Yesterday was a hard day. A close friend is /going to be/ homeless. He is at the end of his rope. He feels, or at least he did last night, that there is no hope, that there is nothing but oblivion for him.
 
He didn’t want platitudes. He didn’t want to be comforted. He just wanted to be listened to.
 
I thought instead of trying to talk him out of it, I should let him give me his reasons for “oblivion”. Oh, it hurt. It hurts to see a person flay themselves to the bone, to reveal the innermost thoughts about themselves. I thought that by listening, I would be able to be the “shunt” that allows all that internal poison to come out. But doing that hurt so bad. It’s a quick drain on the emotional batteries. As of this post, I’m feeling nothing but mental white noise. I am drained. Completely. Utterly.
 
It was real. It wasn’t a stunt for attention. It was a cry for help. He needs help as he really thinks he’d better off dead.
 
I’m letting him stay a few days, so that hopefully he’ll get some perspective on his situation.
 
(Yeah, I know most people would call the police, but truly suicidal folks just go through with it. Usually with little to no warning. I figure as long as he’s talking about it, there’s a chance to help him.)