mind - these are all too cruel a label for such a beautiful woman, daughter, mother, friend. But what then do you say, what else can be done to help a person who is cyclically self-destroying herself to the point of becoming null and void.
To love someone so much is a form of torture when you must pull back and watch the train wreck time and time again. It is not fair or just. It is love, and it must be respected for the heartache it can cause. But I believe it will always withstand the worst and will reward ten fold in time.
Hospital wards that are locked must be a very daunting and humiliating place to be when you are so sure that there is nothing wrong with you, but everyone else around you is going mad and conspiring against you. Paranoia is the invisible demon that often lurks behind the confusing euphoric state of bliss. But that is just the way it appears to me. On my insides I just feel depressed and fed up to be having the same nonsensical conversations in their unusually short forms and adhoc interpretations.

Sometimes I wish that mums past could be erased, that she could start all over again, but would it make a difference or would the new chapters of her life eventually draw to the same conclusions. Can we blame the past forever?