On skinning cats

I have two friends. (OK, I have lots of friends, if you’re going to be pedantic. But this blog entry is about two of them.)

One of them has given up on me. I can’t really blame her. I annoy the fuck out of myself. I think standing by and watching me carefully and wilfully fuck up is more than she can bear. That’s the generous interpretation of her recent absence from my life. The less charitable take is that I don’t listen to her advice. Or rather, I do listen, but I don’t act upon it and do things her way. Maybe she thinks she knows how I should live my life better than I do. And who knows, she just might.

My other friend is giving me space to fuck up. Specifically, 3 months. I have until December 6 to be a dickhead do things my way, and then he’s taking over. Staging an intervention.

If I can’t prove to him that I’m totally cool about things with The Pirate, he’s seizing my mobile phone and ending it for me. If I can’t prove to him that I’m not still crying myself to sleep at night, he’s going to serve me an anti-depressant lodged in the top of a pink fondant fancy. He’s going to help me get my house ready to sell. I have 3 months. Less than that, now, actually. The clock is ticking…

They both think they know better than me. This is not hard. My tea cosy would do a better job than me at decision making right now. But the second friend has patience and is, in the short term, willing to listen to me witter on and on and ON at him about The Pirate, and work, and how lonely and isolated I am, without judging or getting cross.

He also trusts me enough to try and climb out of this hole my way, without turning to anti-depressants as the first rather than last resort. He has faith in me. He listens to me and says he can still hear D in there somewhere. He believes she’ll come out again.

(You know what heartens me about all this? He’s a MAN. Ones that can listen and be supportive do exist!)

His faith that everything will be OK, that I’m stronger than I think, makes me think that he might just be right. I know he would rather die than call The Pirate and end it, so he’s really banking on me getting my shit together. Equally I suspect that, if it came to it, he’d make the call if I couldn’t. (Imagine that! ‘My friend doesn’t want to go out with you any more…’ So very 1992…)

I am feeling more optimistic about the future. This time last week, it was a dense, velvety black void of deafening, heavy silence. It’s still looking pretty dark, but I think I can see the first few stepping stones through it. Seeing my counsellor is helping. Keeping an hour-by-hour mood diary, planning my week more. Blindingly obvious advice like ‘do more of the things you enjoy’. Yes. That makes more sense to me than Citalopram.

So this week I shall be doing more bathing, and cooking, and reading, and seeing people who love me. I told her about my crabby retreat and she approved with a caveat – don’t exclude the people that love you. They will heal you.

All you need is love, but I’ve been looking for it in the wrong place. There’s plenty of love in my world. It was there all along. My friends…

 

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