Promises

I promise too much. I guess I'm gullible to dispensers of kind words. When people pretend to care just long enough to hear about my struggle, I assume too much of them. To start out with, it's all kind words and curiosity. I'm so eager to make new friends, that I lose sight of the realities of my situation: I'm not getting better, and nobody gives a shit.

Once you've heard the grim details, you do what everyone does: you avoid me. I understand how difficult it must be to know me well. I'm a nice guy most of the time, and it's hard to say to me exactly how you feel. Once you satisfy your curiosity about me, how many of you follow up with a phone call or an email? Emails trickle in on occasion, but those slow to a halt after a short time. Phone calls are rarities. My struggle changes for no man, and if you've heard it once, you've heard it a thousand times. Who wants to hear a mantra from Prester Bane's mouth? Who wants to read a poem that revisits the same trials over and over again? Most importantly, who would stand with me against the weight on my shoulders?

I'm an easy person to read, but I'm not an easy person to know in the flesh. It's got to feel terrible to tell me exactly how you feel. I can see it in your eyes. The relentless assault is too much for me to bear alone, and you're not a fool for wanting to stay away. When every day's torment is the same as the next's, the truth comes out in your eyes, and says one thing no one wants to admit:

"I'm not your friend; I just don't want to feel like an asshole."