Stuck

Smelling the mixture of blood and mopping detergent in the air.
That whiff of stink is making me sick.
I've a fist ready to punch things into place,  yet I can't. Logic doesn't even hold still in the grand scheme of things.
What more, what more should I expect. Except to be resigned to fate, in this seemingly everlasting downward spiral?
Loads of treatment you could seek.
Why not?
When will you turn around.
Darn it.
This quicksand situation. The more we struggle the faster we get caught.
You ought not to be stuck in this stranglehold lodged between life and death. Living hell, I would say.
Yet,  character determines situation. In your case that is.
Your mother is about to collapse.
She's in the downward spiral of withdrawal syndrome.
Who caused it?
No one.
Was it?
What can I do.
Hapless, useless. I'm practically a useless bum.
Cope. Hope.
What are these.
A futile facade fuelled by self-denial.
We're all going to hell, it's a matter of timing.
I'll change my stance, and be more empathetic. 
Though caring too much will be at the expense of my health.
Even if I die, it wouldn't make a difference.
-mich