I used to love to talk to my sisters on the phone. We’d talk for hours. There was never enough time to talk to my sisters as much as I wanted to.
I’ve got old friends who I used to talk with that way, too. Hours.
Today, I talked to one of them. I squeezed it in while I was waiting for Tom to have physical therapy, so we could only talk for about 45 minutes.
I was relieved when it was over. The conversation, I mean.
There’s something about talking to people you love when you feel like you’ve got nothing but troubles to talk about. It’s almost more painful than the pain itself.
It’s not that they wouldn’t listen or wouldn’t understand. My sisters have known me all my life, my best friends have known me for a lot of my life, and each of them has experienced some part of what I’m going through now – their own health issues, a husband who needs their care, being forced to move, a career dilemma, general turmoil.
They love me. They haven’t done anything wrong. They’ve sent me lots of supportive notes during these difficult days.
This distance seems to be in me.
I didn’t put it there on purpose, but I see it as clearly and as wide as the Chattahoochee River.
Distance is a familiar tactic of the general, and of the depressive.
Distance is a respite. It gives you time to gather your defenses.
Distance prevents the enemy from seeing your weakness. It is the invisible wall that guards against further attack.
Distance is a way to rest from your weariness with your own self. Because having to talk about it makes you be inside those troubles again and again.
Today’s penny is a 2014. I can’t remember that year at all right now.