It was last year when it happened. I think so anyway. Could've been this year, Oxycontin withdrawal being great for rubbing away the already blurred edges of my short term memory. Thankfully my long term memory should kick in in six months or so and clarify the matter. Prior to that it'd probably be helpful if I remembered what I'm talking about long enough to tell you.
...oh yeah. I remember now. The first cut is the deepest. Supposedly. It's not though, not really. The first cut might be the hurtiest, but not the deepest. Some wounds just never really heal, helped to stay painful by further cuts along the way.
My deepest cut is undoubtedly the long term effects of spending most of my life disbelieved. I have an honesty fetish. Gets me into trouble more often than not but it's the only way I found of dealing with the disbelief. Tell the truth about e v e r y t h i n g. Always. That way it's impossible to be the liar you're accused of being. Even if the truth wasn't the most appropriate thing to say at the time.
I've been better about this lately. Good friends in my life who find the idea of disbelieving me baffling. Or so I thought.
Ben wanted to talk to me earlier this week. We talk alot so nothing unusual in that. Except he wanted to tell me how disappointed he was in me. For the something that happened somewhere in the lost Oxycontin blur. When he was telling me I was so befuddled I couldn't work out what he was actually talking about. So, I apologised for having hurt his feelings a couple of time, made a vague comment about him not really recognising how difficult things are for me most of the time, to which he agreed, and left it at that.
It was only later when I remembered that I was hurt. Really, really wounded kind of hurt. Then angry. Initially not so much, now pretty damn pissed off actually.
See, Ben was upset because he believed I'd let him down, thought I just couldn't be arsed to do the favour he was asking. He can't see why it was such a big deal, after all, all he asked me to do was look up a phone number on the computer.
'It's something so small' he said. 'And you couldn't be arsed'
Which is why I'm so hurt. And so angry. Ben is a good friend, the kind of friend who's been there for me many times. The kind of friend who really would have every right to be pissed off with me if I really couldn't be arsed to do something he asked.
Except of course it wasn't that I couldn't be arsed. It was that I couldn't at all. The hurt and anger come from someone so close to me making the assumption that I couldn't be bothered not that I couldn't.
I did tell Ben that at the time he called. I was in bed. The computer switched off and in another room. I literally couldn't get out of bed I was so overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion. My body was set to reboot and just like windows until it was done installing updates it wasn't going to do anything else.
I remember now telling him a couple of times in that blurry conversation that 'I couldn't'. I remember how much he pushed me, how he said 'it was a nothing', that 'it would only take a moment' I remember being a bit cross with him for his insistence, but not having the energy or will to explain further.
Somehow in Ben's mind that all became 'you couldn't be arsed'. And that hurts. It opens up that original wound of disbelief all over again. A scab at which no-one has picked in quite some time. Niggled by someone who I expect to know better. Someone who's own wound needs stitching. But to sew that shut I have to cut deeper into my own.