face the truth
-another moment gone-
Dear diary, I am not one to write one, but this—this concept I can no longer hide and bottle up as I try to save what can not be saved.
There was no easy way to say it; his dad was dying. He's strong, one of a kind for sure, and just because he's that way—help and discussion isn't one thing he wants to live up to. He'd rather be angry at the world—but of course I can't judge, I mean, how would I know a thing about this? I wouldn't. That's the simple, cold hard answer, I would not know. I've never been in those shoes, I've never walked in those steps.
I wouldn't know.
There's no way to deny it—I wish there was. But there isn't. Whenever I bring up the topic of his Father, he dodges it so swiftly and steadily that I feel rude trying to bring it up again.
I wish I could help.
I've been by his side through thick and thin. He's been there for me more than I can really describe. He's helped me through so much—even if I just didn't know it at the time. I don't really know. When our friend died—more so his friend than mine—I can so easily and painfully recall the way he looked. How he stared straight ahead, the blank stare in his eyes as we got told the news. How he stopped walking and sat flatly on the pavement with a stony silence.
Silence is worse than noise.
When it rains, I think more. I suppose it's because I've been cut off from activities outside, but something about the gentle pitter patter of the rain calms me down.
Even if I stand outside in the rain, letting the salty tears roll down—I know that it doesn't change what God has in store for us.
It isn't fair. It really isn't fair.
He closes himself off whenever I try and get him to open up, and he shuts the door in my face before I get a word out. He pretends he is fine, that it isn't slowly killing him too, but I can see through him. Maybe others will believe the façade, but I certainly don't.
I wish I knew what to do.
I feel selfish feeling so weepy, myself. I'm not the one whose losing all. But I am at the same time.
I'm losing my best friend because he's losing himself.
I am not going to deny it; I'm terribly sad. I'm waiting for death to come and I don't even know why. I, just, I can't honestly voice how I'm feeling. I can't write it out with a thousand sentences or with a million different adjectives.
I watch him make mistakes. Mistake after mistake.
He transfers schools to a school that's more like an elementary school than high school. He gets a lip piercing. He's changing.
I don't care what piercing he gets; I care that I hardly recognize my best friend anymore.
Like people have no idea what it's like to wait for death. To let the bitterness wrap itself stealthily around all of you and just let the nipping sensation overthrow your balance and slowly tear you bit by bit until when you peer in the mirror again—you have no idea who you are anymore.
I wish I knew how I could explain my thoughts to you.
In the mean time, I'm sticking through with him.
I'll keep you posted.
-M.B.
--
Review.
This was a huge drabble. It honestly was a random string of thoughts of mine that I needed to let out. It's all true. For me. My best friend's father is dying and I need to voice my thoughts. So. It's personal.
Sorry if it sucked a ton. I'm not aiming for something flowing and flowery. This is the raw truth.
-another moment gone-