He didn't seem different than he was. It's college, and we're freshmen . . . we're supposed to be quiet. Just shut up and learn how to do your homework, already.
It has been a year. He comes to me now and tells me the most soul-wracking story about a girl with whom he fell in love. "Fell" is not the right verb: try plummeted.
She was taken.
Her man wasn't around, and she wasn't technically dating, and he never made romantic advances, so it was an innocent relationship. Except he does the ballsiest thing of which I've ever heard: he actually talks to her about it. He's straightforward, and he presents his case clearly, and she listens (when somebody bares their soul, you listen).
She turns him down.
They remain friends.
It tears him apart.
How long has he been depressed? A full year? I didn't know. I had no idea. He's one of my closest friends and I had no idea. I slide through life assuming that everyone is miserable and I miss out on the fact that one of my friends actually is (hands-down, no-holds-barred) depressed.
"Depression is like a blanket that you wrap around yourself. Eventually, it feels good to be depressed."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
That's heartbreaking.
ReplyDeleteIt really is. And I didn't take too much time to write this because I didn't want to depress myself more than I already was today.
ReplyDeleteAwww.
ReplyDelete