I can’t help you, I say this as a warning. You know, like the ones that come on the back of cigarette boxes or bottles of poison. Its not that I don’t want to help, or that what you are asking me is beyond my scope of abilities. It’s that I really, honestly, can’t. Thing is, if you ask, I will agree to help, I will tell you I’m there for you, I will even believe that its true. But in the end I will just disappoint you. Leaving me to live with the knowledge of how I let you down. I may even be afraid to talk to you, imagining that the whole time you’re thinking about how I couldn’t follow through. You’ll sense my hesitation, you’ll think I’m being catty or that I never intended to help you in the first place. You’ll stop talking to me. A few moths later we’ll meet, it will be awkward, and you’ll be reminded of why you don’t talk to me anymore. I’ll still remember letting you down.
Truth is, I can’t even help myself. My brain is too cluttered and no matter how much spring cleaning I do it remains a jumbled mess. Many days I find myself sitting, staring at everything that I ought to be doing, overwhelmed into inactivity. It’s like the person I want to be is screaming at me, trying to claw her way out of my head, but the person I am keeps her paralyzed under lock and key. Consider this an advanced apology. Sad, but true.