To a friend

Is this my guilt?

I’ve never been good with friendships. Too many moments of being treated badly, being bullied and experiencing heart-breaking betrayal; but instead of understanding that not everyone is out to get me in some way, I unknowingly (at least then unknowingly, however, now knowingly) refused to recognise the good people that came into my life. My lack of trust ruined the potential best friend connections I was desperate to have. “Wouldn’t it be great for my soul if I were to lay all the blame at the feet of those that came into my life?” I thought. “Grow up” said my soul.

Ours was a friendship borne out of my request for a Bob the Builder pencil case. Definitely one of the stranger requests you received as the office administrator but you understood the humour and found it even funnier to actually get it for me. A tall woman made taller with impossibly high heels; your long hair streaming behind you as you marched with confidence and kindness across the open plan office.

When you left your job you did so quietly, without a fuss and without a leaving party. But you and I and another found time to go for dinner. The first of many moments that taught me to see past the book’s cover as your fork trailed through the noodles on your plate barely making its way to your lips, and as you tiptoed round the talk of our colleagues.

Ours was a friendship forged a year later when you emailed out of the blue; you wanted to attend a Writer’s Festival, could you stay at mine?

The night you arrived was only the second time we had socialised outside of work. Oh but you were funny, sharing your impressions of Belfast girls getting ready to fight each other after a boozy Friday night; ruffling their plummed hair and rattling their large gold hooped earrings as they charged into battle. We roared with laughter as you described your horror when you realised your mum wouldn’t approve of your one night stand, not just because her pristine daughter was getting it on with a random man but mostly because he wasn’t Catholic! I listened as you told me how the unkindness of others made you realise the Home of Mum and Dad was the safe haven you craved.

Is this my sorrow?

It was then that I learnt about your passion for the written word, your determination to share your voice on your terms: oh how I envied your creativity. I tried to brag about my writing skill but the words stuttered to halt on my lips when I understood how the talent cascaded through your blood. I was in awe of the writer you were and the writer you would become.

Over the years your visits became regular, not just to attend more Writers’ Festivals but to see other friends and to stop by and visit me. Laughter was always at the core of our time together like the weekend you came and I decided at the last minute that we should find a hotel near the sea. Why? Because my soul was desperate to hear the sound of the waves and smell the saltiness of the water. Looking back I don’t think you were particularly keen but I really wanted to go and you were good enough to accommodate (or maybe you felt you had no choice … now I feel really bad). We travelled to the sea, me learning from you and you chuckling at my stories of dealing with students who proved beyond a doubt that 16 to 19 year olds remain the best form of contraception.

We arrived at the coastal town and I drove straight to the harbour, keen to see the fishing boats colourful and swaying on the gentle waves. The heavy skies and torrential rain had other ideas as they merged to create an impenetrable darkness. I cried but you giggled infectiously and despite my infuriation with Mother Nature I laughed too.

That was the day I understood your quietly dangerous relationship with food. We looked in the windows of various restaurants, you saying no to everything. Eventually, I decided to ask why: “too unhealthy” you muttered. Then with a sigh long held deep in your body, “I get overwhelmed by food unless I can control it”. Eventually we found somewhere you felt comfortable; as you trailed your fork through the buttery green peas, you shared your journey through Anorexia. It started with your fear of failure and travelled through university, through writing, through relationships, through house-sharing, through a job you despised. Moving to the Home of Mum and Dad provided the safety you needed to heal. But even now you had to control your food, what you saw, what sat on your plate, what you ate.

It wasn’t always easy and fun mostly, I suspect, because of my insecurities. You had visited friends and I wouldn’t have known you were nearby but you called asking if I wanted to meet for lunch before you began the journey home. Your ritualistic perusal of the menu began as we chatted, finding meals over which you could exert your control. You asked me how I was doing, you asked me what I wanted in my future. Telling you unleashed a coruscating attack on what you deemed my ill thought through desire. It felt less like you were guiding me out of a potential mistake and more like a condemnation of my abilities in comparison to yours. You were surprised by my response, “I don’t expect my friends to tell me I can’t”.

A year later you were back: “let’s have lunch” your message said. I was so excited, I really do enjoy your company and understood that my insecurities were caused by my fears of failure. I picked you up from the train station, took you to mine and you sat as I finished preparing a meal I hoped would satiate your food control needs. I didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed. I was desperate to please. As I cooked we chatted about books and writing, a constant theme throughout our friendship. I was excited to share my story idea. As I shuffled from stove top to sink and back again I chattered away, suddenly aware of the silence from your corner of the room. You were watching me, yes; you were paying attention, yes but when I asked you what you thought you shrugged, you smiled, you stayed silent. As swiftly as I saved the rice from burning I changed the subject; “how’s work?”

You told me about your new job working with Yoga teachers, divulging your desire to learn the ways of the Yogini, to share the calm and peace you felt entering your soul and in the stretching of your body. You told of the journey you and your partner in creativity were taking to create a retreat for others, a haven of imagination. I smiled and murmured words of encouragement, all the while wondering why your creativity was more real than mine. I dropped you off at the train station, I watched you walk away, turn, wave and continue homeward-bound. I sat for a while longer, hand resting on the key in the ignition, wondering why I felt less than you; wondering why your talent and creativity was more real than mine. I was angry, I was hurt, I was upset and yet certain I was overthinking. “Grow up” said my soul.

I told myself we would chat soon.

We video chatted a couple of times. Sharing how life was moving on, wondering when we would next see each other, hoping to make this a regular occurrence. Your mum popped into view, smiled and waved at me; “thank you“ she said for hosting her daughter whenever she came to visit. “Not a problem at all, always enjoy spending time with her” I smiled.

I am so ashamed.

In that little pocket of my mind, the one where I squirrel away my annoyances and frustrations, the pocket I pick through when desperate to blame something or someone other than myself, I find our conversations. The ones where I never seem to be enough, the one where my creativity is always lacking. “Grow up” screamed my soul.

I told myself I would reply to your text.

You would often message asking how I was, “busy” I would reply. “Let’s chat soon” you would say. “Definitely”, I replied. Then you would message telling me of work conflicting. We cared about each other in that “oh, I haven’t chatted to her in a while” way but, if truth be told, we both knew we had other priorities in our lives.

You reached out, you wished me a happy New Year.

It was 5am on Tuesday morning, the text said. Passed peacefully and in no pain, the text said.

I didn’t know you would never travel again, never dream big, never marry, never have children, never publish your writing.

I didn’t know.

Is this my guilt or my sorrow?