I Can’t Reach Him, But I Still Love Him

“Kamal Ravikant says: write the truth.”

But truth shifts like sand underfoot.

One minute solid, the next slipping away.

Is the mania real? Or the calm?

Did I just agree with a version of reality to survive it?

Was he disorganized — or was I dreaming?

Truth is like the ocean.

The same water, always changing.

Some days it lifts me.

Some days it pulls me under so fast I forget which way is up.

This is mental illness.

This is loss without death.

It’s watching your best friend of half a lifetime drown —

Not at a distance, but before you on your back porch.

In your kitchen.

Calling you a cunt while throwing water.

This shatters me:

That has never been him.

Not in twenty-five years.

He has never been cruel.

Never withheld love.

Never even called someone a name.

My heart breaks every day watching him struggle.

Even though I’m not with him.

Even though all I feel are echoes of him.

And I still can’t be there.

Not like this.

There is no “there” to be now.

He is so sick.

Mentally gone.

He won’t get help.

And I can’t take care of him.

My best friend is gone.

And I’ve gone with him.

Take care of yourself, they say.

Don’t go down with him. Save yourself.

But who even cares?

I do.

Because loving him is how I love myself.

He is me.

I am him.

We were one.

Now I can’t reach him.

I can’t see him.

The vitriol, the rage, the silence — it’s not him.

It’s a mask.

The disease wears his body like a suit,

twisting everything sacred into something cruel.

Knowing it’s not him doesn’t protect my heart.

Knowing it’s a sickness doesn’t stop the soul from shattering.

This grief splashes across everyone who loves him.

And when I ask for help,

I get silence.

So I scream.

At a god I don’t believe in. At the universe. Him.

Myself.

At whatever watches in the dark:

Why won’t anyone help?Why can’t he see?Why is this happening?

Is this punishment?

Have I sinned so badly that everything I love must be taken from me?

He’s an adult.

That’s what they say.

We can’t take away his rights without cause.

Call emergency if he’s a threat, they say.

He isn’t. Not yet.

He’s bad, but not bad enough.

Meanwhile, the deterioration is real.

It’s affecting both our safety.

But not enough to meet the threshold.

So they tell me:

Go to court. File paperwork. Prove you love him enough to force him to be helped.

But he hides it well.

He did, the one time I tried.

So now I wait.

For him to spiral enough to get hospitalized.

To collapse publicly enough that strangers decide he’s sick.

And while I wait, I sit in silence.

Processing.

Waiting for the illness to drown him.

This is what’s fair.

This is how we love someone against their will.

Helping is hurting.

Hurting is helping.

It’s unfair. To everyone.

The system is broken.

And I’m forced to play by its rules.

I’ve got letters written.

Pages of incoherent behavior documented.

Hours of listening.

Now: just the waiting.

Waiting for him to live through this.

To someday understand.

To maybe thank me.

There is no diagnosis.

Nothing I can point to and say:

Here. This is why he’s not okay.

Instead, I watch him tell the world he’s a white Hindu Brahman,

with a bet placed by his dead uncle,

and a book that will save humanity

and get him an interview with Jon Stewart.

The truth is under my feet.

But it’s not a mountain.

It’s not a rock.

It’s not solid.

Shifting. Always shifting.

And I am fighting not to fall through.

The sands of truth in mental illness are constantly quaking, rocking my core.

There is no stability.

No knowing what’s coming in the next second, never mind the next year.

Everyone, even you, tells me: Just leave.

But how do I leave twenty-five years of my life?

I’m 43.

More than half my existence has been loving and caring for this 4one man.

The man I call husband.

Lover.

Best friend.

I don’t know how to reach him.

I don’t know how to help him.

I don’t know how to wait until he crashes and hope that I’ll be allowed to pick up the pieces afterward.

I stand here, pleading.

Will he accept help?

Does he love me enough?

Please…

let my love be enough.

Let it be enough.

Author note:

I’m drowning in something I don’t have a name for. Something has taken him. I thought it was anger for my actions, but it’s so much worse. And no one can help. Clap, comment, share. I need the money to get through.