The friendship fallacy

Phew, I've just about recovered from my last confession/newsletter, and here I go again.

Photo by Simon Maage on Unsplash

Once upon a time, I had a best friend.

We met within the first hour of being deposited at our brand new University halls of residence, in September 1997. From that moment on, we were inseparable. I remember colliding with her in the corridor one morning and realising we’d dressed exactly the same. The boys used to refer to us simply as “one” and “two”, so interchangeable were we.

We lived together throughout university, through rites of passage like no other. I held her hair back for her when she’d had one too many drinks (I was the sensible one) and she pushed me out of my comfort zone; with her by my side I felt invincible. We didn’t even need to articulate that we’d be each other’s bridesmaids and godmothers to future children.

It was a no-brainer that when we moved to London a few years after graduating we would share a flat, which was a gorgeous mews pad in trendy Angel. I’d love to be able to say we lived happily ever after, but reader, you know that’s not what I’m here for. Failure #2 (of many) is my failure at being a best friend.

Society idealises friendship, particularly female friendships. From film (Thelma & Louise, anyone?) to social media, you don’t have to search too hard to see #squadgoals (bit dated now, but you get the gist) and BFFs saturating your feed. It seems that as a female, you simply must have a best friend, and not only that, but the same one you’ve always had.

Before delving any deeper, I’m going to caveat this by saying how extremely important my “Big Friendships” are to me. Aminatou Sou and Ann Friedman describe a Big Friendship in their seminal book of the same name, as “a strong, significant bond which transcends life phases, geographical locations and emotional shifts.”

I have a number of Big Friendships, and I consciously devote time, energy and resources to each and every one of them. They are my strength and support, my balance, my filter. Second only to my husband and close family, I honestly don’t think I could cope without them.

But I am absolutely convinced that I wouldn’t see them in this way, were it not for experiencing the gut-wrenching pain of a failed Big Friendship.

I firmly believe I’m able to be the friend now that I should have been all those years ago in North London. My failings then have made me a better friend now.

Much like the the stigma that used to surround divorce, there’s a silent judgement shrouding the breakdown of a friendship. No-one ever expects a friendship to end. There’s no rom-com for getting over a best friend. Boys will come and go, but friendships are forever, right?

It’s taken me years to come to terms with her loss. I felt it as a kind of grief: a raw, constant pain. Waking up every morning for years and the reality of it hitting me. Even now, I can’t smell Chanel Allure without being reminded of her. I’ve gone back and forth over where it all went wrong, and tortured myself with thoughts of how I could have behaved differently.

Crucially, I felt ashamed. I didn’t want to tell anyone what had happened, as I felt so strongly that it was my fault, that damaging internal narrative telling me I was a bad person; no-one liked me. If people knew, they wouldn’t like me either. I couldn’t talk about it.

Twenty years on, times have changed, but we’ve had very little contact. The last time we texted was after the London bombings in 2005; a quick but meaningful “are you ok?” “yes, are you?” was the last thing we said to each other. My heart aches even writing this; sometimes I still have dreams about us bumping into each other.

“I know it’s long gone, and there’s nothing else I can do…..I might be ok, but I’m not fine at all.” - Taylor Swift, All Too Well

Life goes on. I rarely think about her these days. I no longer feel ashamed, and writing this, whilst painful, has exorcised those final demons. Mistakes were made, lessons learned.

Time has gifted me distance, perspective, and (slightly) more wisdom than I was blessed with at 22. Our friendship didn’t weather the storm; perhaps it wasn’t a Big Friendship after all. I see that there are two sides to every story and I realise I’m not the only person to have experienced this. I’m confident that my friends are friends for life. They love me, just as I am. I guess she was a friend for a season, as the saying goes, after all.

The sun may have set on that friendship, but what a beautiful, magical, heart-breaking sunset it was. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Photo by Hannah Busing on Unsplash