I stare dully at Neil’s latest text, flicking my wristband and debating how to reply. Or whether I can find the energy.
I’m fine. Sorry, just long day at work.
On days like this, I used to call in sick, unable to form sensible treatment plans while battling brain fog and limbs weighed down with lead. Now I show up if I can, and meet my troubles head on. I have to listen much harder to patients explaining their symptoms, and being civil to colleagues is a huge effort, but sometimes, being around upbeat people like Alaric or hearing a patient’s off the cuff gratitude pulls me out of myself far quicker than any medication or loafing around in bed.
Today, throwing myself into work hasn’t, unfortunately, done the trick.
I know my body and mind well. Thankfully, this isn’t a full-blown, soul-eating, lassitude requiring psychiatric support. It’sonly an impression of sadness, hopefully doing nothing more than brushing past me for a short period.
All the same, I’ve been at this game long enough to know I need to take care of myself to ward off something deeper. Sometimes, that means nothing more than box breathing sessions, daily swimming, or setting five-minute alarms to delay hair pulling. Other times, it means taking a couple weeks to myself in the middle of nowhere Wales. Having made arrangements with work, I’ve decided I’ll head out tomorrow.
Tonight, however, flooded with waves of exhaustion, I’m shutting out the world and hunkering down on the sofa with my duvet and a mindless action film. I want to explain; I really do. I want to be better than this. I want to be the man he thinks I am. But… I stare a little longer at Neil’s name on my phone screen, then switch the thing off again.
It’s late when someone hammers on the door. From the force, I get the impression it’s not the first knock. I must have nodded off. The film’s finished, anyhow. I guess I’ll never know whodunnit.
Only one person would visit at this time of night. If I thought I could get away with it, I wouldn’t answer. I’ve been relatively honest about my fragile mental health, but knowing and seeing are two very separate entities. Neil’s falling for the guy who guides him through challenging hospital appointments and covers for him when he can’t decipher menus. Not the basket case who can’t find the strength to throw a meal together.
When he knocks again, I drag myself to my feet. On days like this, my thighs and shins feel as if I’m ploughing through wet concrete. Even my toes ache. I’ll sniff and cough a bit, tell him he should avoid my germs, and suggest he goes back to the bar and enjoys a night with our friends.
I open the door to a jittery, impatient Neil.
“Are you okay?” He brings me into a crushing hug. Hollowed out, I stand in the circle of his arms until he’s done. “Have you lost your phone? I tried to call you and text, like a million times.”
“Hi. Sorry, I switched my phone off.”
Taking a pace back, he stares at me as if I’m crazy.
“It’s not illegal.”
“Pretty antisocial, though.”
That was the entire point.
With a hard kiss to my forehead, he sweeps in like a frustrated whirlwind, bringing with him the scents of cold night air, cigarette smoke, and whiskey. As I only have one sidelight lit, Neil trails a steadying hand along the hallway wall to counter the mix of poor vision and alcohol. How Ez hasn’t yet spotted something is amiss I have no idea; the clues are all there.
He drops down onto the sofa where I’d made myself a nest of blankets and duvet. He shoves it aside. “Oh god, you would not believe the shitty day I’ve had.”
As someone who once spent a few months living on a psych ward, very little about shitty days has the capacity to surprise me. Yawning, I curl up in an armchair. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Ez wants us to move this year on refurbing the bar. Relocating the dancefloor and stage down into the basement to make room for a swanky food area upstairs. Has he ever told you about that?”
I nod tiredly. Ezra and Isaac walked me through the plans for expansion one time when I was over at theirs. Rapid-fire, Neil walks me through them again but with a lot more swearing. I fight to concentrate; his words reach my ears but then slide right off. My forehead feels tight, pulled towards the centre.
“He thinks we’ll be best dividing roles, at least as we bed in. Almost as if we’re running two separate businesses. I’ll probably manage downstairs to start off with. How the fuck am I going todo that? He’s so excited—we both are, or at least I was until my fucking eyes decided they weren’t going to play ball any longer.”
He thumps an exasperated fist on the arm of the sofa. My brain rattles in my skull.
“He’ll hate me if I veto it, but he’ll hate me even more if we go ahead and I fuck everything up. What do you think I should do? Pretend to be scared about the extra investment and debt? Rabbit on about the country being in recession and people reluctant to spend? Yes, I think I’ll do that. I’ll look as if I’ve shredded my bollocks, and he’ll secretly hate me forever, but it’s the only way.”
Personally, I think Neil should tell Ezra exactly what his problem entails before this slides way out of his control—he can’t mask it for much longer. But I haven’t the mental bandwidth right now to advise him, nor argue with him when he comes up with all the reasons why he’s not ready. As it is, I’m barely following his train of thought.
“Anyhow, park that saga for a moment because it gets worse. I then traipse halfway across town to that fucking Fighting Blindness meeting. You remember, the one I had the leaflet about and that the nurse at the clinic said would be amazing?” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure, if you're a total loser. She fucking lied, Luke. Oh, and I nearly died on the way there. If the bus had been going any quicker, I’d be fighting quadriplegia, never mind fucking blindness.”
He takes a breath. “Anyway, I get there, and it looks as if I’ve accidentally joined a pensioners’ outing, but I’d anticipated that. What I hadn’t anticipated was that Derek, the guy running the thing, would be such an obnoxious walking talking fucking greeting card. And don’t get me started on this woman called Alice. The video was…”
If I had the strength, I’d explain I’m not up to this right now. If Neil was a more perceptive visitor, I wouldn’t have to.
It’s not entirely his fault; if his eyesight was better in low light so he could see me properly, he’d realise I look like death warmed up and ask me what’s wrong. So wrapped up in his own drama, he can’t see or sense I’m not myself. I don’t blame him, but it’s a harsh reminder why I avoid emotional attachments beyond a few close friendships with people like Isaac and Alaric. They know my background because they were there. If I told Alaric how I felt, he would ascertain I’m taking my meds, then make me promise to check in with him morning and night. Isaac, already aware, has been attending nearly all my swim sessions.
