Wasn’t her choice, she says. She was so very sick. Too sick to reach out, and what communication she did manage was prompted by others due to her inability and the lack of energy it would take to send a message.

Her Facebook feed, however, would indicate otherwise. As would the number of Zoom meetings she’s attended in the last two months.

She doesn’t bother to acknowledge what I actually said. She shifts blame instead of listening and dismisses me so easily that whatever hope I’m feeling that we might have even the briefest of substantive conversations is dashed.

I’m exhausted with this. With people. I’m overloaded with toxicity. Sick of insincerity. Do we — do I — really need human contact this much? Being vulnerable to someone else, whether in friendship or romance, or even when it comes to family, is a risk for any of us, and difficult in the best of times. The current state of the world, and the current state of the U.S., just exacerbates that difficulty.

My respect for her has been staggered several times over the last year: gay bashing and trans-ridiculing. Expressing antisemitic sympathies. Racism in the forms of both, white privilege and ignorance. And especially when she actively made a decision that led to a wide-spread Covid infection. Initially, twenty-five people were effected, including her. That Covid infection led to serious health consequences. And now, every time I see her reach out for sympathy, I find my empathy is remiss.

Lacking.

I flat don’t care any more.

I want to shout, “Your suffering is a product of your own stupidity!”

I feel my humanity seeping through my fingers as if it were as thin as water. She’s fucking lucky to be alive. Does she thank the people who’ve made sacrifices to see to her survival? No. Of course not. God is good, she says.

God.

I’m sick of fucking religion, too.