Sunday, November 10, 2019
Requesting permission to vent
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.