the grief of resiliency / an open letter
"That's why I want to stay friends. Because I care enough to & I hope that you do too."
Those words ended a message I saved in my phone's notes on July 14. I rarely note anything electronically, especially an important message. When I do, I forget that it exists. Tonight I wanted to set-up my BPme fuel rewards account (as anyone with a car and a BP station nearby should), and my login wasn't written down anywhere.
"Oh, maybe it's in my notes," I thought. I scrolled through them all, not finding it. I created a new account, and I almost moved on--then I saw the saved message. Despite knowing better, I read it. I read all of them and our old emails.
I remember sending it. I remember the feeling of disappointment in myself, thinking that I'd lost the person I cared about most. A few days prior, I asked them, "Are you sure that's what you want?"
They said yes, and "that" didn't refer to me. I responded, "Okay I have to go." Sometimes I wish I would have left it at that. Perhaps that would have been my most powerful Independent Woman moment. I didn't though. I woke up the next morning, and I started a new phase of life. I claimed it as day one. Roughly 36 hours later, I started over again--sending you a message from a bar stool across the street from my old apartment (I miss that one).
All of the dreadful July days run together. It's a month I've always hated, and this year added a multitude of reasons. Either that morning or the one after, I learned of a mentor/old supervisor/friend's sudden death. The blur of those few days involved my drunkenly crumbled walls allowing me to reach out, the interview for my current job, my friend's funeral, and spending every waking moment choking on the pride I could no longer swallow. Sometimes I still gasp for air.
The point here is that I did not want to deal with the terrors of life at the time without the only person who has ever truly supported me--as a friend, a confidant, a peer, a stranger, a neighbor, a *fill in the blank with anything else, they've been it.* I explained myself clearly, as they did, and we reached an agreement as friends. We set boundaries. I felt a sort of sad longing for something else, but I felt a stronger sense of appreciation for what we had.
When I sent the message that ended with the prior quote, I apologized profusely for ignoring their pointed questions. I explained why I spent 36 hours thinking that pushing them away was the only option. I disclosed secrets only one other person knew. And I ended it with, "That's why I want to stay friends. Because I care enough to & I hope that you do too."
We spent the months following that conversation building a connection I didn't know could exist. Our relationship set bars higher than I can imagine reaching now.
But on my birthday, everything changed. After not receiving a promised call, I restlessly took a nap in the early morning hours. I woke up, still nothing. I went to work, still nothing. I told my supervisor that I'd be checking my phone because I knew that something had to be wrong, still nothing. My anxiety tricked me into thinking the worst: this person was hurt and nobody was there to help them, still nothing.
Wrong.
They sent a message a few hours later, stating that their phone was off and they'd fallen asleep.
A flood of anger rushed through my veins and across my skin. Have you ever experienced the feeling of the color red?
We barely spoke that day. The next, we barely spoke again. I thought those were the hardest days. I sent an email outlining my thoughts and feelings and questions, knowing that I would receive a response as I always had before. I guess I knew nothing.
Soon after, everything ended. The one constant in my life left. The trust I developed for another person vanished. I felt a feeling I had never truly known: heartbreak. It's been a little more than a month now, and there are moments that I forget the feeling exists.
Tonight I read that note. I read that I cared, and I remembered the feeling of knowing that they did too. And I felt the breaking all over again. I wonder if that's how it felt when they changed my name in their phone to the initials I would have with their last name to nothing, reflecting what I suddenly became to them.
I was wrong about the hardest days. Those came in the last few weeks. At first, I thought it was because I had lost this person. I won't lie: some truth exists there. Alas, they have been the hardest days because resiliency is the only thing I've never grieved--until now.
Now, I am grieving the fact that I deleted them from my internet presence without thinking much more than, "goodbye," as I selected the relative options. I am grieving the fact that my photo wall still remains unfinished, and that they will never be on it. I am grieving the fact that those who knew this person knew them as my person, when all along that should have been me--it is now. I am grieving the fact that I spent nearly $800 on a holiday vacation that I only just brought myself to cancel--without a refund--last night. I am grieving the fact that I only asked for the flight change fee to be paid to me so I can still use my flight credit later, and I am grieving the fact that I didn't tack on fees for emotional damage. I am grieving the fact that, already, I feel like a changed person. One day I won't know them anymore, and they won't know me. I'm grieving that day already--it's happening now.
