My friends are constantly telling me to rest, to slow down, to take time for myself. I’m always arguing that I really don’t do much of anything. If I slow down anymore I’ll be dead.
Thing is, we define work differently. To my friends, the degree to which I show up for people is work. The two hours I spend talking a friend through a bad break-up isn’t work to me. Neither is cleaning a friend’s home because they’ve been too depressed to do it.
I don’t think spending a night in the ER with a friend fighting suicidal thoughts is work. I don’t think staying up all night on a friend’s couch because they’re afraid to sleep alone in an empty house after someone broke in is labor.
Watching my friend’s kids so he can have a moment of peace isn’t work. Cleaning up my friend’s self harm scars isn’t a job.
It’s community. These are acts of love. They’re not the same as cleaning my kitchen or folding the never ending pile of laundry. They’re not the same as my partner waking up every morning at 5.45 am and driving 20 minutes to work ten hours for a company that would replace him without a thought if he ever became inconvenient.
What I do isn’t work. What I do is what we all wish we had from each other, but are too afraid to ask for, or accept when offered.
I love you. Maybe you could love you too.
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