Letters to God and Loves Lost: Day 4

J,

Don’t worry. This’ll be short.

Or maybe not.

Maybe all your sudden silence merits only that simple “full-on fuck you,” the one you dish out to people who don’t respond to you.

And maybe that’s the end of it. But before that, I have some words left.

I was watching “The Devil Wears Prada” a few nights ago. Not really watching-watching. I don’t know if you’ll remember that I love and hate the movie. Love Streep and Tucci and their gorgeousness, love the story and the clothes and the acting, but have been on the receiving end of egomaniacs in the workplace a little too much to fully enjoy the thing. A lot of those scenes make the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention, quite frankly. So I left it on – because Streep and Tucci – but I just let it run in the background while I texted with friends.

In between one emoji and the next, I happened to turn toward the TV during one of those moments when Andy is standing in front of Miranda’s desk, her face flush with the desperation of trying to measure up to Miranda’s standards. There are many scenes like this. Andy’s explaining herself, validating herself, proving herself. And mid-sentence, Miranda does that thing she does throughout the film: She looks up from the tip of her reading glasses, or back down to the magazine she is perusing, and says, “That’s all.”

And with that, Andy is…dismissed. It’s practically a whisper. Meant to humiliate.

The moment got stuck in my teeth.

It struck me that our last interchange played itself out that way. You’d gone cold, polite and silent in turns, and I found myself talking, calling, asking you what was wrong, and then, in the end, when I worried too much, when you deemed me too much, you dismissed the conversation. Dismissed me.

All connections cut. Not a word or an open door since. Leaving me wondering, who are you?

As last dances go, this is part where you walk off the stage, leaving me in the middle of a spin that you lead me into.

I know you’re certain that you you’ve been clear. Your expectations reasonable. And to some degree, the clarity part is true. Words like “disappointed” and “aggravated” and “drama” paint a clear – albeit stark – picture. A clearly uncompromising picture. Of you. Of where you stand.

Is it reasonable? Not even remotely. Because no matter what expectation I didn’t meet, what ball I might have dropped, to be a part of someone’s everyday existence, express love and support and kindness, and then, with the flip of a switch, be something entirely opposite, is not normal.

And why, G, am I forced to grieve again? Is it all not fucking enough?

Disappearing acts force a reckoning, though. And so I’ve looked hard, at you and at myself. And I’ve drawn a few conclusions that have significantly quieted the voices.

Clearly, a trigger was activated. A deeply embedded and destructive one. Dormant for over a decade, invisible to my naked, innocent eye. One that completely reconfigures the landscape, pushes mountains up, creates fissures, and births tsunamis that wipe out entire coastlines. It’s pretty impressive, really. Fascinating to watch if you’re not me. But we all know that triggers belong to the triggered. I may have accidentally pushed a button, but the button was created long before I entered the picture.

And me, I did my best. I was willing to talk to you about the things that troubled me. And while I worried about what your own trouble might be, I was adult enough to ask, patient enough to wait, and loving enough to care what your words might be.

How my care became your source of aggravation, I will never know. Another part of the trigger, I guess.

It’s hard to believe that decades of friendship have come to this. Unfathomable to most, considering all we’ve done, all we’ve said, all I thought was ahead for two such special souls. It was sacred, our bond.

I see you now, though. All of you. And from this view, the bedrock, the trust, no longer exists. Which leads me to wonder that it ever did.

Before I go, though, I’d like you and this Universe to know…

That what you’ve done for me, what your friendship this past decade has done for my heart, is immeasurable. My gratitude is boundless.

But also…

That the deal of love between us was just that you be you. I never expected a thing from you. Whether or not you could save me, come running, had answers or strength or time, was never part of the pact for me. (Just like you said it was for you.)

That your superiority is tragically misplaced. We are equals. And so, words like “disappointment” are best reserved for paid services, unproductive days, or a fucking hamburger, but not for me.

And that, as friends go, I’m a unicorn too. And you’ve made an enormous mistake in waving me off. In measuring me.

Because in doing so, you’ve lost me.

That’s all.

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