Dear W,
I wish you could call me.
When you see you have too much food in your fridge, and invite me over for a bite.
That French Press you have? 2 cups of coffee, huh? How about you make two batches and we talk over our coffeecups? Measure our lives in coffeespoons?
I wish that on nights after the great tragedies of life, shootings and horrors, that you'd come to knock on my door. To see if I'm alright. I wish I could do the same for you.
Because this is the "stuff of life". Not just music and food, as you say. Contact. You run back to your cave. Or you are a social animal, as you keep telling me-I only know what I see. I'm a good person to talk to or I'm someone who needs to be put through some kind of impossibly long series of tests in order to be casual friends with you.
You tell me to have Patience (I think you are hoping I will wait out your depression, But NOW is when I need someone to help me out of mine. And I need so little. But you can't offer anything now. And I don't care if you are Mr. Popularity in your manic phases. I want a few words now. I know you can. I want you to try harder.
I want you as a friend. (And you seem to want me) Because when we talk, I'm honest with you. And I think you are honest with me. Maybe that scares you. Or maybe you can afford to throw away friends. Maybe I come off as pitiful or desperate or lonely, as the one person you think you can look down on as being even more crazy than you are.
But I know that nobody called you for your birthday.
I know you feel like an orphan in the storm.
I know you think of yourself as "very social". And I'm glad for you when I hear that you've invited people over for pizza. Or a grand party for Thanksgiving. Good for you. (I just wish you could be more sensitive to me, as I've tried to be to you)
Because you are not the only one who gets depressed. Because it is hard (REALLY HARD) for me to write to you, or smile everytime I see you. Especially when I feel like crying. Because sometimes trying to be friends with you makes me feel even lonelier.
Once, I was very sad and I saw you in the hallway. I asked if I could come shopping with you. And you shrugged and said, "Sure," in such a sweet and easy way. So simple for you to be generous. And, as you have said so many times since then, it never took you out of your way. I used to think that was just a phrase. But coupled with, "Nobody is telling you to go away," it is a phrase of lost opportunity. You have the ability to reach out to me in these moments when I am asking, actively fishing for a suggestion that this is a Friendship. And yet you do nothing.
Maybe I will stop writing.
Who knows how long I can afford to live in this building? I'm good at disappearing. Even now, I have begun to stop writing to you. Since Thanksgiving. Since I realized how much you can't reach out to me. When I need it most. I am pulling away, and you don't seem to notice. (Maybe because I'm not pulling away completely, because I break down and reach out)
You live right down the hall and except for that Whirlwind, you have never knocked on my door. You live right down the hall. And you make me feel so lonely.
I was trying not to write. But I sent a message of Peace to you. You sent something back. In the middle of the night, you agreed with me.
I wish I could hear your voice, or that we could talk. But it is nice to have something when I wake up at 4:30 in the morning. A little gift.
I wish you could call me.
When you see you have too much food in your fridge, and invite me over for a bite.
That French Press you have? 2 cups of coffee, huh? How about you make two batches and we talk over our coffeecups? Measure our lives in coffeespoons?
I wish that on nights after the great tragedies of life, shootings and horrors, that you'd come to knock on my door. To see if I'm alright. I wish I could do the same for you.
Because this is the "stuff of life". Not just music and food, as you say. Contact. You run back to your cave. Or you are a social animal, as you keep telling me-I only know what I see. I'm a good person to talk to or I'm someone who needs to be put through some kind of impossibly long series of tests in order to be casual friends with you.
You tell me to have Patience (I think you are hoping I will wait out your depression, But NOW is when I need someone to help me out of mine. And I need so little. But you can't offer anything now. And I don't care if you are Mr. Popularity in your manic phases. I want a few words now. I know you can. I want you to try harder.
I want you as a friend. (And you seem to want me) Because when we talk, I'm honest with you. And I think you are honest with me. Maybe that scares you. Or maybe you can afford to throw away friends. Maybe I come off as pitiful or desperate or lonely, as the one person you think you can look down on as being even more crazy than you are.
But I know that nobody called you for your birthday.
I know you feel like an orphan in the storm.
I know you think of yourself as "very social". And I'm glad for you when I hear that you've invited people over for pizza. Or a grand party for Thanksgiving. Good for you. (I just wish you could be more sensitive to me, as I've tried to be to you)
Because you are not the only one who gets depressed. Because it is hard (REALLY HARD) for me to write to you, or smile everytime I see you. Especially when I feel like crying. Because sometimes trying to be friends with you makes me feel even lonelier.
Once, I was very sad and I saw you in the hallway. I asked if I could come shopping with you. And you shrugged and said, "Sure," in such a sweet and easy way. So simple for you to be generous. And, as you have said so many times since then, it never took you out of your way. I used to think that was just a phrase. But coupled with, "Nobody is telling you to go away," it is a phrase of lost opportunity. You have the ability to reach out to me in these moments when I am asking, actively fishing for a suggestion that this is a Friendship. And yet you do nothing.
Maybe I will stop writing.
Who knows how long I can afford to live in this building? I'm good at disappearing. Even now, I have begun to stop writing to you. Since Thanksgiving. Since I realized how much you can't reach out to me. When I need it most. I am pulling away, and you don't seem to notice. (Maybe because I'm not pulling away completely, because I break down and reach out)
You live right down the hall and except for that Whirlwind, you have never knocked on my door. You live right down the hall. And you make me feel so lonely.
I was trying not to write. But I sent a message of Peace to you. You sent something back. In the middle of the night, you agreed with me.
I wish I could hear your voice, or that we could talk. But it is nice to have something when I wake up at 4:30 in the morning. A little gift.
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