Fighting

I have two competing stories in my head. Three really because scabies, but I have two. One about me and one about Dave.

Dave looked like shit in court. I’m not being mean. I just was so concerned I emailed his lawyer to make sure he got medical attention. That’s me.

I was trying to figure out why he looked like that. Maybe he just has COVID or the flu. But he wasn’t right. Daydreams in my head have me thinking perhaps he went to rehab. Like, it’s possible. He would be hurting right about now for sure. I don’t know, though. I can only hope. That would be a wonderful thing.

I sat here and thought about it and about seeing him in court sober. I’d cry. I’d want to hug him and tell him how proud I am of him, and I’d sob. That is what I would do because I know me.

I’d then want to let the whole thing go and forgive him.

I’d want to.

I don’t know if I can. I have been so destroyed in this process. Abandoned. Ignored. Broken. My mind, my spirit, my body. I’m not even sure I’ll ever make it through this to see the other side. The tunnel is still dark with no end in sight. I’m still alone and frightened. I can’t stop or I’ll just be lost forever.

I talked to my mom. I showed her the videos of the public records task force comments. I feel like I’m making a difference there. That maybe that’s the change I’m supposed to bring. They all got on board with the ombudsman idea. So that was me. If it happens, I did that.

My mom was critical as usual. Said they looked bored and it wasn’t like there were a bunch of people there. I’m Nelson fucking Mandela there, but I did it.

Then she said, “Rideput, she was the first in 1981 to get a conviction.” Meh, kinda. He got acquitted, but it was a TV movie in the ’80s. She got it, though.

She said, “I don’t know how you keep fighting.” She said it very almost passively. Not like she is proud or in awe, just that I keep fighting.

What else am I actually supposed to do? Fighting is all I’ve got left. It’s all I know how to do.