What am I supposed to say to that? My heart turns inside out and bleeds with powerlessness.
I imagine her there, connected to her whisper with a body she doesn't particularly like, reaching out for me.
I know what it's like. The coldness of the payphone as a result of the exaggerated, unnecessary air-conditioning.
The other patients staring at you whenever they pace by you in the hall.
The loneliness--sheer and uninterrupted.
And the loud-silence of your inescapable remonstrating thoughts.
The fear--paralyzing and unending.
And this is where they want you to be safe from yourself.
I suppose you are safe in the body-sense of that word. You will not find sharp edges or any other everyday contraptions molested into weapons to self-mutilate your life back into your control.
But still, you call me, small and frightened. And you won't talk about yourself, but you promise to talk more when you're fixed. And then you promise to be better soon. And I want to yell at you. I want to be angry and tell you that you are fine in a state of disrepair. That I'm not upset with you for not being able to talk. That I'm not going to turn my heart against you for being you, fucked up or otherwise.
And because it's you, I do tell you these things, angry and sad, tears streaming down my face because my heart's still turned inside-out and bleeds with powerlessness.
And you tell me that I'm being kind.
I am not being kind. And you know it.
And then there's silence.
We are both thankful for the kindness between us, though we are both still, heartwrenchingly, powerless.