Friends Forever: For Better or Worse * The Underbelly

Friends Forever: For Better or Worse * The Underbelly



I recently wrote a piece for The Underbelly on dealing with my best friend’s terminal diagnosis. Here it is!

We Too

“No.” One word. One syllable. Two letters. Everything and nothing all at once. A word that gets ignored far too much.

The night it happened was nothing out of the ordinary. A typical night at my group’s typical bar. A particularly drunk man wouldn’t leave me alone, so you swooped in to save me. Be the hero. We had been friends for many years, so we all assumed it was out of friendship that you walked me away from the table with your arm around my shoulders. Like a protective older brother. We all assumed it was out of friendship that you kept an eye on me and hovered nearby any time I was left at the table with the stranger. We all assumed it was out of friendship when you jokingly picked me up as you were leaving, and threw me over your shoulder and walked off. We were all laughing. Good times. Until it wasn’t. It wasn’t funny anymore. It wasn’t comfortable anymore. It wasn’t out of friendship anymore. 

You placed me in your vehicle and pushed me back as you leaned in on me and tried to kiss me. I pushed you away and told you “no,” but you laughed and pushed me back again while rubbing my inner thigh and trying to unbutton my jeans. That’s when I pushed back. Flashbacks of the last time I said “no,” and it didn’t stop bombarded me from every angle. That’s where I found the strength to push past you and out of the vehicle. I reminded you I had a boyfriend and you said that didn’t matter to you. But it mattered to me, and I’m sure it would matter to your girlfriend.

My head spun for days. I couldn’t believe what had happened, or what could have happened. I remember wondering what kind of father you are to your your little girl, setting the example that it is perfectly okay to behave like you had. She will grow up with you as her guide of how to be treated by a man. I hope you teach her that it is never okay for someone to try to force themselves on her. That it is NEVER her fault if it happens. Because after all, I am some man’s daughter, many years older than yours, who had a man not listen to the “no.” And just like it was not my fault, it would never be hers if she finds herself in a similar situation.

I hope she finds her strength to stand up against any man who tries. I hope you teach her better than you act. But most of all, I hope she never gets to say, “me too.”

We're not Meant to be Liked by Everyone (and that's Okay)

I tend to put my heart into the hands of those who won't hold it. I trust too easily that they won't let go. That they won't drop my porcelain heart and shatter it into a thousand impossible pieces. Because nothing I do is ever easy. I'm messy and complicated. And when I break, I'm the only one whose hands know exactly how to handle the mess I've made. The shards are razor sharp. One wrong move and I'll pierce your skin and draw blood, so I won't let you help me rebuild myself. I know the cracks and fault lines in my heart like the backs of my eyelids. I trace them with my fingers, once I'm healed and again nervously placing my heart in new hands. As if running my fingers across the seams will somehow strengthen the fractured spaces. As if I can save my heart the breaking when it's dropped by these new hands. But I can't.

I'm unpredictable and explosive. I speak my mind even when I shouldn't; when what I blurt out is insensitive or offensive. I shout words and spit them out like poison-- the victims mere bystanders-- and disregard the aftermath. I deal in fixing others' messes, neglecting the ones I create for myself. I only then cry out when the stones I've tied to my feet start to pull me under the waves ferociously rocking my life. I only stop when it's too late to salvage the wreckage. But I refuse to sink, to give in to the dark, frigid, murky waters. I kick until I free myself. I fight like hell until my head is once again above water.

...and then I remember: I may have depression, but depression doesn't have me.

Fifteen Years

I walked into the elementary art room just a few hours after they had it on lockdown. The blue carpet was stained pink from where you threw up. You’d had a seizure, they told me. Another one. The stench of the powder they put over your cleaned up vomit still lingering in the air, but you were gone.

I went home, so scared for you, and your mother met me in the alley. She told me I could go in and see you, even though you were asleep on the couch. When she found me, I was standing in the dining room, too afraid to step into the next room where you lay under an afghan… I was praying, begging God to make you better. I needed my best friend. I turned and looked at your mom and finally allowed the words that were echoing in my head to fall from my mouth.

