Sunday, November 10, 2019
My oldest friend has written me two emails -- one on Friday afternoon, the other on Saturday morning -- reaching out. Chatty emails. Filling me in on her life.
Her blood sugar spiked and she ended up in the ER, but left without being treated ... her anti-depressants have stopped working ... Most interesting of all, she complained about the company that was coming over. She lives rent-free in her cousin's home. Her cousin's husband's family came over to celebrate their son's birthday (the whole clan, including their dogs) and this disrupts my friend. What the ever-loving fuck? Sharon, her cousin, took her in when she had nothing. Literally nothing. Even her car had been repossessed. She's really going to complain when Sharon has company? Plus, unless she's holding out on me, these visitors are the only non-household members she speaks to (medical personnel not included).
Oh yeah, and how are you, Gal?
It was nearly a month ago that she called me, after a long drought, and we reconnected. We laughed -- she can always make me laugh -- and caught up. I felt supported, reinforced, happy. Now I feel silly for thinking it was the start of a more involved, co-equal relationship. A return to the give-and-take she and I shared for nearly 50 years.
Here's the thing: she's doing the best she can. She's bipolar. She makes bad decisions, yes, but no one pays for them more dearly than she does. So I'm going to take the high road and answer her. I'm going to continue to love her.
But I have to work through my feelings first. I'm wounded, I admit it. She goes days, weeks, months without communicating with me. It hurts that I've become so peripheral to someone who used to be at the center of my life. I miss her. I miss us.
I look forward to days when I have no imperatives: Nowhere I have to go, no one I must call, no chore that positively, absolutely has to be accomplished. It feels luxurious.
But I also feel a little guilty. I was gonna work on my Nanowrimo. Friday night I wrote the beginning of my first-ever murder scene! Lest that sound too ghoulish, it should be noted that I read many murder mysteries and trying my hand at writing the actual dastardly deed is hard! I'm good on most of the forensics -- my villain wants to set the scene to look like an accident -- but I don't know how he's going to dispose of the murder weapon. Then it occurred to me: the story could be told from the prosecutor's POV, and I could just say, "the weapon was never found." Now all I have to do is finish it ... and then write it again for the defense.
Or I could sleep some more.
And I should scrub my bathroom floor, and sort through the papers on my dining room table, and answer some emails for the condo board ...
Or I could sleep some more.