My mother banged on the bedroom door at a little after three in the afternoon to announce that we'd all be going over to my sister's at four-thirty. Without my consultation, in her typical stubborn fashion, she decided that we'd all be getting together today for a spontaneous family BBQ.

At this point, Gretchen and I had been laying in bed for nearly six hours straight. Despite my relentless assaults, the depression seemed firmly entrenched between us, but my mother's announcement sent Gretchen into near hysterics. She told me that there was no way she could go out in public, there was simply no way she could handle the stress of a family gathering.

The forecast for the day called for head-on collisions, and we were faithfully marching towards one.

The entire day seemed to be a mounting failure of monumental proportions, and here the icing was being spread. I spent the next hour trying to convince Gretchen to go meet my family for the first time, but it seemed to be less a question of desire then one of ability.

She simply lacked the ability to pull herself together.

I asked her if she wanted me to take her home, if she wanted to stay, if she wanted to go to my sisters, but anything short of dying seemed unacceptable to her. I'd reached my official wits end, surpassing the previously limitless boundaries I'd always assumed. All we were able to do, was simply sit there and create depression together. And the most sickening thing was our complete distance.

It felt like our very presense together was creating some huge weight of isolation, as if being together at that moment made us each more alone. It was more emotionally wrenching then most of the break-ups I'd gone through in my life, and every moment felt like it was some gigantic foreboding end to our relationship.

If we couldn't manage to make this day work, then how could we expect to ever survive when something difficult actually happened?

When Gretchen was younger, she did things to hurt herself. She has scars both inside and outside to show for her efforts, and it's completely ineffectual it was to even begin to contemplate the well of feelings she shrouds inside. I'm privy to only the tiniest bit of her history, and there's volumes left to dust off and decypher.

It seemed wonderfully novel to be with a woman who abused herself rather then me, but I found myself wishing that I could lick those scars off her body and bear some of the abuse she spreads on herself so regularly.

Eventually, she succumbed to my will and decided to stay at my house. I'd stay home for a little while, then go over and join the family about an hour later. Gretchen said over and over how my mother was going to hate her, and while I certainly did not expect her to be pleased, I at least assumed she'd be slightly understanding.

My mothers response was to turn and leave, slamming the door behind herself without a word.