Movers have come and gone, so now I’m here sorting through madness. (My own madness, as I threw shit in boxes and drove west.)

Meanwhile, last night we did get one TV cooking, and I can’t fucking believe it was the Terri Schiavo Show on every news channel. Generally, I’m suspicious of the husband of dead/dying women, whenever the setup looks tailor-made for a Lifetime TV movie.

But, in this case, even if (and it seems like a pretty big leap, since she wasn’t robust and jumping with good health prior to veging out) there were “foul play,” all I can think is “So.” Because no matter how much her parents want it, she’s fucking gone and not coming back. She’s a barely living shrine to some idealized living daughter, and she ain’t snapping out of it.

Maybe because I just left my family behind on the East Coast and am trying something new miles away, I also can’t shake the comparison in my head to what fueled a lot of gay rights fighting when AIDS hit. A major issue was whether parents or partners got the final say in treatment and care and where you lived and all of that.

The thing is, at some point you grow up, leave the house, get on with your own life, and your folks can’t do anything about what happens. They may want to and their intentions may be the purest of fucking pure and wonderful and light and love filled. But, you are gone, and that’s that.

And if you choose to live your life with a partner, even if your choice sucks and your parents hate the guy you pick, too damned bad for them. Parents sometimes have to just let go.

If they suddenly came up with some info that keeping her alive could prove Michael tried to off her, I might listen. Kind of like all of those “Unsolved Mysteries” episodes where the parents had bodies exhumed to prove the boyfriend or husband was indeed a rat bastard murderer.

But, they ain’t saying that, and I’m sorry for them, but the “life” they imagine, left their house quite a number of years ago and left her living self some time after that.

It’s all very sad.