I still often think about when I put myself at my absolutely most vulnerable state. It was in high school, maybe junior year--it was when I was realizing my entire friendship with Kate was falling apart.
For example, our last year of junior high, during the Chicago trip, we were talking in the middle of the night and I told her I had been suffering depression. I told her I had been suicidal. And even as I told her that I had since recovered (my obsession with Julie had successfully distracted me from my dark thoughts enough where depression no longer ruled over my life), she was crying. She cried over my sadness, and I felt then that she truly cared about me. (I now realized I have told people 'I've recovered' a lot, and never once have I been right. Maybe I should start reevaluating how I use that phrase.)
In junior high, we told each other absolutely everything--we cried together, we held onto each other, we told each other the darkness in our hearts. I think the problem was my darkness kept growing, and her darkness ran dry. Her life got better; mine got worse.
My depression got worse. But I had been seeing more and more that Kate didn't really talk to about her life anymore. Not even just about concerns or darkness--about anything. I was losing track of whether I even knew what was happening in her life anymore. I was losing track of her. And I realized I didn't want to tell her about my darkness anymore---it was too large by this point, she wouldn't be able to understand anymore---and I didn't feel safe telling her. Not only had I become distant to the point where to burden her with my troubles felt like an intrusion, but it now felt as if she would hurt me if I let her in.
I started dating Rachel, and I finally had someone to talk to about my depression. It was strange not talking to Kate about it. At one point, I realized I was hanging out with her more out of habit than out of fondness; she became more and more volatile, and I felt like anything I had to contribute only served to get her angry. She didn't have enough patience to deal with me. And it was scary. And it hurt. I became to be terribly afraid of her.
And I was getting more and more stressed and more and more worried about it. At one point, my own insecurities started to feed into my depression. And then, there was one day where, more than any other day, I wanted to die. I wanted to die so badly.
And it felt awful. It was terrifying. And within my terrible, horrible panic attack, I remembered Kate and I's old friendship, and thought that if I never came out with my feelings, I wasn't being a good friend either. I had to try trusting her.
So in my most vulnerable, I called her. And I told her I wasn't feeling well and that I needed to talk to someone, and she said okay. And I was so scared. And putting myself in the most bare and defenesless state I will ever be in, I asked he this question:
"If I were to die, do you think anyone would care?"
Now, this is a terribly awful and manipulative question, especially coming from someone who just admitted to being suicidal. But it is also a very easy question. This was one of those questions that had a pre-set answer, one that you had to say regardless of your feelings about it. And anyone picking up my very obvious, depression-mangled hints would be able to see that. There was only one right answer, and it could very well set my life.
She did not see that. I still remember her response often, though I know I should let it go--the fault was mine for asking questions when I was expecting an answer. But somehow I still can't forget it:
"If I were to die, so you think anyone would care?"
"I...think so"
She never gave the sentence conclusion. It was very non-commital. After she said that, I went through the rest of the conversation with my mind blank and in a fuzz--I ended it as soon as I could and curled up in a ball on my bed. I didn't even have the motivation to go through with my suicidal urges--the life had been sapped out of me. I just had to lay there broken and dull, wishing my heart would stop so I wouldn't have to get up and stop it myself.
She didn't say she would care if I died.
We are friends now--with a much different relationship than when we were confidants, but a healthy friendship nonetheless. But ever since that conversation, I don't think our friendship could have ever been the same. I don't think I have forgiven her for that comment. I think I'm going to hold it in my heart for the rest of my life, as a weight I can't get rid of. I will not bring it back. I'm still alive, she still cares about me--there's no reason to burden her with that kind of guilt or shame this long after the words had been said.
...Recently, my college course on thinking critically has been covering A Case for Reparations. It goes that the actions of the past can be at least partially forgiven if the offending party admits they have wronged the other, acknowledges it, and tries to do something about it (such as an apology and some kind of forward action to redeem themselves). It keeps reminding me of John.
