It was just a regular Thursday night, and the first time I’d ever told you that I needed you. I found myself ashamed that I couldn’t hold it together, crying to you over the phone. I remember you. As emotions ran high, when the shock and frustration kicked in, my first thought was to figure out the logistics of the breakup. And of course it was. Because I’m crazy.
I needed to get the word out—to set expectations about why a certain someone was absent. Though he often found reasons to be away, I suppose the compulsion to cover for him was too great for me to have stopped that fruitless endeavour. But you weren’t the first person I called. This time last year, I made a call out to someone in Parkes to start the chain of wrapping up the past three and a half years of wasted life. Numbing the pain was easy enough, but as the call made it through, trying to hold it together was too much. And I succumbed to the tears.
The interaction was largely as I expected. After all, when subjected to shocking and overtly emotional news like that, you tend to receive a pretty limited range of responses. Sympathy. Regret. Compassion, and perhaps even pity. But I didn’t call to be consoled. It just made sense to inform the one who was part of both halves of our relationship. And before you ask, yes, I did do the majority of communication and logistics concerning the relationship (thanks for noticing).
But before this, I remembered you. You were the first person who came to mind in the aftermath of the mess. I just didn’t know whether you would answer or not. I wiped away my tears from the first difficult phone call, ready for another emotional rollercoaster. I didn’t even tell you the news, but I couldn’t stop the liquid rush of my grief. We’ve been friends for over two decades, and there have been a few times I’ve wondered whether I could rely on you, so I was glad when you were there for me in my moment of weakness.
It was nice to experience that kind of care after living through insecurity for so long. Making plans came to mean nothing because they fell through more than half the time. And I keep asking myself the same question, why did you stay? There was never any indication that he loved you. Not in the way he participated in your life, and certainly not in the way he kept running from you. It was no wonder you were bereaved when your pastor and a church auntie expressed interest in meeting him, all in separate conversations.
You grieved that idea from the get-go. While you wished you could have introduced him, you knew he wouldn’t be there for it… he wouldn’t be there for you. He had responsibilities that were more important than the insignificant things you wanted. Three years in, and he only ever attended your church once. Making no effort and speaking to no one. There were so many signs.
The certainty and comfort of knowing someone you love will be there for you when you’re in pain is an extraordinary blessing—one I seldom have the pleasure of enjoying. I felt like a starving child, malnourished and lacking security. But on that day when you showed up on my doorstep, I was glad to have felt that kind of love. Moments like that have made every petty disagreement and major fight seem like small obstacles. We conquered it all together, and it’s what has made our friendship worth all the pain.
On a typical Friday morning, I called you. It was early enough in the morning that I wasn’t sure whether you’d be awake, especially since you work into the night. But to my surprise, you picked up. It was your birthday, and you decided to call in sick to enjoy some festivities. Yet upon hearing my shaky voice over the phone, you agreed to spend time with me. The one day you ought to have spent however you like.
I really did feel bad for being selfish. I was nothing but an inconvenience, taking up your time on a special day. But still, you chose to be present to mourn with me. And on the plus side, it meant I didn’t need to go out of my way to deliver your birthday gift (and I’m glad you enjoyed it). Too many coincidences lined up for me to believe this wasn’t God at work, even in terrible circumstances. And I still thank Him to this day for the ways He has shown me care through friends like you.
So, of course, I remember you. You’re great at understanding me, despite our differing life experiences. And your presence has been a relief to my soul. I’ve taken so much comfort in knowing I can rely on you—I admit I feel safe enough to let down my guard in your company. Thank you for helping me sort out my thoughts, validating my feelings, and just being there for me.
Upon sharing some of the issues I had hidden, I was touched when you became angry on my behalf. You gave me the confidence to believe in what I felt—that I wasn’t crazy, that I wasn’t the problem, and that I deserved better. To add to my confusion, you also asked me, why did you protect him? I don’t know. A year has passed, and still, I can’t give a satisfactory answer.
Because I was a fool. Isn’t it good enough to admit that I made a bad decision? Me, the one who so proudly claims to be clever? In my defence, I at least understand the difference between a “mistake” and a “bad decision”. Though it’s not a high bar, knowing how to take accountability and owning your part in it. So I’m glad we can complain about men like unserious misandrists and laugh about the pain I endured.
Isn’t it amusing that we agree that somewhere, there’s a man mad at me for what he did? Honestly, the irony helps me laugh through my tears as I’m trying to stop them from streaming down my face. I deeply appreciate your compassion and the many times you reassured me that I didn’t lose my mind. The reality is that he kept choosing her and thought her worthy enough to fight for their relationship. As much as I’d like to say I’m over it, I’m not. They may be fewer and farther between, but I still have nightmares.
The shock of each standalone horror of my subconscious is enough to discourage me and keep me in anger. Why do the wounds of betrayal still feel so fresh? I beg and question God about justice and why He can’t take away the pain. I still have to suffer from memories so long gone from everyone else’s realities, while I’m stuck at the mercy of my bitter and broken mind. Yet, my pleas reach no ears. Not that I should even care, but I know for a fact they’ll be in the same room this Saturday.
He has no obligation to me and can pursue his attachments in whatever way he wants without guilt. But I still find it a disgusting thing to do. To first deny your affections and continue lying to the person you claim to love, then wait an “acceptable” amount of time before pursuing the other woman, is pretty despicable. Personally, I see little difference between this and adultery, but I know the gravity of the latter is far worse. He should have just chosen her to begin with and left me out of it. If entering a covenant with someone is like that—if it almost certainly means being subjected to lies and betrayal over and over—it’s not worth it. You can’t call that love.
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