She’s 14-The age I was when this all started going down a slow, spiral drain. Her mother is calling me, frantic that her daughter is waiting for the psych evaluation ordered by her therapist. I don’t know how she got my number. We’d only talked a couple times and I gave her some of the bullshit advice I’ve learned in regards to her struggling daughter. She feigned encouragement- or at least I’m projecting myself in assuming she’s pretending. She tells me her daughter wants to kill herself and has a plan. I don’t even blink anymore- seems these days everyone is miserable and jumping off proverbial or literal cliffs. I try to encourage her. After all I can’t tell her that just the night before I myself was trying to get together a prescription cocktail to put me to sleep forever.
I assume that the paramedics took her, 51/50d her, and put her in the shittiest psych ward around. Yep. I tried to tell her she doesn’t want that kind of help. I guess she has to figure that out herself- this seems so familiar. Her mother is convinced that I’m a good, mature older acquaintance for her daughter to meet with.
“Could you please talk to her?”
Sure! I’m someone who understands what she’s going through- even the same fucking shitty terrifying ward. I’m someone who has been through it countless times, and has come out with nothing but a bunch of hesitation scars, theoretically useful adages, and a mercilessly unstable life.
What the fuck could I possibly say to her.
What I would say to myself 10 years ago?
Maybe I should just get a massive “Welcome To Life!” banner and tell her it very well may never get better, but your standards will have get lower. Oh wait- I can’t do that when she’s already so fragile. I could take her out to coffee and teach her to abuse every stimulant in conjunction just to make it look like getting through the day. Until they don’t work. Nope. I’ll just listen, nod periodically, and ask her how that makes her feel. Fuck. No.
Nothing but bad habits here. Do I lie? Maybe that’s what friends do, dish out the everything will be ok bullshit.
Sometimes I think depression is just waking up. Most times I think depression is growing up. All times I want to sleep forever- just like a ton of other people.
I’ve got nothing redeeming to share with the people who ask. Nothing these days but a masochistic streak and an awful attitude. But at least I know how to look more normal.
Maybe I’m a total asshole for not caring with investment or compassion in these kinds of instances anymore. Yet don’t ask me why strangers seem to think me an inviting individual to divulge their sorrows to. I feel like these are fucking moth to the flame situations. I’m so dead inside these days I don’t have any fucks left for anyone or anything. I’m going to move away to an island, build a tree fort, and never have to deal with pretending to be a relational being or fabricating tiresome grains of interest in something to sate inescapable obligations.
“Everything will be ok,” I’ll tell her-Or it won’t. Either way, at least we all die at the end! I’m an awful person now.