“I try to hide everything, so no one can see how much I really suffer. Yeah, I’m on prozac now. I finally just had to level with my parents, and my mom set up some appointments with a therapist, so I guess in two weeks or so I’ll be happier…” Marin’s eye contact drops with the last word, and she glances blankly out at the waves crashing against the shore.
I am a good listener. I nod at appropriate times.
“Wow, Marin, I didn’t know. [I knew.] I’m sorry. [I wasn’t.]”
“Well yeah, whatever. It isn’t your fault. It’s a genetic thing, it’s not just me feeling sad.”
Her words are canned, unoriginal, like she made this speech a thousand times to a thousand close friends. To her, I am not important. I know the vicious cycle she’s built, fueled by her depression, to manipulate those who love her. I tell myself it’s a chemical thing, a disease, totally legitimate, but at the same time, I can no longer see her as a victim.
“I care a lot about you, Marin.”
I am a good listener. I say the right things.