“Will he live,” I asked as tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t imagine losing you. She told me you would, and I was relieved… but a few years later, I lost you to epilepsy after all.

You’d had another seizure, this one leaving you brain dead; you died a few days later. I was angry. Angry at God for taking you from me. Angry at epilepsy for causing the seizures. The students at school were allowed to go to the library to speak with grief counselors, so that’s where I spent my whole day… but the others were only there because they were sorry that they had always made fun of you. You were different, and that’s what made you so special to me… but to them, it was a game—a reason to make fun of and mock you. I became angry at the others surrounding me at the table for treating you so terribly while you were alive, but only feeling remorse once it was too late to take back their words. I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. I still can’t breathe when I think about it.

Across the hall from the library was my mom’s classroom. I found her there with the lights off in her free period. I wanted to disappear from everyone, leave the cruelness that I was engulfed in. She picked up her box of paper to be recycled and handed it to me. She told me to crumple pieces up and throw them as hard as I could at the wall until I felt better. I made the wall my target, along with the desks. The chalk board. The floor. It helped, but it couldn’t fix the gaping hole in my heart that was left by you leaving.

Your funeral was something I think you would have been proud of. The church sanctuary was full, spilling over into the annex, down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. People to celebrate your life, and others to repent for their cruelty. I’d never seen more people show support for you in the almost 10 years I had known you. I was devastated, but I was proud.

Ten years later, I was diagnosed with epilepsy myself. It hit my family hard, but I was able to accept it because I’d been through it once with you. You may be gone, but you’ve served as my inspiration for waking up every day and fighting the fight that you just simply couldn’t fight anymore. I often think about you, and who and what you’d have become if you were given the opportunity to grow up and become an adult. What you’d have done if your life hadn’t been cut so short.

Today makes fifteen years since we lost you. Fifteen long years, but it seems just like yesterday. I still think about you daily, and how inspiring you and your life are to me. I hope I make you as proud as you always made me. Every day of the past fifteen years, and every day until I’m gone from this place, too.

I love you. I miss you so much.

"A History of Choices: What We've Become"

It was a windy Monday morning in mid April when I walked through the door of the apartment with my mind made up. I knew what I needed to do, and I had finally gathered enough courage to do it. As I looked up from kicking my shoes off at the door, I could see him in the spare bedroom straight ahead, down the hall. He was moving things around and piling them by the door. My stomach dropped as my heart leaped into my throat and stopped simultaneously.

"He's already a step ahead of me," I thought. "He is packing my things up and is going to tell me we're over."

I walked down the hallway and stood in the doorway. He told me he was looking for something and asked if I had seen it. Honestly, I don't even know what he was looking for, because the sound of my heart pounding was the only noise that reached my ears.

"Can you come out here and talk to me, please?" I asked. He followed me down the hallway and into the living room.

I sat at the far end of the couch and insisted he sit down. Things hadn't been right for months, and I was going to get to the bottom of things-- I was going to fix us, or I was leaving. After all, just a few weeks prior, I came home and found a bobby pin that was too new and the wrong color to be mine... and he couldn't explain it, but he had been home all day.

"I am not happy," I said. "I haven't been for weeks, and I know you haven't been happy for a while either. What is happening to us? What do we need to do to be happy again? Because I honestly just can't keep doing this. I make efforts to spend time with you, and you make excuses. You play video games while I try to talk to you, and you ignore me. I sit on the couch with you and try to curl up next to you, and you move away. You won't let me kiss you without pretending like you're joking... and I have to tell you that I love you more than once before you finally tell me you love me too. I just can't keep doing this."

He immediately stood up and walked behind me into the kitchen and started slamming things around as he was getting ready for work. Finally, he spoke.

"What do you want me to say, sorry for playing video games? I'm not happy either. I work 6 days a week to give us a place to live, car insurance, utilities... and you work a few days a week and do nothing. Why was it that I had to do dishes this weekend just to be able to eat, while you went out of town?"

