It’s night time and the wolf is howling. I have just read your latest delicious offering and might I say we are aligned in our universe..."if you love something set it free..."
I fear I may have set a dear friend free, though not quite as lovingly as you recommend. I'm up late, trying to put the late night demons to rest, and I thought about you. It's been so long since we have spoken. You sound snug up there in your love nest by the sea.
Here is my sad story:
The troubles started quietly, gradually last year. Time crept by and now I almost can't remember what she looks like. It was the usual things: her work, her son, her life, her troubles and then she left town for Christmas and most of the holidays.
I wondered about her a few times over the summer. Lots of maddening self talk, trying to diminish my fears. I missed our wickedness, our disrespectful humour. She is one person (and you are another) with whom I can cheerfully lose it!
School and uni went back. What’s with those endless summer holidays? We loved them as kids, but I guess our parents went nutty, like I almost did. She’d made a strange decision in a hurry: to send her son into high school in the epicentre of her phobic fears: the flash eastern suburbs in this brassy show-off town way down south from you. For years I've listened to her barbs about that place. From the price of the coffee to the calibre of people in the overblown mansions nearby. Inverse snobbery, I think it's called, but I’ve always thought it was plain old envy. Suddenly the child was off to a boarding house smack bang right in the middle of everything she had always hated. In an imperious tone, she told me the subject was off limits. And so we moved on.
Just once and after countless appeals did she visit briefly, to pick up some school gear that I received from a neighbour. Money has always been tight and she seemed grateful for the clothes. I gave her a belated Christmas present. I had splashed out on an artwork months before and I was sure she would love it. We offered her lunch. She had already eaten. With hindsight I can say there was an awkwardness which I chose to ignore. I was the giver. She received my crumbs. No wonder she fidgeted. She tossed her hair, and continually inspected her nail polish. She wanted out. In a hurry.
My birthday came and went. She sent a text. I ignored the lack of reciprocity in the gift giving stakes. We had always acknowledged our special days, so there was cause to worry. Easter holidays came and went, and by now all phone calls had ceased. Like two tech savvy teenagers, random texts and occasional emails became our only form of communication. I ignored the bizarre group emails that arrived from her at all hours of the day and night. I wondered how she found time to read and forward so much online crap when a quick coffee was out of the question. Every attempt to meet was thwarted. Cancelled coffee dates, impossible schedules, work, work, work.
I threw skepticism out the window and visited the psychic, a sweet warm natured soul with concern oozing from every pore. She looked at me with wide eyes and delicately pointed out the obvious.
"Julie" she said, "She is letting you go. She is bidding you farewell. It is time to say goodbye. Nothing is forever. You have fought hard to keep her and you have lost. Surrender her to the universe."
“But how to acknowledge her birthday?"
"Just a card, Julie. Wish her love and all good things. But no more texts or emails. This must stop now for you."
Another learned but delightfully batty friend advised me to tread lightly and watch her dance. My friend might have been dancing, but I wasn't seeing the steps.
So the card was sought and purchased. Lovingly handmade Thai silk on paper, just a simple message written with the favourite pen. Home delivered, courtesy of the L-plater desperate to clock up her night driving hours accompanied by her tired and fraught mother. A bloated text the next day thanked me for the card, congratulating me on my taste in stationery but warning she was too busy to meet.
Am I stupid? Yes I am. I waited a week and in a solitary and somewhat lonely moment I flicked her a text. I had discovered a self destruct button deep down inside I never knew existed.
"Coffee?"
Another wordy text detailing her busy, busy life. My head was pounding and my stomach hurt. I pulled down hard on the blinds and lay on the bed in the darkness while the sun shone outside. I curled up my toes and thrashed in the sheets. I thought for a while and headed to the computer. I would write a furious email. All about hurt and betrayal. I would tell her about how her egocentricity pounded my senses and made me feel sick. I would remind her about my role in her messy life and the times she'd said that if she ever left town, I’d be the only person she would miss. I would ask her if she had hung the painting I gave her for Christmas, and if she hadn't, could I have it back. I would tell her I missed our friendship so much it hurt.
But I didn't write anything. I went back to bed and picked up the mobile.
"I give up." A short bitter text, a silent scream, and before I could hesitate, I pressed send and watched it light up the room.
Our friendship has been reduced to adolescent texting and I feltl ashamed. I consoled myself between moments of self loathing that I had tried to call her many phones. She never picked up. She responded to all messages via text. I dropped by her house often and I wrote to her.
I was astounded to receive a reply almost immediately.
"Don't give up!!! It will get better when.....actually maybe it won't because......." (Please note exclamation marks). Was she laughing at my melodrama? Was it panic? Was she surprised at my neuroticism?
By then I was thinking she might be crazy. I know I was. I consoled myself that losing this friend was better than dealing with a maniac. Maybe she needed medication. Perhaps she was wrung out and exhausted. Then she astounded me again. I waded through her text with mounting fury as she confessed she was busy, but guess what? She had never been happier! She was loving her work for the first time ever.....I felt queasy and as troublesome as it was to read tone into a text, I decided she was releasing me from feeling responsible for her. She was bidding me farewell, just as the psychic had said. It was uneven, our friendship and she was tired of the imbalance. But she didn't want me to quit the friendship yet.
“As I said, I give up.” And with these few words on that tiny screen I vowed I had just written my final text to her. The psychic would be happy.
And so I embark on the story of this melodrama with curious offspring who are growing up and struggling to grasp the rubbery rules around adult relationships. One is currently strung out by the conflicting messages of a wayward friend and I’m not confident I can help her. In a desperate moment I bleat “Don't ask me about friendship. What would I know?"
Many days have passed and the phone and computer are message free. I wonder what she thinks, but I must tread lightly, give her space and respect her decision. I feel outcast, abandoned, neglected and outraged. The void is brutal. I have a constant headache. I visit the doctor and talk about my woes. I walk away with swag of prescriptions, but I ingest no pharmaceuticals because deep down I know it is the stranglehold of grief.
And I take the time to wail and rant to anyone who will listen about the perils the internet and mobiles: convenient vehicles for the maintenance of superficiality and the wanton destruction of the meaningful.
One evening as I stirred the pot and chopped the contents of the fridge into a salad, there in the cool air around me was a radio segment about terminating friendships. I marvelled at the timing and the relevance of this topic. It was as if the broadcaster is speaking directly to me. I am a miserable egotist these days.
As the broadcaster and the expert massaged the self esteem of every caller, I was gobsmacked by their judgementalism and arrogance. They had dropped friends because they didn’t like their moral code. They abhorred their mate’s chosen lifestyle. I marched around the kitchen ranting to myself like a barmy witch. Make way for my outrage! I headed to the computer and punched out an email to the producer, suggesting that in the interest of balance they should air a session on the friendship bereaved. We who have been abandoned.
I descended into the bad friendship abyss. I had disempowered her. I was infected with a helping bug and it hasn't helped our her or our friendship. Even though we ate great food, saw brilliant films, hung out and constantly compared life notes, it wasn't enough to save us.
My body ached, my face was pink, my wheezing was worrying and my headaches never seemed to go away. The mind-body connection endured amid the fallout.
So here I am, Dearest. It is late and I am writing to you because I don't know what else to do. All I have left of a 24 year friendship is a photo of her on her website. Now I'm a stalker and that is way too scary.
And now I must try to sleep or my life will take a tumble.
