Friends (I Miss You…)

T/W: very subtle mentions of sexual assault. Also, overall tone of this post is sad.

(This is a heads up that this post will be a bit different from my others. It’s going to be a bit scattered and more like unfiltered thoughts than a story or experience. Enjoy and Happy Friday the 13th!)

Friends can hurt you, they can break your heart.

I don’t care what anyone says about the matter—to me, it’s fact. I’ve lived it too many times at this point.

Some of the worst emotional turmoil I’ve ever felt was inflicted by “friends”—more than any lover ever managed to do. Granted, I don’t have a ton of experience with actual romantic relationships so maybe I “don’t know”. I think I do though.

The pain is real. It’s agonizing. It’s…breathtaking but not in the way that you’d want something to take your breath away. It’s like a supercharged vacuum sucked the soul out of your body or like your lungs collapsed. It’s the absence of everything good—darkness enveloping anything and everything that you could ever possibly enjoy. It’s heartbreaking.

I guess it doesn’t help that in these particular instances, the friends were kind of also romantic interests…well one was…the other—the first one to suck the air from my body—was my best friend at the time but she turned into a predator.

I was fresh meat—sweet blood flowing through me—and with all the naivety of a fawn separated from its family.

She was a huntress and sniffed me out from miles away. I was easy prey—it wasn’t an “if” she could take me but when. Needless to say, she got what she hungered for and just like a deer being hunted, it was not voluntary on my part.

I lost a piece of me that day but in its place was an ever-growing layer—a shield—encasing my heart…making it that much harder for me to trust anyone.

Amazingly, the burning ache of this memory has dimmed considerably—it’s an ember—a fragment of the unrelenting fire that used to scorch me from the inside out whenever I was unlucky enough to remember that night.

Time and therapy will do that.

Still, there will always be a piece that lingers and even though it’s an ember, it can burn just the same.

The other one though—she was different. She was not the type to hurt.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering if she even knows she hurt me or if she doesn’t care because she truly believes I was the one to do something wrong…

It’s hard to say, and it makes my head hurt.

The reality is, I know nothing about her, especially not now.

How could I?

This is a whole different person than I had known her to be, because, in a twist of events, and not what I imagined to be her style—she vanished.

She was a confidant in some of the worst times of my current life and I was one for her.

A friendship—companions who leaned on each other when one was hurting—and it’s as if that never happened.

I look back at that time and think of it as a myth, a legend, a fable—completely fabricated and seemingly nonexistent, with the faintest hints of truth.

Because how could it actually have been real?

How do you care about someone (and I mean strictly as a friend) and then suddenly become a ghost to them, a faded photograph, a memory?

And I’m not innocent.

Im passionate, flawed, and lead with emotion rather than logic more often than not.

It’s a recipe for disaster—a friendship killer. Clearly.

Still, it’s so hard to accept because there was no closure. No clear cut reason.

One moment we’re on the same page, reading the same story word for word and the next—I’m left staring at an open book, totally blank with a pen in my hand to create but the ink has run dry.

The characters are different now and the pages that once made up one of the best friendships in my life have been incinerated.

Time for a new story in which I’m destined to write—except I’m not even sure if I’m the author anymore. Or if I ever was.

Because I didn’t get a say—this wasn’t the ending I wrote—not even as an alternate. I’m not the author, not the main character either—I’m a bystander and I’m watching as the universe keeps telling my stories for me.

I want to choose to take a more active role in my destiny—I want to write my own chapters—don’t want to be a hunted animal anymore.

The thing is, my methods are not advisable, because if I could find a pen that worked, I’d write an ending where, at the very least, there would be closure.

That’s the tricky part though—closure is never what one imagines it to be…instead of a fleshed out book that’s reached its end, it’s a lot more like an open ended essay—with which you tend to leave with more questions than answers.

So I suppose that my closure is understanding that these things happen and that I have no control over other people and what they do or desire.

Still, to the fresh wound that I’m still licking to this day, I just need to say—I miss you. I don’t know why and I don’t think I should…

In a way, you were worse than the first because it’s somehow easier to understand that she would do something evil—she was never good to begin with…but you—you were (are) a good person.

And I should backtrack and mention that no, you didn’t do anything “evil”…more like fucked up and perplexing—because you did twist and turn my understanding of our reality and then treated everything like I was the one making no sense—like I was the only one who felt anything—friendship or otherwise…something you despised about so many of the men that came into my life.

So forgive me. I was confused and hurt. I did act irrationally, and I know that—I got upset, maybe too worked up before I knew what was happening for sure. Please understand that it was because I saw this coming—I expected the worst and the worst is what I got.

Regardless…I miss you. I do. As a friend, genuinely.

Life is grey without the friendship that was blooming…I sometimes feel as though you’re dead because of the agonizing pain I get when I reminisce about the funny things you would do (which was basically everything)…or from the tinge of dread and intense distress that consumes me when you’re the first person I think of to tell something to and I realize that I can’t.

I miss you my friend. I shouldn’t, but I do.

The worst part is when I let my mind roam and I wonder—

Do you miss me too?

Published by gcalavano

I am a 24 year old who uses the following pronouns: she/her/they/them. I am queer and mentally ill and I’m just trying to live and figure out how to remain true to myself but also grow as I go!

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