For My Genie, Who is Stuck in the Bottle

Written September 2015. 
July 2017 Update: She kicked that fucking bottle, has her first post-rehab job interview on Tuesday, and now I have come across this and I am tearing up like the skies above. 

I know;

• It is a disease
• You are trying but can’t substantially help it
• The demons pulling you in, have run down your family line for generations
• I am impotent. I could never rescue you.
• I will never stop trying to rescue you but I do it only for myself. I need to know that I am doing something however impotent. 
• The selection for who gets to beat it, is as random as the choice of who it catches in the first place
• You very well might lose
• A big part of you hopes you lose and get done with it
• Aah... that sadly familiar simultaneous fear and desire for the end
• Everybody who has given up on you had to, or they would have drowned with you
• But you are a good person and are not one with your illness
• I love you as much as I loved your mother and my heart will be all broken again if, like her, you lose
• I will love you forever. Just for the sheer stubbornness of love. But also for all the priceless memories that come with a lifelong friendship in which, I have never needed to hold secrets
• I write this only for myself; to help the late night tears along because my tears, are the only thing I still have control over.

With impotence that I am all too aware of, I send my life force out to you, love. May the random chaos that is life, pick you. May I get to tell you another of my raunchy secrets. Get well.  By randomness. By design. By science. Somehow, do.