Sometimes I just want to talk. To write. Share my thoughts. It's not these superficial, nice thoughts that you politely formulate and casually share. They are deep thoughts. Feelings that push outwards. Dreams that want to be put into words. Without flourishes, without empty phrases, without that filter of friendliness that often hides the truth.
Pure kindness can be a shell, a cloak that makes the unpleasant invisible. The truth is not always where it should be - open, clear, tangible. Instead, it often remains hidden, unspoken, because it is uncomfortable. Maybe that's why my dreams remain dreams. Because I don't dare to say them out loud.
But sometimes I wish it were different. That there was someone who would listen, who would understand, who would take me in their arms. Someone who would make my dream come true - even if only for a moment. Because sometimes that's exactly what I need: for a dream to hold me and become reality for a moment.
When I learnt that I was going to die from my glioblastoma, I should have made it clear that I needed help. That I don't want to die alone. That I can be honest. That I don't want to die alone. I should have said how scared I am, how vulnerable I feel. But words are often deceptive. They seem so simple, so obvious, until you have to say them. Then they weigh heavier than expected.
I still remember that moment clearly. It wasn't a big, dramatic moment. No long monologue, no perfectly chosen words. It was just one sentence. Short. Direct. And honest. ‘I need help. I don't want to die alone.’
I didn't say that sentence lightly. It is the result of days, perhaps weeks of inner struggle. Should I say it? Will people understand me? Will they listen to me? When I said it, it was as if I was releasing a piece of myself into the world, a piece that was so vulnerable and so real that I could hardly bear it.
But the worst thing was that my sentence was ignored. I don't know if she didn't want to hear it, couldn't hear it or simply didn't know how to react. But the ignoring was like a cold wall that built up between us. My ex-girlfriend heard the words - I know that - but she chose not to respond.
Even though she knew about my illness, about glioblastoma, even though she knew I was dying, she didn't talk about it. She changed the subject. Her eyes wandered around as if she wanted to avoid eye contact. She kept talking as if I hadn't said anything. It was as if I hadn't even existed, as if my words had never been spoken. This ignoring was louder than any possible answer.
Then I thought maybe she needed time. Maybe she would come back to it later, break the silence and say: ‘I've thought about what you said.’ But that never happened. Instead, this silence remained between us. A silence that expressed more than words ever could. It spoke of distance, of fear, of powerlessness. And it left me with an emptiness that I couldn't fill.
I often wondered why she reacted like that. Was it because she was afraid to face reality herself? Because she felt helpless and didn't know how to help me? Or was it because she had already distanced herself emotionally and my words no longer reached her?
Perhaps it was easier for her not to react. It's easier not to see the problem than to face it. But for me it was like a stab in the heart. Because that sentence - short as it was - was all I had to give at that moment. It was my attempt to open up, to make myself vulnerable. And it was ignored, ignored as if it had no meaning.
This ignoring affected me more than I wanted to admit. Because it showed me how lonely I was in my fear. How alone I was, even though I didn't want to be. I tried to push these words away, to pretend I had never said them. But I couldn't. They still resonate with me today.
Maybe it was a mistake to say that sentence. Maybe I should have been stronger, should have pretended that I didn't need help. But that would have been a lie. And at that moment, I had had enough of lies, enough of masks. I wanted to be honest. I wanted to say what I felt, what I needed.
Sometimes I wonder if she ever thought about that moment. Whether she ever understood how much courage it took me to utter that sentence. Maybe she repressed it, just like she repressed my words at that moment.
But I can't repress it. Because that moment is etched in my memory. It showed me how hard it is to be honest. How difficult it is to ask for help when you can't be sure that it will be given. And how painful it is when that help doesn't come.
Sometimes I think I should have reacted differently. Maybe I should have followed up, confronted them directly: ‘Did you hear me? Why aren't you answering?’ But at that moment, I didn't have the strength. I had already given everything I could. And the silence that followed took the rest out of me.
Today I realise that this silence says more about her than it does about me. It tells of her fear, her insecurity, her inability to face my truth. But that doesn't make it any easier. Because in the end, I was the one who had to live with this silence.