My phone screen lit up again. Amy’s message: “Can you talk? I’m falling apart.”
I stared at the text, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, unable to type. This was the fourth time this week. As her friend, I knew what I was supposed to do: reply right away, listen patiently, and somehow find the words to hold her together. But I had nothing left to give.
For the past three years, I’d been the “most reliable person” among my friends. I remembered everyone’s birthdays, who was allergic to peanuts, and the names of their exes. I had taken countless 2 a.m. calls and sat through endless tearful breakdowns. But no one knew that my anxiety had gotten so bad that I needed medication every single day.
Last Tuesday, I was waiting in line at the grocery store when suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My palms were sweating. My heart was pounding like it might burst out of my chest. I left my cart and ran outside. I sat in my car and cried for twenty minutes before I could even turn on the engine.
Saturday afternoon, I finally sat down in a therapist’s office. She asked me a question that made me freeze.
“When was the last time you did something just for yourself?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It had been so long — too long to remember.
That night, I didn’t reply to Amy’s message. For the first time. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb, took a hot bath, and went to bed at ten.
The next morning, I woke up, drank a warm cup of drank a mug of warm tea, and stood by the window, soaking in the sun. Then I picked up my phone and texted Amy:
“I’m free at 7 tonight. We can talk for half an hour. Also, have you thought about seeing a therapist? I started seeing one recently myself. It really helps.”
I told myself not to feel guilty. This, I realized, was the best kind of support I could offer.