My therapist told me before that I'm supposed to just forget the emotional abuse, and that bringing it up may not necessarily change anything. I have been trying to. I put the house behind me, I put the man behind me, but I can't escape it--I still have to see him often. I still have to talk to him. Yesterday was his birthday, and I was supposed to call him. I didn't. Because although he hasn't hurt me lately, those wounds are burned into me as resentment and fear, and even wishing him a happy birthday feels like I'm betraying some part of myself.
I wondered, then, if reparations could help? If I were to tell him that he had effectively emotionally abused me, and if he were to own up to it and apologise, could it inspire change in him so he could improve upon himself? If that were the case, would I finally feel better and be able to forgive him?
....Going back to that one night in Chicago with Kate. I once brought it up to her, maybe last year, about how much it meant to me when she cried over my sadness. She said she couldn't remember ever doing that.
Would John ever be able to own up to his past actions? Somehow I think that, much like past talks, I would not be able to explain it in a way where he could understand. It would either sound like I was throwing yet another angry accusation or baseless insult, over exaggeration or otherwise heedless point; or it would go over their heads. They would understand I am upset, but not why--has anything happened recently to create this??---and try to connect it to current times (and thus, find no fault, and not understand my side). Then, they would force me to say I had forgiven everything, regardless of whether I actually had time to. This is why I stopped trying to explain myself and why I felt bothered. This is why I had told myself I would stop trying.
So no, I don't think reparations are effective for this situation--at least, not in a way where I could ever forgive him. Same goes for Kate's comment. Even if I told her about what she had said, even if she apologized for it, would I be able to forget? Could I forgive her? I doubt it. This, and the trauma brought by the emotional abuse, will probably stay with me forever without being given proper conclusion. I just need to wait for them to get weaker with time and fade.
Since I need to give John some belated birthday wishes today, I hope I get over it soon. There is only so long I can give noncommittal answers to "you two are good, right?" before Mom begins to get upset.
Life is good.
-------
EDIT:
I apparently write about this exact thing in my post from 2013, Panic Attack. I guess I don't change my thinking much.
But I feel like realizing that is kind of important somehow????
I'm not sure yet. I still have a lot to think about.
For example, our last year of junior high, during the Chicago trip, we were talking in the middle of the night and I told her I had been suffering depression. I told her I had been suicidal. And even as I told her that I had since recovered (my obsession with Julie had successfully distracted me from my dark thoughts enough where depression no longer ruled over my life), she was crying. She cried over my sadness, and I felt then that she truly cared about me. (I now realized I have told people 'I've recovered' a lot, and never once have I been right. Maybe I should start reevaluating how I use that phrase.)
In junior high, we told each other absolutely everything--we cried together, we held onto each other, we told each other the darkness in our hearts. I think the problem was my darkness kept growing, and her darkness ran dry. Her life got better; mine got worse.
My depression got worse. But I had been seeing more and more that Kate didn't really talk to about her life anymore. Not even just about concerns or darkness--about anything. I was losing track of whether I even knew what was happening in her life anymore. I was losing track of her. And I realized I didn't want to tell her about my darkness anymore---it was too large by this point, she wouldn't be able to understand anymore---and I didn't feel safe telling her. Not only had I become distant to the point where to burden her with my troubles felt like an intrusion, but it now felt as if she would hurt me if I let her in.
I started dating Rachel, and I finally had someone to talk to about my depression. It was strange not talking to Kate about it. At one point, I realized I was hanging out with her more out of habit than out of fondness; she became more and more volatile, and I felt like anything I had to contribute only served to get her angry. She didn't have enough patience to deal with me. And it was scary. And it hurt. I became to be terribly afraid of her.
And I was getting more and more stressed and more and more worried about it. At one point, my own insecurities started to feed into my depression. And then, there was one day where, more than any other day, I wanted to die. I wanted to die so badly.
And it felt awful. It was terrifying. And within my terrible, horrible panic attack, I remembered Kate and I's old friendship, and thought that if I never came out with my feelings, I wasn't being a good friend either. I had to try trusting her.
