“I can’t do this anymore.”

The words echo through my head and I stare at him uncomprehendingly. His face wavers before me; wary, worried eyes and a set mouth. It is not a face I recognise.

I remember this boy lying crumpled on my floor, saying the same words helplessly as I knelt before him and took his head in my lap. Both of us would lie together, ensconced in each other’s arms, looking at the ceiling as we repeated the same mantra over and over:

“I hate myself.”
“I am worthless.”
“I don’t have a purpose.”
“No one likes me.”
“I hate my job.”
“I’m lonely.”

We would echo these sentiments, gaining power in our mutual helplessness against the trap that this depression held against us. When he came home from work, weary and weak, I felt strong. No matter how unfair life was, we had each other. I understood him, and he understood me. We were a united front, keeping the other safe.

“My therapist says you’re a negative influence on me. You know how much I appreciate your support. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. But I’m doing really well now. I think I need a fresh start.”

A memory. Clothes are strewn across our apartment like crushed petals. Dirty dishes everywhere. He clings to me and whispers in my ear: “I need you.”

“I wish you would answer me. I think we both need to move on. It’s not healthy.”

A helpless shrug and he releases his responsibilities. It’s not healthy. I want to scream at him, kill him. His eyes are uncomprehending, starting to become cold.

He’s forgotten what it’s like to be desperate and lonely. His first session with his therapist had ended with, “this too shall pass.”

He came home, elated that he was making progress. Thankful I had pushed him to see someone. He had been gleeful, taking my hands and dancing with me around the apartment.

“Maybe this will be it,” he said. “This will be my turning point. I won’t let my past define me.”

His past is gone now, a distant memory of something bad. I’m part of this badness. It is like a tumour, malignant and clinging to him. He wants to cut it away and be free. He cannot confront it. His new life. New job. New friends. Maybe a new girlfriend. We’ve grown distant, and he’s been secretive. I who supported him, how could he blame me for holding him back when I was the one who kept him alive?

I stumble to the floor, and he looks at me pityingly. “It’s not so hard, you know.” He says. “You need to have a more positive attitude.” He takes his suitcase and leaves the keys on the table. One last time, he turns around.

“I’ll always be here for you. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. But you really need to focus on yourself.”

Tears fall like raindrops on the wooden floor as I gasp soundlessly. There is so much pain in being abandoned. I thought we had shared this together, shared a life, shared energy, shared love. But he has taken mine, bolstered himself and flown away.

And now I am left alone, in this sadness.

 

 

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Editor: Travis May

Photo: Helga Weber, Flickr