It hurts until it doesn’t

I would like to chat, she said.

About anything in particular?

No, she said. Just a chat.

Would like to. Just a chat.

Stephanie was on a mission, one of devastation. And I could feel it; sitting at my desk job that day, I already knew. My behavior at her bachelorette party had been appalling.

Later I walked up the steps to her house, and we had The Devastating Conversation.

“I’m confused.” “What was your goal with that?” “Are you capable of having an adult conversation?”

And looking back, maybe I shouldn’t have walked out on her married or taken bridesmaids, discussing their intimate lives with their husbands, boyfriends.

Their perfect relationships, their Ability To Hold Down a Man.

You are more than your mental illness. You are better than this.

Coming from someone who had had police escorts take her home three times for public drunkenness just three years prior, I was appalled by her callousness.

Couldn’t she see I was suffering?

~

Days later in the psych hospital, I got a call from Stephanie.

“I think I’m going to focus on my relationship with my fiancé.

I should have established boundaries with you.

“But I don’t own the west coast. There’s plenty of room for you here!”

Of course there fucking is, sis.

~

I had slammed the front door in her face the night of our Devastating Conversation, and later I called to apologize for this lapse in self-control.

It was never about the front door. It was about you not being who I need you to be.

And when I drove myself to the ER to be 51/50’d, I thought: we can recover from this.

~

She was the first person I texted after leaving the psych hospital. No response.

And there is still no response.

~

What did I learn?

I’m not legally allowed to purchase firearms in the state of California for five years.

And that makes me smile.

I’m staying in California.