I moved to him because he inspired happiness. He was the type of person that had boundless energy that was contagious and I was desperately drained. I thought he was the solution to my problem. (I realise that he is not a solution to my problems but rather another human being and that putting that kind of responsibility on someone is unhealthy. What I’m trying to say is that I thought being around his personality and energy would help to motivate me to be better and get out there more, which it did to an extent.) My problem being depression and social anxiety, it was destined to end in disaster. So I moved in with him, in a share house with two other people. They were nice and quiet and kept to themselves mostly. I was okay with that, because he was there and his presence made me feel alive again after being so close to dead for so long. He was so fun and exciting. His life was always full of something, whether it be drama or relationships or depression. He was the everything to my nothing. He filled up the space that I had too much of. He distracted me from my problems and encouraged me to keep on forgetting about them.
But he was also so absorbed in his own life, and his own problems that he didn’t notice my struggle. And he had significant problems. Maybe even ones that were bigger and more important than my own. But friends are meant to be there for each other. I was there for him throughout the entire thing, even if sometimes he didn’t notice that he was unloading all his troubles onto my shoulders. At the time, the added weight didn’t make much difference, there was already so much there. But soon I began to stumble under it all, my shoulders began to ache and my back started to creek. I felt the need to put it all down and run away from it but I couldn’t leave him to deal with all his troubles on his own and run home to my mother. I was an adult now, a woman who could deal with her problems on her own without crying to mummy. And so I stayed.
The first eye opening thing that made me realise that maybe out friendship was lopsided was on New Years Eve. AKA the night that my Father killed himself seventeen years ago. This year, away from my family, it hit me particularly hard. My father had chosen to kill himself rather than to get help and live his life and raise me. It made me drag up hard questions. “Am I not worth wanting to stick around for?” “Did he not love me enough?” “Am I not good enough?” I had this hole in my chest where his love should have been and that night it started to ache so profusely and I needed my friend there to help me through it. Instead he chose to spend the night with his boyfriend, even though he knew what I was going through and dealing with. It was a sign. I should have seen it then and packed my bags, gone home or moved on to somewhere else. But I didn’t.
A month later he tells me he’s moving to Melbourne with his Boyfriend, whom he had only know for four months. We had been friends for three years and I had literally moved states to be with him and he’s just going to up and leave me here all alone. Now I understand that the move was this big thing for him. There are more job opportunities in Melbourne, his boyfriend was going to be there and he didn’t want to end things just because of the distance. But I thought at least he would have talked to me before he made the decision, asked me my opinion on the matter or something along those lines. Instead he just tells me, oh by the way I’m moving away and you’ll be here all by yourself and I don’t particularly care about your feelings on the matter.
Instead of yelling at him like I wanted to do, I told him to do what he wanted. And he did. It’s been a couple of months since he left and I’m still so angry with him, but I never expressed that anger to his face. I regret that I didn’t. We don’t talk as much anymore. I just don’t have the stomach to talk to him when all he can do is talk about himself and his life and his problems. He doesn’t even ask me how I’m doing. I’ve assumed he doesn’t care.
If he doesn’t care, then neither do I.