Little confessions

October 24th

Three stories I heard last week, from people I know from work, but with whom I am in no way close:

1. A guy, who I actually don't like (he is a rude and arrogant misogynist), told me that for the last two years he’s been suffering from serious depression. Was under the care of a psychiatrist, constantly loaded on anti-depressants just to face another day. Had a suicide attempt last year, and that wasn't his first one. Made some changes and is doing much better now, but for a while, he was hanging by a thread.

2. A woman I know well, and respect tremendously for her work ethic and just being helpful and funny and organized, told me that for a while she suffered from neurosis. She would come home from work, so tired and overworked, and emotionally drained, that she only could get to bed and stay there until the next day. That was connected with eating disorders and constant vomiting and overall weakness and ruined her health.

3. Another woman that I know well (we eat lunch together every day) and actually quite fancy, told me that her husband is dying — of his own volition. He has serious diabetes, with blood sugar regularly over 300. Cannot walk more than 10 meters, is facing amputation of a foot, and refuses to take his medication and see the doctors and do anything (that is to go on diet) to give himself any chance of regaining any health. She said she is just waiting for this to be over.

Why did they tell me those stories?

What makes people tell those stories, those deeply personal and unpleasant and in many ways tragic stories, to me? What gives? Why me? And what am I supposed to do with the knowledge of those intimate and I think confidential stories? And what does it take for those people to actually have the strength and resolve to share it, just like that, with me? Of course, I didn't ask — why me? I just nodded and tried to be sympathetic. That I can do perfectly, even when I need to fake my sincerity a little.

Their stories are now mine. What am I supposed to do with them? Anything at all? I cannot forget them, there were told to me on purpose and with purpose as well. But to what purpose is beyond me to understand and to relate. Or maybe that is the point — to look at me and try to find out if is there a way that relates to me. Or maybe there wasn't any reason at all behind those confessions. Maybe they just needed to talk to somebody, and they have chosen me as a recipient.

But I don't like this gift of the knowledge of the pain of other people laid on me. I don't handle it well, but cannot refuse it — am I just conventionally polite or deeply insecure?