I was stunned. For our entire relationship-- nearly four years-- I had financially supported us. Our first winter together, he sat on unemployment while I worked a minimum wage job, just to make it by... and most recent to the conversation, I had paid for the $1,000 worth of repairs for his car and hadn't seen a penny of it back. I paid for more than half of our bed. More than half of the couch. Our cell phone bill in full each month. Purchased our groceries. Put gas in the car. Paid our utility bills. I also cleaned the apartment at least once a week without ever asking for help. The only responsibility he had was our $400 rent payment each month. Yet somehow, I didn't contribute anything to the relationship-- and specifically nothing financial.

My head reeling, I sat there silent. I bit my tongue to keep from lashing out in anger and escalating the situation.

"Anything else?" He asked.

I shook my head in stunned silence and he walked down the hall to the bathroom, where a few moments later the shower was running.

He left for work shortly after, and not another word was spoken between us. The last sound I heard from him was the door he slammed as he left. I didn't know what to do, so I cried. I let it all out for the first time. For almost four years, I gave my time, money, and whole self to our relationship, and I was learning it wasn't enough.

That's the moment I decided that I deserved better-- I deserved to be happy-- so I called my family and asked them to come get me. Four years of my things were packed and ready to go in under an hour and a half, and were loaded into a truck in fifteen minutes.

I left behind a two page letter with the keys, and he found it when he got home.

At this point, you're probably judging me pretty hardcore. You may think that there were better ways to end it, but you weren't a part of my relationship, so you can't fully understand. If you're still with me, keep reading. If you're not, keep reading anyway. Believe it or not, there is a lesson here. My intent is not to bash my ex; I want to share what I learned.

I expected a phone call, but I got an e-mail asking me to help him understand. He said that you don't just throw away an almost 4 year relationship because you hit a "rough spot," and he wanted to know if this is what I really wanted... he also said he was pissed that all he got was a letter and a "quick escape," and he accused me of just looking for a reason.

"You need to know that this wasn't an easy decision for me to make... In our conversation yesterday, you made it perfectly clear that you feel like I do more hurt than help. I tried to have a conversation with you about one thing, and it got turned back onto me for pretty much being a lazy freeloader. Why do you think I shut up after that? I was hurt. I have been hurt for a while. I was trying to tell you that yesterday and you completely blew past it and it became about me, not about us. I love you more than I think you ever realized, and each disappointment, each "hurt," I just pushed down and made excuses for you. So to hear yesterday how you really feel hurt me worse than any of those other hurts put together. If that's how you really feel about me and my position in the relationship, then is it really just a rough spot or is it something more? I wasn't just looking for a reason.

"I understand you're pissed; I expected you to be. But I need you to try and see where I am coming from. You of all people know that for most of my adult life I have been a burden to one person or another... the last person I wanted to hear that from is the person I love more than anything. How do you get past that? I have done everything, in my mind, to try and be a good girlfriend-- a good person-- to you, only to find out that you feel like I failed you. So while you may be pissed, you need to understand that I am seriously hurt... and that's where this all comes from."

He accused me of having planned my leaving, weeks in advance, for as quickly as I left. He also defended himself by telling me he never called me a freeloader.

I answered, "For me to move out as quickly as I did only required me to throw my things together quickly and call someone with a truck. The only planning that I did was deciding if I wanted to risk continuing to be hurt and make excuses, or if I had finally had enough sadness. Do you know how many times that you stayed up until I got up and then went to bed when I left for work, that I cried myself to sleep the next night? Do you know how many times in the past month I have wanted nothing more than to just cuddle up to you on the couch and you acted like it was an inconvenience? Or even how many times I have had to say "I love you" before I would even get a response? Each time, I made an excuse for why you may have reacted like that. That's why it's taken a month for me to bring it up. I finally got tired of making excuses and pushing the hurt down for another day, acting like nothing was wrong.

