Low Functioning Happiness

Rita can’t leave her apartment. It weighs on her to the point where she can’t bear it and starts to cry. I visit her almost every day, when she’s capable of having me. Sometimes she’s too wasted from Xanax and Ketamine. Other times, she really wants me to come over but can’t bring herself to ask. She doesn’t want to burden me, but it hurts her deeply if I don’t make the effort to insert myself.

I should insist on visiting her when she’s at risk, even when she says no. We both know I can turn that no into a yes, and that that’s what’s expected of me if I truly care about her and her well-being.

When I do visit, we spend the day together. Most of the time, I try to come up with something entertaining to say, but to no avail. I pick up lunch or dinner from that place she likes, and then we just eat quietly. I try to make myself useful by fixing things around the house, maybe doing some laundry or taking the dog out for a walk, but I know that’s not what she needs. “You shouldn’t try to fix everything all the time,” she says, and I get what she means by that. But I know if I were just a better person, I would’ve fixed what really needs fixing.

We’ve been together for a while now. We used to talk for hours and crack up at the silliest things. We had all these private jokes, you know, the ones that couples have, like she would tease me about my seal-sounding yawns, and I would get her to laugh by making a funny pop sound, tapping my belly button with my thumb. There’s other stuff I can’t recall right now, like the last time we were intimate. But that’s unfair to even mention. Forget I did. Damn, that’s just selfish, like asking a person with no legs to run to the store and get you some shoes. I really should be more empathetic, pull my head out of my own ass for a second, and try to understand the pain she’s in instead of complaining about having fun to someone who’s tragically incapable of that.

But there was a time when we did have a lot of fun together. Sometimes I think it was actually me who stopped being fun for her, and that she stayed with me in spite of that, ending up where she’s at because of it. Because of her caring nature. After all, I was the one who took on the boring job and my boring hobbies. She never complains, but I know she doesn’t like it when I spit out random facts about math and surviving in the Botswana wetlands. Just to be clear, I was never in any survival situation myself. I only know some techniques from watching these shows on the Discovery Channel. If I had any stories like that from my own life, I would probably be a much more interesting person. But I sit there and tell her how one can find dry tinder by looking for bird nests, and she smiles and nods. No one really wants to hear about these sorts of things. I wish I could be more captivating when talking to her.

She can’t speak to other people either. All of the people close to her have drifted away in some way or another. She thinks they don’t want to be around her. Says it’s because of her condition. They’re either afraid of the sadness rubbing off on them, or they don’t see a point in talking to her, what with her opinion being worthless and all. “What kind of advice would they take from a screwed-up person like me?” she argues. And it’s not like she’s up for doing any fun activities with anyone.

No, she’s stuck with me. And I always fuck up too. I hardly ever know the right thing to say to comfort her. My attempted compliments come off as insults, my gestures too insinuated to merit a response. At times, they can even be downright inconsiderate. “I got you a cupcake from that bakery on 14th Street,” I smile while holding the cupcake up like an imbecile. “Oh, thanks, I’m trying to cut down on sweets though,” she replies, and I feel like a jerk because I knew she was.

I should work harder and be more thoughtful. Make my gestures grander and on point. I should plan a trip or something and whisk her away. I’m sure she would do the same for me if the tables were turned. But I never do. While she’s suffering, I waste time procrastinating. Too lazy to initiate. Too scared to fail her, which I probably will. I’m just not good at these things.

Aware of my shortcomings, I often choose to stay quiet, forcing her to start a conversation, in which I try to engage and lighten the mood. But not too much so that I don’t underplay her condition. I rarely succeed. I end up saying something upsetting, and the quietness takes over once again. I then sit there wondering if I haven’t just made things worse. Once again, focusing on myself instead of thinking of her and what she’s going through.

We turn on the television and find a show she likes. The hours go by with us binge-watching on the couch, and my mind wanders off. I try to make some funny commentary about the show, but it always falls flat, proving how uninvested I am in the content, which makes the show seem silly, and her, an idiot for watching it.

At some point, I cave under the pressure of text messages and emails and go to the other room to do some work, knowing that if I could only concentrate better when working, it would leave me more time to straighten out my personal life. Help out the way I ought to. Like a real man would. It’s not like I have any excuse not to. I’m not the one going through it. Everything’s fine with me.

Sometimes I think she would be better off with someone else. Someone who’s emotionally attentive, who can give her the support and sensitivity she needs. Who says and does the right thing. But that’s a cop-out. I should make the effort to become that person. I should be the one to help nurse her back to happiness. The one who fixes everything that needs fixing. I mean, that’s what I'm there for, right?