I can feel her distance like my ankle senses the length of sidewalk between it and an ice pack (achingly). I've been walking to class, ever since realizing that the bike ride wasn't quite gratifying enough (fumbling with the u-lock, sweating my balls off--things only my mother's genetics could possibly control), but it takes a greater toll on my ankle, which never really, properly healed.

I tell her about that, and she asks about a doctor visit (I have; I went through a month of physical therapy, and still this). We go on like that for a while. I know she's depressed, but I never realized just how much of an agonizing feeling it is to talk to a depressed loved one. Please laugh. Please express interest in my life. I'm like a puppy biting at ankles and pissing on the carpet. That fear rushes in, that your attention and support is inadequate. She won't laugh at my jokes, and I keep asking myself why I would expect anything different, right now. There's this urge to be encouraging and especially shallow and pleasant about conversation, because the last thing you want is to trigger anything.

I've been depressed countless times, but I'm still a total jackass, fumbling for the right thing to say and never finding it. I tell her I'm a jackass. She says a few things but I never hear outright disagreement (it's trivial, I remind myself. She probably doesn't care, right now. Not the best time to be selfishly apologetic). Shoot. I'm a dick. I've become a total asshole. I've been feeling it, myself. It's been a weird week, full of conflict and unsteady hands. The reminder that my two most recent major flames won't even look at me makes me take a second--and third, and fourth--look at myself. Is this the reflection of my affection? Is this the type of person I attract?

And how do I stop?

Insecurities, they pile like that. I think that's a big part of why she's depressed, but I won't say that, because it's a crappy thing to suggest. Yeah, thanks for the help. I'm really in a place where I'm ready to climb out.

I struggle to let her get there on her own. Seeing her like this is like a mirror on my worst days. After feeling all that, it's hard not to step in. But I don't know what she needs, and I think others do. Just a conversation. A small step. One little reach back into the world, after being covered by a black veil for months. It has to be slow and small, at first.

Baby steps.

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