Merrrrrrrrrp. That’s me yanking on the e-brake. I will not socialize with normals unless I’m subjected to arm-twisting or tickle torture. On the flip-side, I hesitate talking to my fellow wonkies because they’ve got enough to deal with and I can’t seem to climb my way out of this black hole I’m stuck in.
I’m a disaster and as such, I’m avoiding talking to people. Conversations turn dark so quickly that the nooses are all tied up and ready before me or my victims have any idea of what’s happening.
I talked to an old friend the other day and it was all very pleasant until he started digging. I attempted to deflect, redirect, or straight up tell him he didn’t want to know what I’ve been doing lately.
“Come on, Farty! Talk to me!”
So I did. I explained that MC just about died and after I carried him through recovery, I nearly died. I explained how my digestive system is completely trashed and that I’m listed for a double organ transplant. I told him about my neurological problems and the freedoms I’ve lost thanks to all of the above. I told him I’d rather hear about his life because I’m not exactly a bundle of fun.
How does a person respond to that? It’s the verbal equivalent to being donkey punched. I assume it’ll be another few years before I hear from him again, providing I’m still around.
I’ve been treading water with weights tied to my legs while carrying on like everything is fine. I would love to be able to talk to these people, the friends who got me through some pretty tough early life shit and helped me become the person I am today, but it doesn’t work that way. I’ve crossed a threshold that they can’t, nor would I want them to.
To me, they’re a memory. I wager the view is the same on their side.