Tonight my friend Chook (as she is sometimes called, and as she shall be called in this blog) came over. Chook has been my friend since we were 12 years old, and she is very dear to me. Apart from my family, she has known me longest, and loved me most unconditionally. More recently, she has suffered from depression, and came very close to suicide last year.
Tonight, she was expressing how she was fed up with being a 'needy friend', as she put it, and that she wished our friendship was more 'equal'. I replied that if I'd had a father who left when I was tiny, and a mother who was in & out of psychiatric institutions all my childhood, then perhaps I might be more 'needy', too. Chook ended up admitting that when she was lining up the bottles of pills last year, she'd thought to herself that if she topped herself, her friends would be sorry that they hadn't been able to prevent the death, but that they'd probably feel a bit relieved too. I was shocked by her words. What a terrible thought to have - how awful she must have been feeling to truly believe this. My Chook is wacky and wonderful, and I don't ever want to have to live without her. I told her this. I don't know for sure if she believes me. I take comfort in the fact that although she has ups & downs, like everyone (and the past few weeks have been a bit rough for one reason or another), she is now on medication, and her depression seems to have retreated.
Depression - the black dog as they call it - may it run far away with its tail between its legs.