[Preface: Two days have passed, and I'm feeling better. I wrote the last entry after a fitful night of almost-rest following the events as recounted, but incompletely.]

As they read, the entry is merely straining. Autistic fits are sadly not uncommon at Chez Kitty. Nor are times when SpouseKitty is oblivious to the effects of well-intentioned words (specifically causing the Kitten to get even more riled up.)

No, the major downspiral came after those events, when the thought of even giving life to those memories by way of words seemed too heavy a weight to bear.

So, SpouseKitty and I spun into the dance we've danced before, but not often. I started trying to intercede. Bad move. Desperation move. This wss sure to precipitate conflict between me and SK, but later.

At the time, I hoped to get Kitten calmed down enough that she not cause some neighbor to pound on our door at 10PM, or, worse, call the cops. Yes, she was sobbing that loudly, with such ache.

Eventually, we got Kitten herded into the bathroom, water running. A bath will help her. I returned to her room to look for the bag of prescription mouthwash, toothpaste and documentation.

SpouseKitten followed, repeating the "She can't be allowed to think that just because she throws a fit..." Two problems. Firstly, this was "talking around" again (see last entry.) Secondly, even with the water running, Kitten could hear us. I know I could hear her, so converse held true.

I said as much. I explained how Kitten was beyond words right now, that she needed time to calm down, quiet time. Silent time.

SpouseKitty didn't see things the same way, and repeated the same repeated statement. I simply said, "If you're only going to talk at me, then I'm not going to listen to you."

This didn't have the desired effect. Instead, SpouseKitty shrieked "Dammit, you WILL listen to me!" I didn't, and acted accordingly.

Kitten stayed in the bathroom for a long time. We got worried and SpouseKitty went in. Kitten was sitting in the now-tepid water, sobbing quietly. She said she was worried about us divorcing.

Ouch.

She was blaming herself for this rift.

Double-ouch.

And she was wishing she wasn't here. No, not the Pacific Northwest. Here, this existence.

Gods, no.

That took lots of talking, and a few more rounds of "She can't get away with throwing a fit" for good measure. In the end, she finally found that sense of center and calm to go to sleep, and SpouseKitty and I finally were able to talk calmly.

More talking, more rounds of "She can't ..." etc. Somehow, we get to the topic of suicide. Kitten is ten. Right now, all she could do was wish. In a few years, she'll have the realization that she can do so much more than wish. Very much more.

I also confess that, that night, in the intervals where we 'retreated to our respective corners' to cool off, I fancied up a few scenarios to 'check out' as well, with the added precondition of making it an accident so my life insurance would pay off. After all, I have to provide for them, even in my absence, but, all in all, I'd rather provide for them with m presence.

Of course, SpouseKitty says that is not what anyone wants. Of course not, else I'd have done it already. I'm not the sort to play "Help me!" games with this topic. If I want help, I'll ask for it explicitly. If I'm going to check out, I'm going to do it, and do it proper. No life as a vegetable for me!

After we resolved that, SpouseKitty also confessed the recurring 'what-if' as well. Keep in mind, with two collapsed lumbar discs, a C5/C6 spinal fusion, and a 'funny' liver panel, SK is not living la vida loca. (Oh, and I forgot to add that SK just finished a cycle of radioactive iodine therapy and excision for a cancerous thyroid, too.)

That was a sour note, and it was how we ended the talk. I retreated back to 'my' bedroom (SK being confined to a recliner due to back problems, remember?) and cried.

Silently, so as not to cause either of them further heartache.

Deeply, because I felt an absolute failure. Two people most important to me in my life, and I was unable to provide sufficient that both wanted, however fleeting, to end it all.

All.

As before, I am the sole breadwinner. I am the only source of medical insurance, of retirement income, of so many other benefits lost in the blizzard of paperwork that is middle-classed living.

And, in the middle of all this, I felt like I lost the one key goal -- to make their lives worth living.

[Footnote: You needn't worry. None of us are 'taking steps' or even considering doing so. Those words were spoken out of fatigue, out of depression, out of frustration. We're not suicidal, not a one. But, we saw the beast, and it was not pretty.]