I have to get offline, because he's making secret gestures at me. He's in the next room (his) and has the covers over his head. He never sleeps in that room. He's closed the intervening door and is quietly whimpering or sobbing.

I coax and cuddle him, but his body is always tense and face turned away. As Harold Ryan said, "Ideally, the body of a woman should feel like a hot water bottle filled with Devonshire cream. You feel like a paper bag crammed with curtain rods." Eventually he tells me that he won't be able to move to New York because he doesn't have the money. Why doesn't he have any money? Probably a tossup between not ever looking for a job outside of delivery and all the money he spends on coffee, alcohol, tobacco and music. I tell him jokingly that i think he should drop the alcohol and tobacco and just stick with the music. And he says, it's not that easy. I can't even sleep if i'm sober.

As always there's nothing i can do. I realize yet again that i really do love him, but that he's piling problem on top of problem: he's unhappy because he can't move. He can't move because he doesn't have the money. He doesn't have the money because he spends it on alcohol. He needs to drink to cover the deep badness that's been eating at him for years and years. Somewhere inside his head lives a beautiful thing. I swear it's true. Please believe me, because he won't. All he does is hate the world that's inflicted on him. I don't know what to do. It's been three years (more?).