Work on Progress

I made my best friend cry today.  It wasn't intentional, and I felt like s**t afterward.

She had called because she was going through her own trials.  I listened, but noticed a very familiar pattern.  Plus or minus a few details, and adjusting the degree of difficulty in specific situations, her testimony mirrors mine.  She was pirouetting around the body of the call with slight stories of smaller importance, but I stayed enamored.  Details of her life give me memories.  Not of my own, but of hers.  It is through these memories that I imagine her smile.  It is the infectious smile that makes others smile.  Then I crashed through the joi, and asked her to tell me what she was trying to avoid.  It was at that point that her own situations honed the details into stilettos of pain.  The pausing of speech, the soft sobs that one tries to hide, the ache emoted through cellphone waves that crashed into my existence.   I took in her words, and felt the emotions on my own levels.  As the tears broke, I listened...I tried to feel what she felt as best I can.  I listened as she bounded through each situation.  As she went through each, I felt her start to loosen her grip on her heart, relaxing in the slightest of manners.  I couldn't tell you how long or short we spent on the phone.

That's.

When.

It.

Happened.

She asked me how I was doing.

Aside from losing someone who couldn't listen to me and the rest of the nonsensical stupidity I have put myself through throughout my life, I said everything else was fine.

Then she asked me about my family, whom she knows.

That's when I broke.  With voice trembling and tears no one will ever see, I tried to relay the information that constantly shatters my emotions.  Not the brunt of it, but the pertinent pieces that are relevant to why I feel so broken.

I heard the trembling in her voice as she tried to be strong; Trying to give me the strength that she once had.  I heard her voice weaken, and I knew what was next.

And I felt like s**t afterward.

I hate being this.  I can't tell my entirety to anyone, because that's a selfishness reserved for anybody but me.  The life I tell makes others feel a sadness that makes most ignore me after they hear a few facts.  Those that try to stay end up feeling a hurt that nobody should have to feel.  Nobody but me.

There's as purpose in my life.  It is not to have and to hold.  It is not to love and cherish.  It is to be there for people when it seems to be the darkest in their lives, and then to disperse.

And now I have to go.