Save his life? Save my life? Saving one life condemns the other life? The moral conflict is killing me. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, the guilt chokes me. When my mother was at the height of her mental illness, she asked for help and I refused her. She committed suicide 3 weeks later. Granted, she wanted me to help her die….. but if I had helped, she would not have suffered as she did. I didn’t help her and she died a terrible death.
His behaviour has become worse, a dark, rapidly downward spiral. And it is my fault. His blood will be on my hands. Expelling him from the home has added new impetus to his implosion. How do I turn my back to his silent screams?
Every minute of every hour of the day and night I’m compelled to phone him and say – come home, I’m sorry, just come home….
But with great force of will, I have to remind myself – this ‘self‘ that is now filled with disgust and shame and loathing at the callous act I forced upon another sick human being; this ‘self‘ that wants nothing more than to reach out in compassion for her fellow sufferer and lift him from harms way. This self knows the simple fact. I can’t fix him, cure him, help him, change him, make him want to change. It’s completely out of my hands. I have no control.
My torment lies in how do I stand idly by watching his demise from my sheltered distance? As a human being, how do I do this? My conscience bears me no peace. I wake frequently in the night wanting to phone to check that he’s safe, still employed or on the streets? Is he still alive?
Alive, yes, for me, it is this precarious.
And then I weep endlessly in sorrow and in helplessness. In fear and in regret. I weep for him, so lost. I weep for me, so guilty. And then always, always when I weep, I weep for my mother. Another lost soul I didn’t help.