"For not thinking I am a freeloader, it certainly seemed that's the case-- you said that you work 6 days a week to support us, and I only work a few and do nothing. If that's not the definition of a freeloader, I don't know what is. Like I said yesterday, I have never once asked for help with cleaning the apartment... even with two sinks full and the entire counter covered in dirty dishes and all of the other work that goes into cleaning the rest. And even though I only work a few days a week, I still paid for the repairs on your car, more than half of the bed, more than half of the couch, I usually paid the cell phone bill in full, put gas in the car when I'd used it, bought groceries (not always, as you pointed out yesterday,) and still try to keep a clean home. I went out of town for a holiday and dishes didn't get done. Went out of town the following weekend to see an aunt I hadn't seen in a while, dishes didn't get done... does it suck to have to clean a dish or two to eat? Yes. Is it the end of the world? No. I was trying to open up to you yesterday and talk through things, and it became about me and what I don't do, not the root of the problem. It had become clear that trying to talk about it again wasn't going to work as long as I would continue to be the reason for your unhappiness."

I never heard from him after that, and I woke up the next morning to find he had finally removed our relationship from facebook. My whole family believed I made the right decision, and I truly believe I did, too. It had been killing me for weeks so much that I hadn't been able to eat or sleep-- I lost 15 pounds in a week and a half and weighed less than I did in high school.

Did I handle it the "best" way possible? Probably not... but if we had tried to talk it out again, it would have turned into something about ME again, just like every other time, and we would never get to the REAL problem.

it was time to get out. I deserve better. I deserved to be happy again.

Two years later brings us to the present. I have been single for half the amount of time that I was with him, and that's okay with me. While I admit that I do get lonely, I really am happy.

Don't ask me why I am single. After four years of a truly dysfunctional relationship, I am in no hurry to rush into another relationship unless I am sure I will be treated how I deserve. I am too old to waste my time with playing games. For me, dating should serve a purpose beyond staving off loneliness. I want to find someone who is man enough to commit to me through not just the easy times, but the difficult ones as well.

Because you see, being with me won't be easy for whoever chooses me. I am a mess of medical issues ranging from Epilepsy to the possibility of cancer. There's a 70% chance that I won't be able to have children, and if I try, I have to be weaned off of my anticonvulsant and stay off for the duration of my pregnancy. It's a lot to take in, for even myself, so it's not fair to expect anyone to willingly accept that. To ask someone else to give up his hopes and dreams for the sake of loving me... but I believe that someone, some day, won't mind. And if not, I will be just fine.

My point is this: we are responsible for our own happiness. Single or in a relationship. Whatever you need to do to be happy, do it. This life is yours, and it's too short to live it settling. Find something that you love to do, and do it. Find someone who treats you like you're the most amazing person to grace the face of the planet, and hold onto them. But never become complacent. Love until you feel like there's nothing left in you to give, and that one thing or that one person will reignite your heart with a fire big enough to go on forever.

Never settle. YOU deserve better. YOU deserve to be happy.

...but, my dear friend, I'll try again.

Our bodies were designed to carry blood-- vessels, tissue, skin. Sometimes, we become damaged. A scrape; a cut; an open wound. And with each beat of the heart, the blood is forced out, escaping to the surface. With each push from within, it spills out. It begins a mess. In the same way, our bodies were designed to carry love-- a heart, a mind, a soul. And often, we become damaged. Words and actions grate against our weakest spots. A scrape; a cut; a wound. And with each beat of the heart, the love is forced out-- hate escaping to the surface. With each push from within, it spills out. It begins a mess.

But because real love always triumphs, we bandage ourselves up and go about the business of fixing whatever we can. Like the body heals itself and restores what it has lost, we heal ourselves... embarking on a journey of eventually restoring what we, too, have lost.

wake up, you're alive.

The day that my landlord told me he was putting my house on the market was the day the baby bird fell from its nest.
The day my house stopped feeling like home.

