I’m not sure I can take it much longer. I know I can’t begin to imagine what she’s going through but unless she tells me what she needs, I can’t provide it. I’m tired of the long meaningful looks into the middle distance and me asking what’s wrong and getting a shrug and a sad smile in return. Yes, I know you’re dying. Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me your fears and tell me how I can make it slightly less scary.
Putting somebody with depression in charge of somebody with depression is probably a recipe for disaster.