Putting the little guy to rest.

I have to let the little guy go.
It’s very hard because I feel as loyal to him as he’s always been to me. Not that he had much of a choice, he’s me.
He stood by me and lent me all the strength I needed when at three years old things got hairy. When glowering disapproval replaced unconditional love he was there whispering that it wasn’t me, that is was them who were bad. When they tried to trick me with their concern he was there protecting me, whispering again that their fear was all they had and not to be scared myself.
That their masks were just that.
He loved me, I knew his love was real because he never left me. Everyone else who used the love word had rules. Rules I broke seemingly whether I wanted to or not and in doing so seemingly showed how selfish their love was. Always, always, their love would flounder. I would be shunned, I was useless to them. They would isolate me and my little guy would be there, loving me. Telling me that their pain was theirs. That I was not to blame, that I was not bad and that he loved me and that they did not. I believed him. Why would I not?
I needed him so bad. I was so grateful he was around. Without him I would have lost myself and become the puppet required of me. I did try. I did like making others happy. Others happiness made me feel safe. The opposite of their disapproval which negated me. But for him. Always there, sharing the books I read in my room alone.
I trusted no-one but him. In the schools, the crowds, the relationships with family and significant others,[always with that love being exhausted] the foreign street corners where I plied my trade. The love from audiences could be reproduced short term and almost at will. I liked that as I also liked the affirmation of me and my little guy working hand in hand.
I say always there but when the pain came he left. That I did alone. The straps, the stick, the short bout of electricutions, the short bout of induced hallucinations, the canings, the unrelenting decade long waves of depression. 
That stuff I bore.
Later on the drinking and the drugs helped replace the times he slept. He was never there inside the fear but always outside waiting, ready to help,comfort. Also with answers, solutions. He didn’t feel the pain so I guess he was a bit of a purist in that regard. He didn’t bear the consequences but existed in the aftermath. He gave me surreal direction but I now recognise he needed wounds to lick to exist.
He was powerful in his own way but also very young I now realise.
I liked that. I could trust that. I feel I lent on him too hard and in doing so became him.
I liked the childishness, I liked the joy it gave me when it worked. I liked the way the agility of my mind merged with the childishness giving me a genius others recognised.
I’m sorry but he must go.
Any sentimentality I feel towards him is admissible.
But still he must go.
He’s killing me. I recognise this and so with as much genuine love as he’s ever shown me I must now simply put him to bed, tuck him in, comfort his fears as he has comforted mine and let him rest, sleep, retire, die.
Do I still need him to continue my work? My Vocation.
I kinda hope not. I hope to remember everything he taught me.
Maybe I can still take him out to play?
Boy this is hard.