I know what I do
hurts. My sons, myself, my life.
That’s why I hide it. From them, myself,
making a compounding interest
I cannot calculate. Nor try.

All I see: the moment. The moment of comfort.
The moment I steal in the night,
when backs are turned, when eyes are pressed
into pillows or crooked arms or at a life
of their own. They cannot see.
Don’t watch me. Now. This makes it worse.
I know.

It’s not healthy, this obsession, this burning need to wet
my imaginary dirty. But I give it life,
water and nurture this weed,
feeding it, taking from the health around me.
My sons, myself, my life.

A piece of mind. Of mine. A piece of peace. I see.
I feel. Fleeting.
The moment comes,
costs. Charges lasting misery.
From my sons, myself, my life.
I choose this moment.

My couch. Cleansed—a sanctuary.
From it. Now.
I feel. The clothes cabinet.
Beckoning. And the dinning room table beyond.

Powerful stuff, John. Your mom?

I woke this morning and found her like this.

If we don't stop it, treat it with immersion therapy, touch her to something "dirty" again,
then it would spread. Having one "clean spot" leads to needing others, isolating herself
from everything else in the world. Immersion is the only treatment suggested to us by
her doctors that has ever worked for her. Though, to do so, you have to bombard her
with her greatest fears. It is not pleasant.

That is so difficult. I know she knows it is for her own good, but her pain is real and undeniable. And your pain at having to hurt her must be incredible.

You are a good son.

This was extremely moving.

It's hard. Plus, with her short term memory all but shot, she really doesn't
remember how bad it used to be, so she cannot fully grasp the benefits.
So, we live the routine. For her, the first time. For us, hundreds. Luckily,
this means that she is unable to come up with "new strategies."

Is there enough there in the first post, or did you need the rest of the thread to understand it?

Thanks for sharing this, John.