I haven’t spoken to my friends in a long time. I see glimpses of their lives on social media sometimes, say a little “hope you are well” in my head and put my phone away. I guess they might also be afraid to reach out too much to me. The weight of isolation is crushing, and the shadow of loneliness grows longer every day. And I feel awful. Because I see their lives, and there’s endless joy and light in my heart for them, I want to reach out and say congratulations, I’m so happy for you. But then my heart is also so heavy and I also feel so much anguish and anger at myself. And it hurts to be torn in two, simultaneously standing at the top of a mountain and sinking down to the bottom of the ocean, and my soul stretches thin across this expanse, struggling to exist. I’m breaking, I’m hurting, and I can’t bear it. And I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry my friend, that I cannot reach across to hold your hand and smile at you and tell you how much I love and miss you, and how proud and happy I am for you. And I’m so grateful for the love and time you had for me, despite the sickness that might have even stained your hands the countless times you’ve tried to comfort me. Maybe one day when I can step into daily chaos and keep myself from breaking, if you would still allow me to call you a friend, I would really be able to sit across you and tell you without tearing myself apart, that I’m so happy we’re together here sharing the same joy and love.

It was a cold winter day in Korea, where we were on a family vacation. We were walking outside in the cold as I pulled my gloves on, accidentally sliding two fingers into one finger of the glove. I was beginning to try and correct it myself, and perhaps it took me a little too long, I was only 3 years old or so at the time, but it must’ve taken a little too long for your liking because you came over to do it for me. Maybe my fingers were too little, maybe my gloves were a little too big, but the mistake happened again - two fingers in one finger of the glove. You got frustrated, your hands must’ve been getting colder, as you had removed your gloves to better help me with mine. You grew more impatient, and I could feel it in the forceful way you continued to try and put my gloves on, then you gave up and turned away, loudly chiding “why can’t you even put your gloves on properly?” And that was the first time I heard myself think in that 3 year old mind of mine, “why am I so stupid that I couldn’t do something so simple?”

And the years went on, time passed so quickly in a terrible blur as I grew up, and every day that voice in my head was fed again and again by your harsh words and unreasonable standards. I could never do anything right, and any mistake was dire no matter how trivial. Having been brought up this way, I never learnt that these words were harsh and standards far too unreasonable. I thought it was normal to have such a loud and persistent voice in my head, constantly berating me, “you’re so stupid, you can’t even do something so simple. You’re worthless and useless, you should just die. You made a mistake, you fucking idiot, it’s not going to be okay, everything is going wrong.” It was so normal. It was my every waking moment.

Then I was 27, and it had already been a decade of sitting in an armchair fortnightly across a psychologist, and I’m weeping as usual, trying and failing to heal the immeasurable pain in my soul. And over the years they’ve tried to teach me to realise that the monstrously abusive voice in my head should never have existed in the first place. But I could never escape that perpetual winter day, being that little 3 year old girl again staring up at your angry face, and thinking about being a failure, and living my life in disappointment, failure and utter worthlessness.

Now three years later, I’m already 30 and still as broken as ever, afraid of almost everything because every possibility of failure petrifies me, because I can’t escape the fear of not being able to put that damned glove on correctly.

I find myself wishing over and over that your parenting left wounds on my flesh instead of a dagger in my soul. I wanted to be saved, I wanted them to notice my pain, I wanted you gone. But nothing happened, you played the loving father so well to a public audience, and my pain could only watch from backstage in silence.

I know you think you meant well, every time you had harsh words to say, every strange and unreasonable demand for how things should be done, every time you scared us with the “what if”s and “just in case”s of extreme and terrifying situations. And unfortunately, I didn’t take any of it well. Maybe I’m too timid, too weak, or maybe I’m truly defective in some way. But these three decades growing up under this heavy and gloomy shadow I can’t shrug off has broken me beyond repair. I can only hope to survive a natural lifespan, never really living a full life, whole and normal.

And pathetically, I find myself wondering more often than I should, often on sleepless nights with a heavy head on a tear-soaked pillow, if you still remember planting the seed of despair in that little 3 year old girl one winter day, and watering it with bitterness as she grew older, till it bloomed so horrifyingly that it completely shattered her soul.

Yeah I’m not okay. Can I cry now?

I still dream about you. I dream about holding you again, being held by you again, talking, laughing, living out an entire life with you. I really hate those dreams. I wake up and I’m heartbroken at my reality. But then I remember your reality and I’m happy that you’ve found a more carefree happiness you deserve. And despite the tears, I’m still glad.

To make me fall.

Don’t touch me.

