I was the broken one: a role I did indeed adopt but was also quietly understood between the both of us. She was the angelic, calm reassuring presence and together it was a beautiful balance. My fire would lure us into trouble and her air would bring us back.
It was never anything I was ashamed about, I’ve had my fair share of trauma (and still ongoing apparently) and was doing my best to seeking healthy methods of coping while still allowing my inner demon to indulge. In recent years, discovered I have Depression and even more recently have been diagnosed with Autism and ADHD. This not so atypical cocktail of mental illnesses have undoubtedly been an influence on my personality, how I compose myself, thought processes, etc. for much longer than the diagnoses themselves or my suspicions of them for that matter.
She had a loving, relatively normal family that were supportive of what she did, was, or wanted to be. Whereas I had a far different experience; my family loved me in the best way they knew how (still sorting out that childhood trauma) and I felt an unyielding pressure to contort myself into ways that would be acceptable for everyone around me. Much of that being attributed to the first-born daughter to an Indian immigrant family and an autist unbeknownst to me then, the act of masking was fused into my personality. Habits I’m doing my very best to be aware of and dismantle these days.
Yet it’s only after experiencing space from this relationship that I feel a certain weight lifted. Regardless of how much I try, I’m a natural klutz (a symptom of being neurodivergent, I’ve so learned) and I hadn’t realized that over time I had become accustomed to bracing for impact around her; I had grown to expect her to sigh, grunt or roll her eyes every time I bumped into or dropped anything- admittedly it was often but it wasn’t for lack of trying. In retrospect, I suppose you could say that what once felt like an equal and adoring relationship turned into one where I, once again did my best to minimize my needs and existence to pander to someone else’s for their comfort.
It wasn’t an easy break by any means, but easier because it was already broken. And like any conditioned woman raised by traditional parents, I subscribed to the notion that problems within a primary relationship remains unspoken and only within members of the relationship. So what seemed like an unbreakable bond, had a few chips that I dared not outwardly mention.
We both knew of, and appreciated the ebb and flow of our relationship; if we sensed there was a little tension, we gave each other space, and it naturally resolved itself. This past fall however, I was faced with a number of subsequent challenges that more or less left me feeling defeated and helpless. Now I recognize, in that time I needed comfort, to vent and for someone to just recognize my misery. If there was an opportunity to open up, I would try and casually sneak in a synopsis, keeping it light and sarcastic and easily digestible. It wasn’t met with much empathy and very little acknowledgment so I refrained from pursuing it .
One of the many valuables things I’ve learned in our relationship, is that it’s important to ask for space. Being supportive is important but demanding someone’s energy and attention when they aren’t able to take it on, isn’t fair. Having learned that, this was a challenge I’d have to internalize until we had returned to our normal equilibrium. We never made it back.
I started to recognize a few patterns; what’s mine was ours and what’s hers was hers. I took responsibility for most of the domestic duties, and didn’t want to disrupt this fickle balance by asking her to do her part — a direct consequence of my fear of abandonment. We started to behave like separated parents of our beloved but shared responsibility, Nick. Texts between us two became less and less frequent and we mostly communicated in our group chat.
I started learning things about her from other sources, which I found incredibly disheartening. No matter how depressed I am, I always want to hear about my friends wins and positives in their life. It hurt to know she shared this with other people first, but this was the basis of our friendship. I needed to know everything; all the details, time of day, shape of the clouds, smell of the air — as you can tell I’m an illustrious storyteller. And she, she was the absolute opposite — if I didn’t ask the right and specific questions I would never know anything about her life.
And yet, I was exhausted. After numerous lockdowns, countless covid waves, losing jobs, trying to get by, watching the world on fire and human rights continuously be violated on a global scale — I had come to a conclusion. I did not want to be alive anymore. (FYI to anyone that has never had suicidal ideations, not wanting to be alive is vastly different than wanting to die.) This wasn’t the world I fantasized it to be. In fact, it was mostly painful and in that moment I recognized all the drugs, medications, natural or otherwise wasn’t enough to numb me from it all and I didn’t want to try anymore.
I also understood all too well the pain of losing someone and I couldn’t bare inflict that on the people I loved, so suicide was never an option. I had resolved to just remain alive, miserable, until my untimely (but hopefully sooner rather than later) death.
And in my worsened states, I retreat. This included asking her the strategic questions I had (grown accustomed) to craft to milk any information out of her. I eventually recognized it should not be my responsibility to do most of the legwork in this relationship, so I grew quiet and reserved. Eventually, it dawned on me, I couldn’t remember the last time she initiated quality time together (my preferred love language), whether at home or the intermittent periods we were allowed go out during the uncertain times.
