dear mr. president

A Monday off. Three days in a row of not waking up at six! And I never stayed up later than midnight. Wonderful! I almost feel rested, finally. And I woke up to a massage client who has become a good friend bringing me breakfast before his massage! How great and sweet is that?
It was the bff’s 30th bday weekend. So, lots of forcing myself to be social. I did pretty good. Of course, with all that alcohol, there were lots of tears. I didn’t have lots of alcohol and, for once, I wasn’t the one in tears—just the one picking up the pieces. I HATE alcohol. It’s so stupid and it makes everyone miserable. Why pot is illegal and alcohol isn’t, I have no idea. Not that I really want pot to be legal, I’ve never tried it, but it can’t be worse than alcohol. It just can’t.
Life since HWMNBN has made my compassion and empathy much more genuine, like when my friend was in his own agony last night. However, it’s stripped me of the ability to tell lies, that I never realized were lies before. After he left, people would tell me that everything was going to be alright, that it wasn’t meant to be, that life would get better. None of it true. As much as I wanted to whisper those things in his ear as I held him last night, offer some comfort, I couldn’t make myself. All I could do was confirm the pain. Confirm that he will continue to keep going. All I could offer were my arms and the gift of weeping in silence. While I wanted to give him those words, I would have hated myself for being cliché and for lying to him. I do think he will be ok—he’s always been stronger than me. However, how do I know?
Maybe that’s gift enough, the gift of not lying for the sake of something to say. Sometimes pain is just pain and there is no bandage to cover or ointment to heal.
Luckily for him, the gift alcohol brings is oblivion to what transpired while in its influence and the pain he allowed to escape.
Oblivion would be nice.