Where to turn? To whom?

One day
he sobbed
uncontrollably.
Alone. The salt-filled
tears could've
overrun craters.
He was still
in his teens yet
it was so clear--
a whole life
to get through, to "live"
as diseased as any
loathsome leper.
The cure was dubious,
or nonexistent
so escape was
hardly an option.
Where to turn?
To whom?
The only option open
other than early
death was living
with it, maneuvering
round it, devising
clever compensations
with a smile.
But was it living
or merely breathing,
eating and sleeping?
Would it ultimately
distance him and the
Omnipotent
or serve as a broad-
spectrum bridge?
Like the Apostle Paul,
he had his fleshy
thorn
firmly in place.