I woke up feeling good, even though I'd walked around for days with a cloud over my head. Alex, my landlord, was considering putting the house up for sale. He'd had a realtor walk through it already, but he hadn't decided what he wanted to do. I was optimistic he wouldn't choose to sell. After all, how could such a terrible thing happen to me? Life was good. Wasn't it?

I rolled over and checked my phone. "Hey Elaine, give me a call when you wake up," was the text waiting for me. Alex. I allowed myself a few more minutes to fully wake up before calling him. I wanted to completely comprehend the conversation we were about to have, though I was certain he wanted to tell me he had opted not to put the house on the market at this point in time. He answered after a few rings, and we engaged in small talk until he was able to work his way up to the reason for the call: he was putting the house on the market.

My heart rocketed into my throat. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He began to tell me that if (and it was a big "if,) the house sold, he would make sure I had an additional thirty days to vacate, on top of the amount of time it would take to close. He didn't, after all, want to screw me over and leave me scrambling to find a new place to live. We covered a few more details, and ended the call. I sat in my bed, head reeling, until I was able to get up and get on with my day.

I had the day off, and I really didn't want to be home alone. I grabbed some laundry and went to load up my car to drive to my mom's for the afternoon.

I opened the back door, that leads to my patio, and saw it. At first, I wasn't sure what I was seeing... until I got closer. It was a baby bird. Its head was bigger than the rest of its body; its purple lids on its eyes not yet open. A pile of pink rubber with little tiny feathers where its wings would grow, struggling to flip itself back over. It had fallen from directly above, where a sparrow had been building an impressive nest for weeks in the gutter of the roof that covers my patio. Nearby, on a fence post, its mother sat eyeing me.

I couldn't touch it. Its mother wouldn't want anything to do with it. But I couldn't just leave it, either-- it's neck was twisted, and it was struggling to get turned over. Fighting to live. I looked around for something, anything, to help me flip it over without actually touching it. Finally, I found a stone. I used an untouched edge to turn the baby right side up. To straighten its neck. To hopefully save its life.

I left, praying its mother would take it back.

When I got home later that night, the baby was still on the patio. Still alive. Still struggling. Its breathing was getting more and more shallow, and I knew it wouldn't make it through the night. I stood there talking to it. The more I talked, the more it moved around. It liked the sound of my voice. I felt helpless. I couldn't take it in; it wouldn't last. But if I left it outside, a cat or another animal would likely make a meal of it. I talked to it until I couldn't take it anymore, apologizing over and over for not being able to save it.

I couldn't even save myself from possibly being ripped from my own home.

Painfully aware of how alike the baby bird and I were, I went inside and cried myself to sleep. I couldn't save the bird, and I couldn't save myself. I spent days lost. Not knowing what to do next. I couldn't even bring myself to remove the remains of the dead bird from my patio. It stayed there until my lawn was mowed the next time, and it was blown off of the concrete, with the grass clippings after the mowing.

I began to panic. I took a mini-vacation, some time to clear my head. I gave myself an opportunity to be happy for the first time in months. I came back to a For Sale sign in my yard. I sat in my car in the driveway, crying, for a good five minutes before I forced myself to get out and unpack my car. To head into the house that no longer felt like home to me. To try to put my life back together, as best I knew how... but running away is what I know best.

I am still trying to hold my life together, while allowing myself a bit of happiness each week. Most people don't understand why I chose to work 12 hours on one of my days off each week, two hours away. But the truth is, it's who I am. I need to know-- to feel-- that I am still me. I am still capable of doing something, anything, to make me feel alive. I can still do things, and do them well. To know that I am valued. To have, and be, something I haven't in a very long time.

Simply put, I chose my happiness over the life that haunts me here. This life of merely existing isn't me. Who cares if the house I live in sells? It's not the end of the world. It's not the end of my life. There is so much more out there for me than this house.

The baby bird never had the opportunity to spread its wings and fly; never felt the freedom that comes with it. But that doesn't mean that I can't take the opportunity for myself.

The day my landlord told me he was putting my house on the market was the day the baby bird fell from its nest.
The day my house stopped feeling like home.