A Selection of Monologues and Short Stories

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Breathers.

Who the hell came up with that stupid saying. What does it even mean? Do? What does it achieve, besides letting you catch your breath, just to come back and have the same bloody conversation, debate, argument, chat, over and over and over again. Breathers are fucking pointless. I hate them, fucking hate them.

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I like talking. I like talking about random shit. I like talking about serious shit. I like giving advice. I like telling people stories. I like talking to people about life, like what I have been up to, or what I ate for breakfast this morning. I like talking. Its important for humans to communicate. Its a way of reassuring ourselves that we aren't alone. Thats what I think anyway.

I like talking about how I'm feeling. Whether its on the phone to my mum, moaning about an irritating person I met at work and really rubbed me up the wrong way. Or whether I'm whispering "I Love You's" and "I Miss You's" down the phone to a long distance partner. Or whether I'm confiding to my counsellor about how crappy I'm feeling. Or whether its rambling on to my sister about how much fun I had with her at a concert straight after. Or whether I'm crying down the phone to my best friend about how much I miss my boyfriend.

I don't talk to her about the miserable stuff to bum her out, or to pass my shit onto her. No. I'm not one of those people. I do it because I feel so much better getting it out of my system and into the open air. Half the time, what I tell her is irrational. What I tell her is out of the question. What I tell her I'm gonna do I'm too much of a pussy to do at all. But I tell her anyway.

In return, I listen to her shitiness too. We sit there bundled in blankets in the darkness of a bedroom hugging each other, crying, and letting it all out to one another. We comfort each other and we support each other. We help each other through what ever is being thrown at us. Whatever is bogging us down. I help her, she helps me. This wasn't an agreement. We don't have a contract. We just do it because we love and care about one another and want the best for each other. 

But what do you do when your best friend is showing all of the signs thats she wants and needs help, and advice, and a cuddle, and a takeaway pizza with a movie and a bottle of wine, but won't accept the help. Shoves it off. Shoves you off? 

Thats what happened today. 

"I don't know what to do anymore. I'm sick of this shit. Y'know what I mean?"

I respond like I always would. 

"You've just gotta keep your chin up girl, because you're strong and tough and can take on anything that is thrown at you. You just gotta believe you can before you begin trying."

"Thanks."

"Anytime. I'm here for you, you know that. You can talk to me about it. Mainly because whatever it is thats gettin' you down is something I've experienced before anyway!"

Laughs.

Well, thats what normally happens. 

"I don't know what to do anymore. I'm sick of this shit. Y'know what I mean?"

"You've just gotta keep your chin up girl, because you're strong and tough and can take on anything that is thrown at you. You just gotta believe you can before you begin tryi-."

"Enough of the bullshit Rhi. I'm fucked and my life is fucked and everyone around me is fucked and anywhere I was planning on going, or anything I was planning on achieving, guess what, is fucked! Because its a fucked up world, and I don't fucking belong here. I don't! So don't even tell me I do because I don't."

"You're so much stronger than what you think yo- "

"No! Stop! Stop being nice to me! Stop trying to help me! Stop trying to give me advice because you don't get it! You fucking don't get it! I HATE MY LIFE. I hate what I'm doing with my life. I'm shit at it anyway. I don't know why I ever pursued anything like this. I don't know why I thought I even had a shot in it, because I'm shit, and everyone is telling me without telling me. I suck at it and I don't even know what to do anymore."

And then we're just standing there. She's looking past me, avoiding my eyes. Her bottom lip is wobbling from anger and frustration and upset. Her hair in blowing in the wind, and she's getting the little creases by her eyes that show she's gonna burst into tears any second now. The water thats building in her eyes and threatening to spill over is a giveaway too. I know her better than the back of my own hand.

"I'm not gonna tell you what to do, or what not to do, because I can't, and won't make those decisions for you. This isn't something that has just happened now. Not because of one thing that has happened, whatever it was. This has been building, and must have started from somewhere. Wherever, or whatever it was, you don't have to tell me, but you have to know that you are a fucking amazing designer. You have your own style and your own uniqueness that nobody else has. Yeah, you're not Louis Vuitton, but you're never going to be! Not because you're shit, but because you aren't him! You are your own person, with your own flair and your own talents. You don't have to be the best at everything. You don't have to be the same as someone else thats in the same line or work as you. You just have to not let this constant need for validation and approval from other people ruin your passion that got you there in the first place! You made the decision to do this on your own, you weren't told by someone else, so why is it different now you're there, doing what I know you love, even if you don't admit it and act like you hate it and its the bane of your existence. You wouldn't have pursued fashion design if you didn't think you were good enough. I know you're gonna say that its the only thing you've ever done and are slightly good at, so you had no choice, and all that crap, but thats not true. You pursued it because you are good enough. You can do this. A grade on paper, a score on a sheet, a stamp of approval from your boss, says NOTHING about you as a designer. Its always nice to get good feedback, or a good stamp, or a good grade, but that isn't what makes you as a designer. Thats just a bonus feature. Yes, you want to make clothes for the runway and have your own brand and be like the big designers out there, like Mr Vuitton. But you don't get there by copying others and only seeking approval from others. You get there by sheer determination, despite that one bad spell of designs, or that one solo pitch that didn't go how you planned. You are more than just your marks. You are YOU."

I take a breath. And look at her. 

"Can we talk about something else. Please. Food, sleep, a TV programme, anything but this."

Thats when I knew something had changed. Normally she opens up. Normally she will say even a little about what's going on. But she's doing something that neither of us have ever done. 

"I'm your friend and I can see you're hurting and need help right now. I'm not going to just continue the walk back home as if nothing had happened. I can't do that morally. I won't watch you suffer. I won't."

Big, big mistake.

She turns and walks away from me. Part of me wants to chase after her. Stop her and get her to talk to me. But I don't. I'm not like that.

"I get you need some time ok. I'm not gonna push it. Just take a breather, think about it, please, Jess, just think about it."

She doesn't stop. She continues walking, disappearing into the darkness of the unlit road. Into the silence of 8pm. 

She'll come around. 

She'll come around.

She'll come around.