So in my most vulnerable, I called her. And I told her I wasn't feeling well and that I needed to talk to someone, and she said okay. And I was so scared. And putting myself in the most bare and defenesless state I will ever be in, I asked he this question:
"If I were to die, do you think anyone would care?"
Now, this is a terribly awful and manipulative question, especially coming from someone who just admitted to being suicidal. But it is also a very easy question. This was one of those questions that had a pre-set answer, one that you had to say regardless of your feelings about it. And anyone picking up my very obvious, depression-mangled hints would be able to see that. There was only one right answer, and it could very well set my life.
She did not see that. I still remember her response often, though I know I should let it go--the fault was mine for asking questions when I was expecting an answer. But somehow I still can't forget it:
"If I were to die, so you think anyone would care?"
"I...think so"
She never gave the sentence conclusion. It was very non-commital. After she said that, I went through the rest of the conversation with my mind blank and in a fuzz--I ended it as soon as I could and curled up in a ball on my bed. I didn't even have the motivation to go through with my suicidal urges--the life had been sapped out of me. I just had to lay there broken and dull, wishing my heart would stop so I wouldn't have to get up and stop it myself.
She didn't say she would care if I died.
We are friends now--with a much different relationship than when we were confidants, but a healthy friendship nonetheless. But ever since that conversation, I don't think our friendship could have ever been the same. I don't think I have forgiven her for that comment. I think I'm going to hold it in my heart for the rest of my life, as a weight I can't get rid of. I will not bring it back. I'm still alive, she still cares about me--there's no reason to burden her with that kind of guilt or shame this long after the words had been said.
...Recently, my college course on thinking critically has been covering A Case for Reparations. It goes that the actions of the past can be at least partially forgiven if the offending party admits they have wronged the other, acknowledges it, and tries to do something about it (such as an apology and some kind of forward action to redeem themselves). It keeps reminding me of John.
My therapist told me before that I'm supposed to just forget the emotional abuse, and that bringing it up may not necessarily change anything. I have been trying to. I put the house behind me, I put the man behind me, but I can't escape it--I still have to see him often. I still have to talk to him. Yesterday was his birthday, and I was supposed to call him. I didn't. Because although he hasn't hurt me lately, those wounds are burned into me as resentment and fear, and even wishing him a happy birthday feels like I'm betraying some part of myself.
I wondered, then, if reparations could help? If I were to tell him that he had effectively emotionally abused me, and if he were to own up to it and apologise, could it inspire change in him so he could improve upon himself? If that were the case, would I finally feel better and be able to forgive him?
....Going back to that one night in Chicago with Kate. I once brought it up to her, maybe last year, about how much it meant to me when she cried over my sadness. She said she couldn't remember ever doing that.
Would John ever be able to own up to his past actions? Somehow I think that, much like past talks, I would not be able to explain it in a way where he could understand. It would either sound like I was throwing yet another angry accusation or baseless insult, over exaggeration or otherwise heedless point; or it would go over their heads. They would understand I am upset, but not why--has anything happened recently to create this??---and try to connect it to current times (and thus, find no fault, and not understand my side). Then, they would force me to say I had forgiven everything, regardless of whether I actually had time to. This is why I stopped trying to explain myself and why I felt bothered. This is why I had told myself I would stop trying.
So no, I don't think reparations are effective for this situation--at least, not in a way where I could ever forgive him. Same goes for Kate's comment. Even if I told her about what she had said, even if she apologized for it, would I be able to forget? Could I forgive her? I doubt it. This, and the trauma brought by the emotional abuse, will probably stay with me forever without being given proper conclusion. I just need to wait for them to get weaker with time and fade.
Since I need to give John some belated birthday wishes today, I hope I get over it soon. There is only so long I can give noncommittal answers to "you two are good, right?" before Mom begins to get upset.
Life is good.
-------
EDIT:
I apparently write about this exact thing in my post from 2013, Panic Attack. I guess I don't change my thinking much.
But I feel like realizing that is kind of important somehow????
I'm not sure yet. I still have a lot to think about.
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