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Freak.

The Apology I Never Got

By: 38 Comments

This post is long, my friends, and more serious than most of my posts, but I needed to get a few things off my chest. Thank you for indulging me.

handsDear E,

You died last week.

I’ve been pretty silent on the subject. I haven’t responded to any posts on Facebook and I got a little snappy when someone tagged me in a post about you.

The voyeurs have been out in force. People who haven’t commented on or “liked” any of my Facebook posts in months are suddenly right there, commenting and liking. I know the real reason they’re there. They want to see if I say anything about you.

This letter is all I’m going to say and I’m posting it in a very public place so all the gawkers can lurk and read it.

“Life becomes easier when you learn to accept the apology you never got.”

When people die, it seems like there’s no shortage of “friends” who come forward, especially on social media, to offer their “thoughts and prayers” and condolences, and memories.

“She always had a smile on her face.”

I remember the exact date of the last time you smiled at me: January 4th, 2009.

I flew to Houston to help you celebrate your birthday. Your marriage was unraveling. You wanted to spend your birthday with people you loved, so M came from El Paso, and I came from Tulsa and we celebrated your 38th birthday eating German food, drinking strong drinks, and playing cards.

The next day you took me to the airport and we hugged, long and hard. As I went up the escalator, I turned to look at you one last time and you smiled at me. E and K

 

You ended our friendship later that year, when I happily announced that The Husband Dude and I were going to get remarried, after having been separated for a year and then worked on a reconciliation for over a year. We were going to have a real wedding (we eloped the first time) and I asked you to be my Maid of Honor.

“No, thank  you. But if you tell me where you’re registered, I’ll send a gift.”

At that point, we had been friends nearly twenty-five years. We met when I was a short, dumpy thirteen-year-old and you were a tall, gangly fourteen-year-old. We became good friends those last couple of years of high school.

Boyfriends came and went.

I was Maid of Honor at your wedding.

I helped you pack up some of your childhood home after your parents died and then a while later, I helped you spread their ashes in the mountains.

I got married and had a son and made you the Godmother. 

preggoDo you remember crying in a traffic jam in Houston when I called to tell you I was pregnant?

Do you remember me crying and begging you to stand with me as I renewed my commitment to my husband?

“I can’t watch you go through all of that again.”

No amount of telling you how much work he and I had both done on our issues was enough to convince you that we had a good chance of making it work this time. No amount of assurances on my part that I didn’t expect you to be his best friend, but only mine, would soften your stance.

A few months later my mother died. You left me a voicemail of condolence. Then mysteriously, a few weeks later, you blocked me on social media.

It wasn’t enough to just stop being my friend, or to “unfriend” me online. You had to make sure you could no longer see me and I could no longer see you. It felt as though you were erasing me from your life.

When someone dies, you get flowers and plants and cards in the mail. People bring casseroles and make donations in your loved one’s name. There’s no shortage of well-wishers reaching out to tell you how sorry they are and offering to sit and listen if you need it.

When a friendship dies, it doesn’t matter how significant or long term that relationship was.

“Well, leave me out of it.”

“I don’t want to get in the middle of it. I’m neutral.”

“I’m friends with both of you and I don’t want to take sides.”

“I don’t know why she quit talking to you. She has always been nice to me.”

You end up grieving alone.

desperate

I’ve dealt with death. My parents, my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. The death of our friendship was every bit a death in my life as the loss of my loved ones.

The difference is, that I wasn’t allowed to talk about it because nobody wanted to hear it.

If you talk about the death of your friendship too much, people get bored. If you mention it too often on social media or act too sad or depressed, you’re being dramatic. 

With the death of a loved one, there’s some finality. You have a funeral and everyone says goodbye. When a relationship dies, the person is still alive and breathing and still having fun with people who are not you.

Social media is a bitch that way. We had many of the same friends and classmates. You would randomly pop up in photos in my news feed.

“So great getting together with good friends.”

“Loved seeing E again. Such good times! “

I was in a constant state of wondering why you could give everyone else the very best side of yourself while simultaneously forgetting about the two and a half decades that I thought of you as a sister.

glass

Two years after you ended our friendship, we were in a wedding together. It was the first time we had been in the same room since the airport in Houston three years before. When I looked at you, you didn’t smile. You looked right through me.

