What happens when the person you love the most loves you as much as they can and it’s still not enough. I’ve learned that being friends with someone is much more difficult than being in a relationship with someone. I feel shitty. Really terrible, and I don’t think I can get out of it. I know that I can’t control how I feel but only what I do about it—and yet when I’m not feeling good all I want to do is feel bad about things.
I’m not good at keeping my emotions in check and I am very reactive. There is a level of dissatisfaction that can only come from not getting what you want, and you will never know that type of dissatisfaction. To you it might bend, to me I may wind up losing an arm.
So I’ve hung up on you. Immature? Maybe. Destructive? Yeah, probably. I don’t think we understand each other anymore. I had a dream where a friend of yours helped me out of a lake of fire. Waves of inferno, tables and lampposts were burning in the water and this colleague of yours pulled me out. She knew me before speaking. She had a child she didn’t live with either. He was a boy, and she had a recurring joke—when I asked how old her child was she said ‘five hundred.’ “He’s five hundred years old.”
I am not okay. I have no friends and I don’t want to be here; I feel bad. Do you get it? I am not doing well, and you are doing nothing about it. You are honestly making things worse. You make me feel like I don’t have a friend. I feel as though I can’t talk to you. And it’s so annoying to hear that clicking sound every time I speak to you. There’s a horrible clicking sound on your phone that drives me bonkers and I wind up hearing only a third of everything you say.
You posted pictures of yourself up on Facebook with that emerald green sweater. I told you. It’s too tight around your neck. If you don’t believe me go to a dive bar order a drink ask the bartender straight off ‘do you like my sweater?’ I have learned that you will always hear the truth from a bartender who hates his job.
Something is happening to my brain. There are too many thoughts coming into it and too fast and I feel, for the first time, that I need to be put on a drug or something to keep me focused and not drowning in the deep end. I now feel guilty for those times that D****, told me some days she couldn’t be happy. Or, L**** wasn’t able to leave the house, or even ***e** wasn’t able to go to work; or informed me they were on medication to keep themselves happy. What a joke, I thought. What an absolute joke. Yeah, something mental is going on in your brain that you can’t control and makes you unable to put a smile on, leave the bed, take a shower, read the paper, or go to work.
I lost a friend. For awhile, forever, I don’t know. But she’s gone and I don’t know when she’s coming back. Do wish I could nick some of those pills off her.
When did I become the villain? Or, was I the villain all along pretending to be the hero?