Please. Please. I can't be sick like this. Please. Please. Please. Help me. I can't do this. I can't. I can't. It's not working. I can't. I can't. Please. Please. Please.
He's shaking, twitching, sweating. I can't help him. The methadone dose is too low. He's hurting in his body and even more in his mind. I can't help him. I'm terrified and I hate it and I can't help him.
I keep telling him, "I love you very, very much. I understand how hard this is. I understand if you use. I don't like it, and I hope that you don't, but I understand if you do. And even though I understand, I cannot help you with that. I can't pay for that. I love you. I love you. I love you."
I'm really, really struggling. I'm trying to keep focused. I've helped him how I can. I've gotten up with him every day to go to the methadone clinic. I've held him in my arms every night. I've tried to feed him and make him change his clothes and take ibuprophen. I've told him how much I love him and how sorry I am that he's hurting and how proud I am of him for telling me and how it's going to be ok, it's going to be ok, I'm not leaving, I'm still here, he'll get through it, his life is on the other side of it, our life is on the other side of it.
It's tearing me up. Everything is tearing me up. I want to sit with him, with my husband, the man who is suffering and needs my hands on him and my voice in his ear, but that's not the only person there. There's always that drug addict who lives in my husband's skin. Sometimes, I can comfort my husband, but that cold, lizard drug addict is lying in wait, looking for a chance to manipulate, to start working me, looking for something to steal. I want to be there all the time. I don't want to be there ever.
If you're reading, and you're inclined towards prayer, please pray for us.