Week 13, Entry 2

My face hurts quite a bit while I am typing this, because I have had a migraine coming in and out all evening.

I have also had these roundabout fake conversations with Malcolm in my head. I always end up feeling worse after those, but like I am revealing the truth to myself, that he would never want to be friends again, because I broke his trust in a way that made him decide to not give me another chance to.

In my head, I try to plead that I have changed and improved, incapacitation notwithstanding, and he always says that it doesn't matter, he still can't trust me. I am not nearly changed enough.

I'm glad I didn't send him that email I was thinking of sending, about one of his dolls.

Week 13, Entry 3

Today's visit to Podiatry was much better than I thought it would be. It went quite quickly, and since my feet didn't hurt, I was able to communicate much more sensibly. I was also seen very quickly, instead of having to wait an hour-and-change like last time.

I was told that there's clear improvement, but I need to stretch my feet 30 minutes each foot, each day. I also am going to see my parent's physical therapist, thanks to the referral I asked for. As far as exercise goes, I told them about the backfires of the stationary bike and walking, and the doctor suggested swimming, although we agreed that we weren't especially enthusiastic about swimming at the moment.

I'll see him in another month, or sooner, should there be a nastier flare-up.

Week 13, Entry 4

Malcolm has given me many gifts over the years, but three were especially beautiful.

His friendship was the first, of course. Is? I don't know. Maybe we will be friends again, but I don't think it would be good to reach out to him until I'm a lot better, a lot more trustworthy and far less dangerous, than I currently am.

The second greatest gift that he gave me was that trip to visit him, where he treated me like a princeling. I like to think I treated him very well right back.

But the third gift was when he would describe me. There were many of them, some kindly, some not, but they were always true, and astoundingly beautiful. That's the danger of being friends with a writer, I suppose. This was the first one he ever wrote about me -- or, the first one I can remember.

"A portly, sandy-haired young man looked up from his computer. He wore a plaid flannel shirt and jeans, and glasses perched on his nose. Somehow, even though he was on a college campus in the middle of the city, he smelled like horses."