The Death of A Friendship
One of the growing pains of becoming an adult is the loss of friendships. As a child, you begin friendships thinking they’ll last forever. And sometimes they do. Sometimes they span several years, even decades. You just find that one person and immediately click. Intimate chemistry that can’t truly be replaced. That intimacy gives you the bravery to face tumultuous periods like unforgiving waves of a storm at sea, and see you through to the other side. Your pain is their pain and they root for you harder than you do yourself.
I met the girl I thought would be my best friend in high school until I was old and grey. We spent so much time together we had unknowingly adopted each other’s mannerisms. During an excursion through Blick, despite walking in a single file line, we stopped at a canvas and touched it at the same time then immediately burst into joyful laughter. Between trading commentary for Kitchen Nightmares over the phone, live chatting via email during WWE shows and goofing off in the lunchroom together — we were attached at the hip. I’d plop myself down in her lap, sometimes for a nap, and immediately feel a foreign yet comforting sense of security.
She opened her home to me countless times when my mother would kick me out or the university dorms closed for breaks. During these times, I’d awaken to the aroma of scrambled eggs bursting with cheese, plump sausages, and buttered biscuits. I’d groggily descend her stairs relying on the scent to guide me and see her sitting at the table, waiting to indulge me in gossip or the latest social media news.
Her mom and I exchanged gifts by the Christmas tree when I couldn’t be with my own family. It never bothered me when I wasn’t home. She felt like my home, one I never wanted to leave. She was the unconditional love I was denied from my biological family and a source of strength through my difficult times: homelessness, mental illness, homesickness, boyfriend woes, financial instability, etc. I cherished her labors of love and was astonished that someone only one year older than me could emote so eloquently.
Then one day I received a text that shattered me.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
I immediately grew concerned that college was becoming overwhelming for her. But she wasn’t about to end things with college. It was “us”. It was me.
I became frantic. My calls went to voicemail. I sent a flurry of texts pleading for an explanation and a second chance. I didn’t understand the sudden decision to end our eight-year friendship. We talked daily; I never picked up on tension or animosity. According to me, we had no problems. We were perfect. We had to be. I couldn’t lose my best friend. The best thing in my abhorrent life couldn’t just walk away from me.
I was plunged into the stages of grief with no life jacket. Barely treading water and stuck in a cycle of anger and denial.
There’s no way we’ll never speak again.
Why hadn’t she said something sooner?
I’m not the problem. We just need a little break.
Why is she treating me like a stranger or disease? I’m her best friend! I deserve the chance to make amends!
How do I fix this?
The pain of this friendship ending cut deeper than the end of my four-year relationship with my ex. I never imagined a scenario in which I didn’t have my best friend; and in doing so, I took advantage of her love and compassion.
I was the toxic friend she had to cut off.
Discourse often centers around the bystander or victim of the toxic relationships, rarely from the perspective of the perpetrator. I immediately compared myself to other toxic people mocked on social media. The tropes of the toxic friend or person getting their comeuppance and being shunned. If I was toxic to my best friend, who else was I accidentally driving away by my behaviors? What boundaries was I overstepping with others? Who else was about to leave me?
This break-up was the tipping point. I jaggedly transitioned through anger, confusion, and depression, unable to cope. I frustratedly searched for a therapist I could afford in the neighborhood; an impartial player in this dead friendship, to help me heal.
It wasn’t the frequent panic attacks, running away from my university library during midterms, inability to get out of bed, or suicidal ideations that convinced me that I desperately needed therapy. It was the loss of my best friend. Her leaving defeated me and any doubts that I truly needed help. I crumpled within myself and my confidence shattered like a glass negligently abandoned in a precarious position.
Losing the most important person in my life overcame any excuses or insecurity about me seeking therapy.
Have you ever explored grief not related to death? A physical death? At the start of my grieving process, I blamed her for our friendship ending. She was the one that made the decision. She didn’t establish boundaries. How was I supposed to know I was out of line if the line was never identified? I’m not a mind reader.
Then I’d blame myself. I was her best friend. I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve checked in more. I should’ve gotten into therapy instead of treating her like my personal therapist. I drove her away expecting her to balance our problems like Atlas bearing the weight of the sky while I obliviously admire it. I never recognized her suffering,
Therapy helped me process these dueling emotions but three years later I haven’t overcome the grief. I find myself attempting to replicate the friendship with other people. I’m paranoid that other friends are hiding their frustrations with me and obsess over if interaction will end our friendship. I become quietly irate when a friend isn’t content with sitting on the phone existing like I used to do with her. Rarely, I’ll look up her Facebook profile hoping to catch the slightest glimpse into her life. I simultaneously wanted her to be ok but also miserable without me. Now I’ve accepted that neither she can’t or our relationship can be replaced.
Our relationship is dead and a piece of me was buried with it. Three years and I still haven’t watched Kitchen Nightmares.
