Know When to Hold 'Em

It wouldn't be accurate to say they ignored Tim. They called Tim. They talked to Tim. But there was some force field limit. A wall that couldn't be breached, not unlike that giant bubble in Star Wars Clone Wars that kept out the invaders with their red laser bullets. 

"How's work going, Tim?" They'd ask him. 

"Oh it's fine," he'd say. And perhaps he'd go into more detail. Perhaps he'd mention a coworker who'd given him trouble. Or a new project that was tiring him out. But then this limit would come up whenever it drifted toward why his days were heavy. Like someone quietly turning a dial down. Not hostile. Just… less room. His lack of Christian faith seemed to sit there between them. And so any conversation that ventured into why his life was difficult was nearly off-limits. Not because his sibs would fight him on it, but because they felt his issues would be non issues if he simply returned to Christ.

He had tried talking about things before. He remembered spilling the tea to his brother about his clinical depression. He'd cried. He'd leaned on his brother's shoulder, embracing him. And he remembered his brother patting his back softly, too softly. He remembered that stoic face, looking straight ahead, not at him. His brother told him not to kill himself. Said it plainly. Like reminding someone to lock the door before bed. Then he patted Tim’s back again—once, maybe twice—and kept staring forward.

His sister handled things differently. She would go on about all the things she did in her life that helped her. How she would go to the gym. How she would do something for someone else. And how that helped her. His sister showed she cared. But then later, if they had some fight, she would say something like, "Well it makes sense why you're depressed, you eat cookies and ice cream too much."

And that was that.

And that was that.

And that was that. 

Tim had come a long way. Not in the way people usually meant that. He still couldn’t tell them everything. He still held back mid-sentence sometimes. But he’d started noticing small things. His brother’s laugh—when it came from his belly and lit up his entire face. His sister’s concern when it wasn’t trying to fix him. Some days, that was enough.

Other days, it wasn’t.

And he was learning the difference—when to speak anyway, and when to just listen.

Knowing when to hold and when to fold didn’t make things perfect. It made them survivable.