Those words ended a message I saved in my phone's notes on July 14. I rarely note anything electronically, especially an important message. When I do, I forget that it exists. Tonight I wanted to set-up my BPme fuel rewards account (as anyone with a car and a BP station nearby should), and my login wasn't written down anywhere.
"Oh, maybe it's in my notes," I thought. I scrolled through them all, not finding it. I created a new account, and I almost moved on--then I saw the saved message. Despite knowing better, I read it. I read all of them and our old emails.
I remember sending it. I remember the feeling of disappointment in myself, thinking that I'd lost the person I cared about most. A few days prior, I asked them, "Are you sure that's what you want?"
They said yes, and "that" didn't refer to me. I responded, "Okay I have to go." Sometimes I wish I would have left it at that. Perhaps that would have been my most powerful Independent Woman moment. I didn't though. I woke up the next morning, and I started a new phase of life. I claimed it as day one. Roughly 36 hours later, I started over again--sending you a message from a bar stool across the street from my old apartment (I miss that one).
All of the dreadful July days run together. It's a month I've always hated, and this year added a multitude of reasons. Either that morning or the one after, I learned of a mentor/old supervisor/friend's sudden death. The blur of those few days involved my drunkenly crumbled walls allowing me to reach out, the interview for my current job, my friend's funeral, and spending every waking moment choking on the pride I could no longer swallow. Sometimes I still gasp for air.
The point here is that I did not want to deal with the terrors of life at the time without the only person who has ever truly supported me--as a friend, a confidant, a peer, a stranger, a neighbor, a *fill in the blank with anything else, they've been it.* I explained myself clearly, as they did, and we reached an agreement as friends. We set boundaries. I felt a sort of sad longing for something else, but I felt a stronger sense of appreciation for what we had.
---
When I sent the message that ended with the prior quote, I apologized profusely for ignoring their pointed questions. I explained why I spent 36 hours thinking that pushing them away was the only option. I disclosed secrets only one other person knew. And I ended it with, "That's why I want to stay friends. Because I care enough to & I hope that you do too."
We spent the months following that conversation building a connection I didn't know could exist. Our relationship set bars higher than I can imagine reaching now.
But on my birthday, everything changed. After not receiving a promised call, I restlessly took a nap in the early morning hours. I woke up, still nothing. I went to work, still nothing. I told my supervisor that I'd be checking my phone because I knew that something had to be wrong, still nothing. My anxiety tricked me into thinking the worst: this person was hurt and nobody was there to help them, still nothing.
Wrong.
They sent a message a few hours later, stating that their phone was off and they'd fallen asleep.
A flood of anger rushed through my veins and across my skin. Have you ever experienced the feeling of the color red?
We barely spoke that day. The next, we barely spoke again. I thought those were the hardest days. I sent an email outlining my thoughts and feelings and questions, knowing that I would receive a response as I always had before. I guess I knew nothing.
Soon after, everything ended. The one constant in my life left. The trust I developed for another person vanished. I felt a feeling I had never truly known: heartbreak. It's been a little more than a month now, and there are moments that I forget the feeling exists.
Tonight I read that note. I read that I cared, and I remembered the feeling of knowing that they did too. And I felt the breaking all over again. I wonder if that's how it felt when they changed my name in their phone to the initials I would have with their last name to nothing, reflecting what I suddenly became to them.
I was wrong about the hardest days. Those came in the last few weeks. At first, I thought it was because I had lost this person. I won't lie: some truth exists there. Alas, they have been the hardest days because resiliency is the only thing I've never grieved--until now.
Now, I am grieving the fact that I deleted them from my internet presence without thinking much more than, "goodbye," as I selected the relative options. I am grieving the fact that my photo wall still remains unfinished, and that they will never be on it. I am grieving the fact that those who knew this person knew them as my person, when all along that should have been me--it is now. I am grieving the fact that I spent nearly $800 on a holiday vacation that I only just brought myself to cancel--without a refund--last night. I am grieving the fact that I only asked for the flight change fee to be paid to me so I can still use my flight credit later, and I am grieving the fact that I didn't tack on fees for emotional damage. I am grieving the fact that, already, I feel like a changed person. One day I won't know them anymore, and they won't know me. I'm grieving that day already--it's happening now.
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