My sweet boy is going back in the hospital, most likely tonight. I heard a thing today that no parent should ever have to hear. I heard it once before when he was ten.
Please help me end my life.
There are no words to describe the pain of that. I heard other things, too, that tell me I cannot keep him safe. Not now. Even though his evening meds have taken the edge off his despair he is not fooled, and neither am I. We know it will come back.
Lars cannot bear the thought of this. Can't we just try to make it better here? he said. I'll play tennis with him. We'll play Frisbee. We can hide the knives where he'll never think to look.
Lars forgets that someone around here has to earn money so we can eat, and that it's not going to be me. So tennis and Frisbee with Dad are not a sure thing. (And somehow I don't think that's the answer. I don't really think Lars believes it either, but desperation will do that to you.)
This will be Benjy's third hospitalization since October. The hat trick. It will be the fifth in all. And he is not yet thirteen.
Please, please, please let it be the last this year.