I’m in Lafayette Square, LA. Day six of recovering from a new H3N2 strain, and I feel worn down in ways that go beyond the physical.
Today’s entry may read more like a rant, because it is.
I have this most difficult person in my life.
I care about this person, and because of that, I want their relationships to be healthy and enduring.
For me, maintaining good relationships comes easily. I know how to avoid other people’s trigger points in conversation. I don’t take careless words to heart. I’m not easily wounded, and I don’t read malice where none was intended.
But this person is different. They are deeply sensitive, and that sensitivity often makes relationships fragile and difficult to sustain, especially with those who matter most. I want to help them, yet I don’t know how. Any advice feels dangerous, as though it might be mistaken for an attack. Any action that doesn’t explicitly include them risks being interpreted the same way, even when it has nothing to do with them at all. When situations become uncomfortable, my instinct is to step away and create space, to breathe, to reset. But with this person, distance feels dangerous. They would see it as abandonment rather than self-preservation.
And so I remain suspended in a frustrated limbo: afraid that every gesture, even silence, could cause harm.