As usual, the day holds nothing but unpleasantness. I know that should read deep sorrow, but I'm not sure I can access those emotions at this particular moment in my life. Why? Because I am all alone. For the first time, in a long time, there are more people in my everyday life than there have ever been. And of course, I am all alone. Those that I would allow myself to need have deserted me. I know that's not a fair thing to say, but that's exactly what it feels like.
I was told that my friendship is pressure. My constant being there, my insistence on helping, my undying loyalty; these are all the same things that make my friendship pressure. And I guess it's true. I value this stupid thing so very much that I expect, almost demand the same from the other person. Two separate people have told me three separate times that it's too much. Maybe I should listen? I should listen.
Which brings me back to this blighted day, and my blighted existence. I am here. Still fucking here. Twelve long years later, still here. I am sad. And deeply guilty. And then even more guilty because I don't think I'm as sad as I should be. I should be more shattered, right? But even the little shattered I am is inconvenient for all the people that require me. These people that need me to be funny, and cheerful, and present. And interested in what they are saying, ready with a silly response. And all the other people that need me to be good at my job; to show up and be responsible and answer their many questions. And also be funny while I am at it, and laughing. The people that need me to be rock-like, to stand up to be leaned on. I have to be all this, and then disappear when they want me to, ever the supporting player in the movie of their lives.
If he had lived. I don't know. I honestly don't know. I feel like I might disappoint him. I am not healthy, or happy, or whole. I am successful, marginally. But none of those other things. Wouldn't he think that I am lesser than I should be? Apparently, I'm not even as good a friend as I thought I was. This stellar quality I had proudly pinned to my chest turned out to be a fabrication.
I think I may be making more of this than I should be. I know I shouldn't. So I will stop. It's just been a bad few days. One after the other. And I can see that I am making this about myself, when it should be about him. I can't even seem to get this thing right, this mourning. I should be an expert after the number 12, right?
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