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Just venting.
You’ve always known that there was something wrong with your friend. There are months where they talk to no one and there are months where they don’t leave their room. Sometimes they claim they’ve forgotten to eat. Lately, it’s been getting worse.
Even though you don’t even like them much, you’ve known them for a long time and felt obligated to ‘help’.
Your friend doesn’t take this well and snaps at you until you leave. You’re annoyed.
“You need help.” You say. “This isn’t normal, even for someone as lazy as you.”
“I’m just really stressed, okay?”
Their hand is over their face but you can see them scowling like the unappreciative brat they are. You give them a shove. They fall over.
“Oh yeah, because stress is enough to turn the strongest person in their family into a weakling. You have a problem.”
“I have no problems. I’m just fine. I’m never going to be anything but fine because I have nothing to be upset about.”
“But you are! If it weren’t serious, I wouldn’t be asking you to waste someone else’s valuable time with your petty problems!”
“If my problems are so insignificant, they don’t matter. Just leave me alone.”
You do, because you’re sick of their antics. They’ll eventually figure out that you’re right. You always are.
They’ve stopped cutting, but you see them scratching. Sometimes they scream at you before you’ve said anything. They’re eating less and less.
Sometimes you try again.
“You need help.”
Sometimes they admit to it.
“I know.”
Two more years pass. You’ve finally had enough. You drag your friend to the counsellor. They say nothing, but they’ve got their fingers on their pulse. They’ve been doing that a lot lately.
The counselor is a sweet lady. You tell her about all the problems your friend might have, because they refuse to speak and because you’d rather not waste time waiting for them to get over themselves.
Sometimes they inexplicably start crying. When the counselor asks, you reply in their stead, “They never confide in anyone. They’ve never told anyone any of this. It’s probably all in their head.”
You continue to drag your friend to counseling. You plan out different facets of your friend’s life and possible issues to talk about during these sessions. The counselor sends your friend to a doctor. The doctor prescribes sertraline and trazodone. Your friend dutifully swallows the pills each night.
They lay awake until 5AM most nights. They still miss a good deal of their classes. They still break down on occasion.
One night, you ask them.
“Aren’t you feeling better yet?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should be. You know those medicines really add up, right? Not to mention you’re seeing both the counselor and the doctor. Unless you’re faking the whole thing, all this is supposed to help.”
“You’re right.”
They turn over and try to sleep again. You turn with them.
“I know I’m right. But are you getting better?”
“I told you; I don’t know. It’s too early to say.”
“It’s been at least half a year.”
They don’t answer, but you know they’re tearing up again. You glare at them. It’s annoying that they’re such an emotional wreck.
“You keep thinking about shit that’s happened ages ago and should not even affect you anymore,” you snap, “How are you even still so fucked up? Nobody made any mistakes raising you. If it’s not anybody else’s fault–”
“–it’s mine.” I say glumly. You purse my lips and they curl my legs. I try to go to sleep again.