Becoming aware of it, was the first nail in the coffin.
There are specific memories that are carved into my mind, regardless of whether I wanted them to be there at all. Moments that deeply hurt me, but also confused me because I couldn’t fathom her being anything less than a great friend to me, or having anything but honourable intentions. At this point, I still haven’t read her last texts to me: I’ve read previews, got the jist, but am still so adamant about wanting to preserve this encased version of her and fear they would destroy it.
Some critical moments that could’ve destroyed a more vulnerable person: when I confessed to her I was depressed in a very confusing time, on our walk home. A sentence that trailed off, interrupted by a nice yet incredibly heavy file cabinet on the street corner capturing her attention and her needing my help to carry it home. I obliged — and never really brought it up again.
When I was becoming more aware of my gender identity, curious if I identified as a woman because everyone else treated me as such and exploring where I fit on the gender scale, as my personal style presenting as hyperfeminine nearing art bimbo-esque with a dominant male energy: a quest I am still on without the promise of a definitive answer, perhaps thwarted by her response “Oh god, are you coming out to me right now? Please don’t.” In retrospect, I could not have imagined how detrimental that could’ve been to a more vulnerable person had I have to muster up the courage to reveal something so “intimate”. Regrettably, I am built differently. We both knew I could handle it, so I guess it didn’t matter. Another moment I was required to self-soothe - add it to the ever-growing pile. In truth, I harboured guilt, regret and shame for inconveniencing her with such sensitive personal matters.
The most revealing and in hindsight should’ve been met with more resistance and fury on my part, was when she admitted to treating me badly because she was overwhelmed with other events in her life, very well knowing that I could handle it, I would tolerate it, and would still stick around. This happened a few years prior and I recounted when she was, decisively moody with me always. My presence seemed to annoy her, nothing I said or did seem to be right, and yet I was well-versed with this behaviour. I had a lifetime of practice as the daughter of emotionally immature-negligent parents. I was no stranger to mood swings and inspiring disappointment for no apparent reason. And still I thirsted for her approval, company, and affection.
There was a change in tempo at some point: quick and subtle. Where we were once two peas in a pod, it shifted to an uncomfortable asymmetrical dynamic. I remained goofy, uncouth, yet genuine and she adopted a much more curated image. Of the few times I sought comfort and empathy from my best friend, she didn’t seem to have any room for me, emotional or physical. The oh-so familiar feeling of being “uncool” returned and my unique disposition was suddenly less appreciated and more of an inconvenience. My entire ethos and raison d’etre, is to be as shamelessly authentic as possible. This slutwork project began as a way to permit myself to be transparent, vulnerable, imperfect — and regardless of where this goes, or how many people see it, the act of continuously creating is in itself the reward. It is inherently important to me, not only as an artistic outlet, an experiment, a learning experience, but it truly for me, is a version of therapy. I’m continuously humbled by those who do take the time to read the essays, and have initiated a dialogue with me about them. And yet, I have no idea if she’s read anything I’ve written so far. If she has, we’ve never discussed it. And as I fear deeply that the content of this one would shine a negative light on her, hurt her, or have any unintentional consequence at all — the reality is, it probably would never be on her radar.
I don’t think I’ll be able to properly convey the gut-wrenching sadness when your person doesn’t choose you. Albeit, I’m aware that romantic relationships and breakups are more intimate and seemingly more devastating. There are also so many limiting factors that contribute to that: the right time, place, versions of each lover, their corresponding evolutions as humans, their respective families, desire for children, marriage, — list goes on. (This is clearly in reference to heteronormative relationships.) Friendships (or best friendships) don’t rely on those factors. My hypothetical desire for marriage and children doesn’t affect our friendship, or nor does it need to be confined to monogamy. Im free to have many friends, close friends, lovers, or a long-term partner. Having a repertoire of lovers that didn’t choose me romantically, although painful, doesn’t compare to what you considered a lifelong platonic partner opting for something, or someone else, or simply just not choose you at all.
This has been my longest, most meaningful relationship I have had the privilege to be part of. I could not ever imagine it would or could’ve ended this way but it’s finale doesn’t negate it’s value, success or impact it’s had on me. I will forever treasure the time we spent together, who I’ve grown into because of her, and learning I could love selflessly and feel loved is more than I could’ve asked for.
