I want to post on Facebook:
Hey who wants to go out tonight?
One last drink?
Maybe 3 or 5?
For old time’s sake.
We’ll talk shit.
I promise not to talk about my feelings.
I promise not to talk about how I’m going to a psych hospital.
I promise not to talk about how most of the people I know haven’t said anything to me but that I really appreciate the ones who have.
I promise to talk about, I don’t know, books.
Oh wait, who reads these days anyways?
Maybe we could talk about the sunshiny day today, because it really is.
Or how my dad’s broad beans are yummy green reminders of Spring and early summer and the bees that never sting anyway.
I promise not to talk about how I worry about who will do my eyebrows in the psych ward.
I definitely won’t talk about how I probably won’t be able to follow keto (“erm, hi, Nurse Ratched, so, I’m not coeliac or anything, but I can only eat meat, fat and *some* veggies, no sugar, I’ll bring my own”).
If you come drinking with me tonight, I promise not to mention how I’m worried that nothing will change.
I *definitely* won’t tell you about how I’m worried that everything will change, then I’ll come out and nothing will have changed – like when you go on a holiday, or a retreat, how YOU change but everything else stays still. I won’t talk about that for sure.
I won’t talk about how, despite everything, his worry, sadness, all that, that Jeff is going to be really really relieved to have me gone, just for some respite. That’s something we will never talk about.
I’ll tell you about this pretty honeyeater, or maybe it was just a finch, it had a yellow and black check, snag me a most beautiful tune and as soon as I grabbed my phone to take a photo, it went away.
I might ask you if I should go to Peter Aexander to get proper PJs, because I’ve just got Jeff’s cast off tees for home and some of dad’s undies (pre-worn, don’t be a weirdo).
But I will get a little drunk and sloppy. Who’s in? Maybe the Rev for fish tacos?