I need to do a full update soon, but . . .

My planned Friday was even better than I’d anticipated. In addition to the projects I knew I’d start working on through my company, my girlfriend C convinced me that I have marketable skills other people would pay me for and that she (a marketing guru) would help me find them.

I had a little anorexia meltdown at a famous eatery, at which I refused to eat.  Then I had to tell my friend the think tank exec that I have an eating disorder, which is always good times.  He said, yeah, so you really shouldn’t do ballet . . . Which, yeah, I know.

On Saturday, I had a long workout with the dog (I am actively exercising again), and was sitting by the pool writing up things for a big project when I got a strange fb wall comment from the Bon Vivant, and then another one.

And then a series of private messages that made the depth of his depression clear.

I did what I could, and then I made peace with my decision and his choice.

Had I been financially stable, I would have flown to him, wrapped my arms around him, and held him until the crisis passed.

That would have been the wrong answer, too.

Instead, I coached him from afar, firmly, lovingly, but unromantically, and I spoke to him through words and music.

When I saw he had checked a message through fb at 1024 am Sunday morning, I felt better.  By Sunday night, he was listening to and posting about a livestream from Bonaroo I had sent him.

And then on Monday night, I got a message from him at 923 pm his time: “another day down……just took sleeping pill. god make june 22 come tomorrow”

He has survived (so far) and we only have 10 days to go.  His return will be fraught, with its own challenges.

I am dealing with my own crises and mental illness.  Yet, I see a path out for myself.  At least, I think I do.

I am — at least at the moment — the stronger of us.  Focusing on him at times helps me negotiate the rabbit warren of my issues.  For example, this morning, I stepped on my high-tech body comp scale and hit all the buttons and then spent 45 minutes researching basal metabolic age and wondering why mine is 12 and being secretly thrilled my visceral fat rating is 2 on a scale of 1-99, with 1-12 being healthy.

I have spent 45 minutes when I could have done *anything* else researching my body comp results.

I know that’s not healthy.

Having to worry about him helps me worry less about myself.  As my illness is all about myself, that somehow helps.

In the middle of his crisis, in the middle of the night, I was in the pool.  I was thinking about my response to trauma and whether I’d go to his funeral.  In trauma, my focus sharpens to the point of pain.  I want my body to feel what my mind feels.  I want to physically hurt.  I don’t.  I am not able to make myself throw up — thank God — but that’s how I get through it.  I feel it all.  I envisioned his funeral.  I decided that I would not go.

I would mourn him here, but I would not inflict myself on his family and their pain.

Envisioning the horror to come helped me deal mentally with the uncertainty of whether I was at that moment losing him to the world.  I did not dull it with alcohol or anything else.  I experienced it, I survived it.

I have saved him before.  I have sent him home to his psychotherapist father for fixing.  He sees his parents about once a month, though they live 1500 miles away.

There is only so much I can do and I am comfortable with the choices I made in dealing with this.  So far, he survived and I survived.  He is focused on coming home.  I am focused on being the healthiest me I can be.

My life is changing and I am changing in my life.  For now, it feels very positive, but I know my trip wires and I see the signals as I become increasingly obsessive, as I start to think “my legs look good, but they could look better . . .”

so, this is a brief or not-so-brief checkin as many things are in flux.

I am aware of what I am doing, and so far, I am okay.  At a minimum, I am excited about what’s happening and I am comfortable with my decisions.

I decided to let him make his choice.  He chose to live. So far.  That feels like progress, too.

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