Thursday, 10 September 2015

Call me anytime

“Call me anytime” you said, and I did.

Assaulted with RUOK day again, another round of telling people that their once-a-year inquiry about a depressed friend will achieve something, another round of keeping my head down in case someone asks me.

For the other 364 I'll do my best to pretend that I am okay, because I know damn well that there's only so much of me others can take.

You told me to call anytime, and for a while, I did. 

And for a while it helped. It's just that I took you literally, and just like every time before, with every friend who quit listening, I thought this time I was loved even if I was a downer.

The circumstances of life – being someone's carer, watching someone gradually relinquish their facilities, keeping my fears to myself to escape the tears – are a downer. 

I always promised that next time we talked, I'd be cheerful. I'd have good news, and we'd swap playful puns and plan a visit with the families. But there's always something new and it's never good.

Little-by-little, you withdrew. Instead of weekly, we would talk fortnightly or monthly. Finally, not at all; you occasionally and briefly answer e-mails promising a proper reply that never arrives.


I was supposed to go into hospital today, once again a visit to the psych clinic because my brain doesn't work and the melancholy is terrible. 
It was planned as a way to cocoon me from the shitstorm that people have created, and all just because they cannot understand that we had a life together and we chose not to tell them so they couldn't interfere in our decisions and our love. 
Their actions are pathetic and only prove we were always right in not trusting them. 
They are greedy and having a meltdown because they won't get what they want.  

Let them go get fucked!