Posted by: Danica Demaclid
Date Published: September 27, 2022
Time Published: 8:14 AM
Category: Prose
Theme: Being the bystander to someone's trauma; Friendship
Synopsis: A friend can be a therapist, they really can. It's exhausting caring for someone yet maybe that friendship makes it all worthwhile.
A friend can be a therapist, they really can. I’ve heard of this, and I’ve done it too. It’s just comforting having someone you know you can trust, someone who wouldn’t judge you and your feelings. It’s also damning at times, tiring at best but emotionally and mentally taxing at worst. I recall one dim month of November for our friend group, a month that would decide our fate between our bonds growing stronger or snapping at the seams completely.
It's been so long, yet we two friends meet again. I want the others to be here too, but I feel like I have to get this off my chest. I usher you to a bench under the shade of a nearby tree. It’s not too far from the road, and its large canopy easily dwarfs the two of us in comparison.
I’ve always been the chattiest of us, and I complain to you the entire walk about how long I spent doing my hair before the wind rudely messed it up.
“You know, it’s awkward… We talk a lot in chat, but it feels different meeting directly,” I tell you with a shake and quiver in my voice. I’m not used to the wind; colder and fresher than the one back at home. Its smell reminds me of warm pasture or calm lulls of slowly moving streams; no wonder you’ve felt better since you moved here.
“True, it’s been so long. It’s a good thing you somehow managed to get here,” He tells me with a pleasant lull, your voice a contrast to mine. You seem more tranquil and calmer now (and much more used to the cold).
“I’m 19, you think I can’t handle it?” I sass, even if it’s unnecessary. I like messing with him.
“I didn’t say that?” He sasses back.
I laugh while my eyes go back to the road I just traveled on—toward the direction of home. “Well, I just wish I could say the same for the others…But their schedules are busy as hell,” College makes scheduling reunions a nightmare.
“Me too—You’re boring to talk to,” He quips, and I respond with an offended gasp.
“Jerk! I’ll just leave then,” My arms are crossed while I stood up and slowly walked away.
“How the heck are you still not used to us insulting each other?” He remarks, not even a bit affected by my threat.
“Can’t I act dramatic for once?” I ask.
“No,” And I’m not surprised at your deadpan response whatsoever. Good times like this are a blast—just being able to catch up on things brings a smile to my face.
Yet that dim month makes me queasy. I hope you don’t blame me, but it’s hard not to think about it again when you’re here—alive and well, but most importantly, alive.
~/-/~
That November sticks as a shadow stalking our friendship, something that forever lurks as a difficult time in his past. He lived nearby in the past—just take a jeep, then a tricycle, and I could visit. It’s still far, though nothing compared to the twelve-hour trip I took to meet him now.
He didn’t have a good home life. His mother’s boyfriend made him fear living in his old house. The man wasn’t responsible and relied on his mom, he told us a long time ago. He lived with them yet didn’t help with the chores and housework. My friend was and still is a hard worker; he was used to caring for their house while his mom went to work. Still, who wouldn’t be annoyed if someone older than you did nothing but lazed around rent-free all day?
Then comes the overwhelming work in school. One time, he got 22 different assignments in a week. I don’t even need to elaborate further on why he broke down further. He was struggling with grades—and it hurt him more knowing he’s ‘the’ academically gifted one in his family.
He was riddled with personal demons. He had them for a long time, kept them like a lifeline—If a lifeline was supposed to make you want to end it all, that is. At its worst, it was his personal Lucifer, a voice that just told him the world had nothing but dull greys and darkness to offer him. It was terrifying even for a bystander like me (A bystander that was trying his best to give a hand, yet you can only do so much to help someone fighting their own mind). One day, the others and I were trying to tell him that we cared, yet something whispered in his ear that we were jesters playing him for a fool.
He left our chat for weeks, and only two of us kept in touch; the rest were either too angry or afraid to approach. A calming respite I try to be this entire time, a rock standing tall amidst countless crashing waves. Yet even the sturdiest stone starts cracking, and I was at my limits too. Even reached a point where I was ready to give up, helpless while I talked to him online as he tried to overdose on some expired pills his mother left in their bathroom.
When he fell unconscious, I couldn’t sleep rethinking everything I knew. He ends up alive, much to our endless relief. It was undoubtedly the tensest hours in my life as I waited for an update from either him or his mother— Which one of the two would’ve told me the outcome before I would’ve read the text.
To this day, I wonder if I could call myself his savior. I mean...I was the persistent one that continued to try and help even if the rest didn't know what to do. I’m not taking full credit, yet it wouldn’t be farfetched to say he won’t be here if it wasn’t for me—for all of us.
I just wished it didn’t reach that point, to begin with.
~/-/~
A good while passed, and we walk down a dirt path toward your dad’s farm. I have some time to kill, so I might as well have a look before I go back.
“How’s life?” I blurt out. Nothing but that November is in my mind as I asked that.
“I’m coping,” You say jokingly.
“Any updates on your plans to go abroad?” I ask more.
“Not much, though I hope I get there sometime soon. I love this place, but I feel like I have no hope in this country,” He tells me. I’ve heard this many times but seeing the genuine drive in his face drives home the sincerity of his ambitions.
I respond, “Seems like nothing new; you always say this when we text.”
“Well, excuse me for not having the most exciting life,” You bite back with an eye roll way too similar to my own.
You don’t mean it, but your words spur me to deep thought, thinking what ‘exciting’ could entail. It neither had positive nor negative connotations, but either way, it’s exhausting.
I feel your hand on my back—a firm grip indicates your concern. I speak to ease your worry, “Well maybe… Not having the most exciting life Is a good thing for you.”
Then I add in a rush for fear of making you feel that I’m underestimating you, “Not in a bad way, I mean! Like remember back when it seems like so much was going on that you couldn’t handle it, I meant that.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment because it’s from you…” To be honest, I could’ve worded that better. It’s a great weight off my shoulders that I didn’t actually offend you.
“God, fine! Let’s just get something to eat since you don’t wanna get sentimental,” I say to dodge the awkward atmosphere.
“Thank you,” You say. Your footsteps shift slightly in direction, and I follow since you know this place more than I do. You tell me the moment we see an eatery not so far away, “Happy?”
“That’s the best I will get so yeah, as long as you pay for me,” I cheekily say with a smile.
“I’m broke,” You deadpan.
“So?” I ask back, glad this friendship endured through a tragedy-filled November
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