Variations on a Theme

Here in the shallow end of the sympathy pool, the water is still and calm and barely comes to my knees.  It's almost easy to ignore the commotion at the deep end, where a man I used to know struggles, on the very verge of drowning although he's been thrown a life preserver and it's within reach.


There are, I see, twelve missed calls on my cell phone - eleven from him, all left in the last couple of days.  I force myself to listen to five, each more urgent and desperate than the last.  They're filled with declarations of love, all too little and too late, sobbing pleas for me to visit, irrational assurances of how much he misses me, how he needs, needs, needs.  His isolation and loneliness have disabled his mind as the stroke disabled his body.  He's angry, bitter, depressed to the point of suicidal threats, and begging me to help.  I delete the last half dozen calls without listening and then despise myself.  Reminding myself that I can't swim and that another rescue attempt would only drag me under with him isn't much help - my sleep is still restless and troubled with guilt.  These variations on a theme haunt me like bad dreams but I can't and won't help him when all he wants is to go home again, back to an unsafe and abusive place, a place that endangers his health and maybe even his life. 


Searching for the truth within myself, I finally realize that I'm angry at him - for refusing to try to make friends in this dismal place, for not seeing that he's worse instead of better after a year and a half, for for the wild mood swings and the terrible telephone calls, for refusing to talk to anyone who might actually be able to help, and lastly, for his schemes to acquit his wife from the charge of domestic abuse.  I'm furious that he's chosen to play the helpless victim and that he expects me to play along - even in the state he's in, he's still trying to manipulate me and worse, his need - this pitiful and Grand Canyon sized need - is getting on my last nerve.  It's my anger not his that keeps me away, I admit to myself.  I hate visiting him, hate listening to him defend her, hate having him beg me to help when there's nothing I can do, so I pull away, delete the telephone calls and try and put him out of my mind.  He had so many chances, I remind myself bitterly, and he turned down each and every one.  This unbidden thought gives me a sudden and horrifying jolt - surely, payback can not be part of this emotional equation, surely I cannot be that kind of person.  I'm angry, I tell myself, not out to get even.  If this keeps up, I'll be the one looking for therapy.


I resolve to visit soon, to be as cheerful and optimistic as reality will allow, to bend if needed but not break.  The connection between us is fraying - fragile but still holding in its way - old lovers and old dreams fade with morning light but old friends are not so easily dismissed.