What's yours is yours

Sometimes when my vision has become so blinkered, so focussed on how this illness is affecting me, what I have to do to work around it, hussle this way and that; I get a chance to remember exactly whose illness it is.
Yesterday I had an email from J. I wish I could post it here but I feel that's one step too far (an anonymous blog about my thoughts is one thing but that's quite another).

J expresses himself far better in writing than he does face-to-face. He explained how lonely he feels; how he misses his old circle of friends who have dispersed across the country. He talked about how trapped he feels by this downward drive, the inability to act and to feel happiness.

He apologised for his angry outbursts. He admitted that he was jealous of my happiness, of my social network and most of all of the fact that I seem "find my joy elsewhere these days."

I could taste his pain (a metalic taste, acidic). And this time I knew that I couldn't do anything about it. I didn't feel like I ought to or needed to change anything about my behaviour in an attempt to ameliorate his suffering. I know now that nothing I can do will really help. And I also know that making sacrifices will hurt me and probably end the relationship.

In my response I expressed love and sympathy. I told him how much I would like him to be by my side in enjoying life.

I also framed his suffering (succinctly, without too much feeling) in the context of a treatable illness. I wasn't glib about the difficulties of medication or therapy, but I suggested them as the only way to address these matters.

I didn't discuss at all my socialising; didn't address any specific circumstance. I don't need to justify or explain my actions. I've done it many times before.

I didn't mention his apologies. It's not worth remarking on intentions any more.

Flo