There’s an ache in my chest

And my mouth is sour.

There is a dragon in our home.

His venom is loud inside my head. His claws scratch hard on the walls. They never land on us but deep inside reach the echoes and ripples anyway. Trapped. A prisoner’s prisoner, a frozen time traveller, and my weeping heart in the grip of a demon I can no longer deceive.

A lot has happened. Nothing has happened. I am still here. I was okay. I was not okay. I did good things. I did bad things.

A new face again, in my therapist’s chair. And the story is told again, who what where when why how. The book is translucent and the stories are tinted shadows. But I cry all the same.

A new form of therapy too. Paints, sand, clay, tears, words, fear. Raw, sticky, messy. Good.

Back at home, worse. Crash. Bang. Slam. Wrong wrong wrong. Poor Mummy. I’m not really there.

Still hurts. Still scared. Still nothing.

It’s probably my doing. I push people away and isolate myself. We speak less. We meet less. And when we do, it’s all superficial. Sometimes I wish I could talk about the same things they do - a job, a partner, a house. But there’s nothing in my days except pathetically salty or bloody battles that always just bring one more aching day. And they used to cautiously listen, if ever I blurt out my battle tales. But maybe now we’re all weary. And they have their own proper wars. So we go on dancing this awful tango, where they move and I freeze, they turn and I fall. I’m sitting across them and I feel a galaxy between us. I try to speak but my voice and love are lost in the stars.

I am the toxic friend.

I am the one that never calls, the one that bleeds negativity, the one that does nothing but apologises when friends become acquaintances because patience turns to impatience.

People ask me what time I wake, and respond with awe when I say whenever. They don’t know that I stay in bed all day binge-watching cartoons to escape the vicious hum that takes over when I’m not distracted. They ask what I’m doing in life, and respond with envy when I, to avoid explaining, say I’m taking a break. They don’t see me struggling to step out of the house to do simple errands. They don’t see me panicking when I get a phone call or a knock at the door. I hear the voice of my first psychologist in my head, saying the depression isn’t me. But then I hear the voice of my reason inside as well, rebuking that I’m just a lazy, whiny, self-absorbed 26-year-old wastrel who refuses to grow up.

And I am so convinced, as I have always been since 14 years ago, that while people light up the room with their smile, their laughter, their personality, I take the light away with my presence and suck the living soul out of anyone that has the misfortune of crossing my path. Sometimes I think about the ones who remain in my life and I wonder why they’re still there. Family, they can’t really escape me. My few best friends, we meet just once a fortnight at best and I don’t speak about my troubled feelings and thoughts anymore, and I guess that’s why they have little reason to leave now. And those I’ve barely managed to keep in my life, they’re really better off without an inconsistent ghost in their life.

You see those articles about toxic people in your life, how you should remove them or stay away from them, and infuse your life with positivity so you can succeed. I always read these articles and do a mental check off of all the toxic behaviours I exhibit, like a twisted game to reassure myself of my decrepitude and my self-isolation. And sometimes at the end I catch a sad part of myself thinking, what pushes ‘a troubled friend’ over the edge into ‘a toxic person’? How long before even my closest friends see how much better off they would be without my poisonous being? Will my family abandon me too? How far am I going to let myself fall into the abyss? Will I ever stop feeling like this? Is there no escape from me?

And that voice of reason inside continues to chuckle in the dark.

It almost seems I can never talk to others about my feelings anymore. All I hear is
“You’ve got to let go of the anger”
“You’ve got to forgive”
“No one can hurt you unless you let them”
“You have to decide to ignore all the negativity”
“Stop making excuses”
When all I wanted was a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. I can’t talk about a problem without getting solutions thrown into my face. But why, why does everything have to be solved as quickly as possible? Why does nobody tell me it’s okay to grieve, and it’s okay to go at my own pace? Why does nobody just hold me and wait with me through the storm? When I say “I can’t” and they say “but you can”, when they show me their scars and tell me their stories to tell me “you’re not the only one, everyone goes through stuff”, when they ask me questions then pick apart my answers and call them “excuses”, all it accomplishes is to add on to the shame, the guilt, the anger, and the self loathing. And even that is my fault, isn’t it? Because “no one can make me feel bad unless I let them”. So I have no one to blame but myself, no one to hate but myself, everything happened and effected me the way it did because of me. It’s me, it’s always me. And I am after all, a whiny and ungrateful brat with invalid and insignificant problems that aren’t even as bad as the problems of anyone else so I should really quit whining, suck it up, stop making excuses, and do something. Because it’s so easy, so possible, so normal.