she said, she said. (not suitable for children)

"He forgot we were supposed to go out for lunch," I said. "Why would I expect him to call on Christmas?"

"I think that's what started it," she replied. Sincere enough.

So is it? Did I make him feel like a failure by setting up a lunch for which odds were, he would fail to show up?  That's how it breaks us. I wondered what would happen when he realized he forgot about it, which he only realized because I told him.

That was Monday. By Thursday, Christmas Eve morning he checked himself into the hospital because he was depressed and thought he might kill himself. He told them that much. He didn't tell them that on top of the bottle of vodka he finished, he'd started in on the Cymbalta. They didn't account for that when they gave him something for the DT's that caused a reaction that made him confused and unrestrainable, except by the sedatives that made him unable to breathe on his own. That's as much of the story as I know thus far, because that's where he lies as of today.

The other reason I haven't been writing. I have the material. I'm spilling over with it for chrissake. I just don't want to be mistaken for crazy by strangers, when even today I'm processing the fuck out of everything, and I'm still getting out of bed every damn day regardless of how many times I come up short in the end. Today I just got up much later than usual. Tomorrow, I won't.

I wonder sometimes in this life how much of it we create, and how much is created for us. And how late in the day one must stay in their pajamas to feel better about all of it.  I say this now, while I'm still in them. Later on, I'll have the right clothes on and these words won't come, which is good, because this sort of thing has to pass, or it becomes all consuming.