a friend like that will undo you
a final essay on the fragility of memory and the power of letting go
I’ve never been the jealous type in the traditional sense. Objectively, my life is great. I’m chasing my dreams, traveling, and interacting with people I never thought I’d be able to. There’s just one thing I’ve never been good at. And that’s love.
Now, no one is good at love. There are learning curves like most things. But I’ve never actually gotten the opportunity to even be close to being good at it.
Jealousy — while such a complex, external emotion — was something I turned inward. I made it a vessel for self-hate. There’s never been a moment where I thought, I deserve it more. I’ve always told myself that the reason I don’t have it is because I am Fatally Flawed and they are not.
Why are you sharing all of this?
Why not? It’s my story. My pain. And shame can’t survive in sunlight.
Who am I? What do I want from this life? How do I move forward?
If I want to be free, I can’t carry my shame with me. I want to leave it here – in this moment – on this website. Maybe you can come back to it when you need clarity.
I can tell you I’m someone who struggles with trust. Trust in myself and trust in others. Trust that people are honest. Trust that people won’t leave me. And trust in myself to have the courage to decide I deserve more.
My memory has always been faulty. I time my life down to the second — I often avoid what I can’t predict. So when asked, Why not just go on that date? Why not just talk to the person? Try that new cafe?
Well, dear reader, you can’t predict people.
But what you can do is rely on patterns. And as the queen of pattern recognition, a common one emerges: I have never been picked.
There’ve been times I’ve thought maybe this is the moment.
And I was wrong every single time.
When I was twelve and minding my own business, a boy noticed me for the first time — and alarm bells sounded. He noticed me again. And again.
Alarm bells because mainly, I was extremely confused.
At the time, I don’t recall having friends, and I spent a large portion of school alone. I thought, maybe a friend.
The more he continued to bully me, I assumed he may have had a crush on me. And the potential excited me. Someone — a boy — noticed me for just being myself. And that’s what we all want, right?
To be seen?
All of middle school, I had such a crush on this kid. I friended him on Facebook and he accepted. I tried to message him, and he definitely didn’t answer.
And this confusion, the ambiguity — well, it fuels the soul.
What’s more exciting than proving yourself to someone?
After all, I spent my entire life trying to get my parents to acknowledge my existence. To prove I was worth being the only thing they focused on.
Friends got involved. Situations expanded and shrank.
People underestimate the average twelve-year-old’s ability to gaslight and manipulate.
As I recall the rest of this story, it’s from the perspective of a child — not an adult. At the time, I had one best friend. We were very close, and I felt that she really saw me. When I experienced what can only factually be described as betrayal, I didn’t understand how to navigate it.
This boy, this experience — whatever it was — was so precious to me. An emotionally starved child finally receiving a shred of attention.
And it was promptly ripped right out from underneath me.
My best friend — my only friend — became as close as she could to the boy that I liked. I remember sitting on the bus, waiting to head home. I looked out the window at all the other kids waiting for their buses to pull up the hill. My eyes landed on my best friend and followed her arm… as she rubbed the cheek of the guy I liked.
The guy she knew I liked.
The guy she knew was also my bully (technically) — but I always forget that part, because love is pain or whatever.
At that moment, my bus driver left the parking lot.
The entire twenty-minute ride home, I tried to convince myself that my eyes had deceived me.
Now, I was not a stupid child. If anything, I was too smart for my own good. That cheek graze? That implied they were quite friendly.
I got home and spent hours trying to work up the courage to ask her if she liked him.
Let’s pause: I am a very gracious L-taker. If I lost, I lost. I also don’t beg. I hover and hope they notice, but I don’t beg. So if she won and I wasn’t good enough? Who was I to argue!
Finally, I texted her and asked. I told her it was okay if she did. I probably added that I wasn’t even mad, I just wanted to know.
Of course, she denied it.
I prefer honesty from people — especially if you think it’ll hurt me. People are owed the truth so they can own their reaction to it.
Now, this lie didn’t confuse me — it was the treatment I got that threw me for a loop.
I’m no martyr, and certainly not a victim. But all I ever did was treat people the way I hoped someone would treat me.
Kindness.
Forgiveness.
Respect.
I spent a large portion of eighth grade feeling like the devil incarnate. Call it hormones or insecurity, but I was so confused.
I went from feeling on top of the world to my best friend acting as though my presence insulted her spirit.
As though no matter what I did, it was never enough.
And I never did anything to deserve that — and I think it’s okay for me to finally say that.
Groups of our friends would go out — and I wouldn’t be invited. I’d see it when a group photo was posted to Instagram. Or when someone mentioned it in Language Arts. I’d walk up to my friends, and she’d ignore me.
I’d try to walk with them in the hallway, and she wouldn’t even look at me.
And to be thirteen and ostracized — well, it broke my heart.
I sobbed to my mom that I didn’t have any more friends, and I wasn’t sure why.
Lack of trust over the years — especially in yourself — makes memory a fragile thing. All I can tell you is how I felt.
We went on our class trip in eighth grade. Everyone fractured into their own groups. It was myself, my best friend, and two mutual friends.
If we’re being frank — I was seriously contemplating suicide for the last few months leading up to that trip. My home life was bad, I had no friends, and I’d been publicly humiliated the year before.
There was a pool. I was insecure and being a massive bitch. I hated myself and my body. And I for damn sure wasn’t undressing to get into a pool (with the added context of being fat-shamed the previous year).
My best friend got mad at me for being mad at myself — and then I was left alone to wallow for the rest of the day. Or I hid in the changing room listening to music until they were gone (I was emo).
I sulked around that place until the bus came to take us home.
Here’s where the story gets interesting — and why this is worth mentioning:
I’m walking back to the bus. She’s either wearing or holding the sweatshirt of the boy I had a crush on. And she’s asking our mutual friend,
What should I do with this? How should I get it back to him?
Of course, my heart all but fell out of my ass.
It’s one thing to not be picked.
It’s another thing entirely to have the one person who knows you best seem to rejoice in your misery.
I was never mad at her.
This just gave me more fuel to take the rage out on myself.
I could abuse and beat the shit out of myself in my head, and every incident became ammunition.
Like a common thread from home — I must’ve done something bad by just existing. I couldn’t do anything right. I wasn’t sure what I did wrong or who I hurt, and no one ever told me.
When you’re so absorbed in the singularity of your own pain, you ignore everyone else’s.
As an adult, I know my best friend was suffering. She had her own pain she was carrying. And if I became the shock absorber for it — then that’s what it was.
I’ve always been someone willing to lay down on the train tracks for those I love. Or the one to stay behind.
And you only ask that they remember you.
I hope I’ve weaved a complex story about memory and trust.
We can’t rely on memory — because it’s our own, and sometimes not based in truth.
But I believe we can relay how something made us feel.
And people can’t debate that — because it belongs to you.
Maybe the point isn’t trusting memory, but trusting your emotions.
Trusting that you have a right to feel them.
The great thing about the past? Once it happens, it’s gone.
And the great thing about patterns? You can change them.
I deserve kindness — mostly from myself.
And forgiveness.
And trust.
And peace.
So do you.