I never know what to say when someone dreads, out loud, my own reality. For instance, a friend getting back together with her exceedingly paranoid and nasty ex because "I was alone all weekend, John. It was horrible. Horrible!"
"Uh, I haven't seen another human being since last Thurs—"
"So I don't care if he is emotionally abusive. It's still better than being alone."
Another friend insists he needs a new car because his old car is, as it happens, half my own car's age. That he needs a new car is clearly not a self-evident truth to me, yet here we are, blinking at one another.
Christmas is an oldie but goodie. "I didn't even get to see my Dad this year until the 30th," a friend practically weeps. "Isn't that...just...awful?"
I haven't seen my family on a holiday since the 80s. She knows this. My parents are dead. She knows this too. Neither thing upsets me particularly, so I settle on:
"I spent Christmas alone, sick as hell, and heavily medicat—"
"This isn't about you, John."
Finally, we agree on something.