M’s dad spoke at the rehearsal dinner, telling stories about M and her friends. He told a story that he had just recently become aware of and that you had told him. My smile faded as he related a story that was familiar to me, and yet unfamiliar. I was no longer one of the featured players in that story. I was a background character. I was there but I was not significant to the memory.

You had not only blocked me from your life, literally and virtually, but you had even wiped our shared memories clean of my presence. You had moved on as though I never existed in your life.

I didn’t want to ruin M’s wedding, so I said nothing. I cried in a hotel bathroom by myself so that my ten year old wouldn’t ask me what was wrong. I just swallowed it all until M invited me to join all of you for brunch the next day.

I couldn’t do it.

As I stammered a reply, I burst into tears and confessed to her how much pain I was in and that it was all just too difficult.

“I had really hoped that you would be over this by now.”

That’s the response you get when a friendship dies. Not “sorry you’re in pain” or “I understand and if you need to talk, I’m here.”

I had really hoped you would be over this by now.

It's when you're very sad and nobody can fix it.

When you got cancer, I found out by accident on Facebook because none of our mutual friends bothered to tell me.

Back when my father died from cancer and your mother was in the middle of her decade-long battle, you and I made a pact. It was our intent that if one or both of us got cancer and lost our hair from treatment, we were going to buy a couple of those silly rainbow looking wigs that clowns wear. We were going to don our rainbow wigs and sit on the front porch and whistle and catcall at hot guys walking or driving by.

I did some digging and found your new address and I sent you a card. The card said something like, “At times like this I’m sure there’s a Bible verse that would be appropriate.” The inside said something like, “Too bad all of your friends are heathens and don’t know any Bible verses.”

I knew it would make you laugh because we always knew how to make each other laugh.

I wrote a note in the card telling you I was really sorry about your diagnosis and that I knew if anyone could beat it, it would be you. I told you that if you still needed someone to sit on the porch with you, I knew where I could get a rainbow wig.

You sent me a thank you card, but no acceptance of my offer. No open door through which I might come back into your circle, if even in a small way.

I knew you were dying only because mutual friends started giving me a “heads up”.

Maybe you should call her.

Maybe you guys should make amends.

E, please tell me what I need to make amends for. Did I do something wrong to cause this, because I sure didn’t choose this?

writing

M called me two weeks ago asking for your mother’s maiden name. I presume it was so they could assist with your final arrangements. I told her the name I knew and she didn’t believe me. She was doubtful. “Maybe you can reach out to A or M. Maybe they know?“

I thought that was ironic. There was a time when I knew you better than you knew yourself, but here I am, being doubted about something as small as your mother’s maiden name.

I remember things about you that other people never even knew about you.

I didn’t argue with her. What was the point?

You died the night after Christmas. I already knew before it was made public. We were always so connected.

Before I knew your mother was dying, I had an overwhelming urge to call you because I knew something was wrong. The same thing happened on the 26th. You were on my mind all day and I just knew you were gone.

Everyone has been offering up memories and love and prayers.

You know what they don’t say to each other?

“I had really hoped you would be over this by now.”

I’m writing this today because I need for you to hear it, wherever you are.

I’m really, really sad that you chose this.

I’m sad that you robbed yourself of the opportunity to see how happy my marriage has been this last decade.

I’m sad that you robbed yourself of the opportunity to watch your Godson grow up into the funny, quirky, outgoing, almost-man that he is, with a sweet heart and a lot of love to give. That really is your loss.

Most of all, I’m sad that you robbed me of the opportunity to love you through your battle, to be there for you through those last months, weeks and days and that I could not give you that one last smile like you did for me in that Houston airport so many years ago.

I’m unhappy with your stubbornness but I’m at peace with it, and I will grieve alone, just like I did before. 

I will not hold the bitterness of the last nine years in my heart. I’m releasing that now. The only thing I have room for now is love, and I will hold you and our twenty-five year friendship in a loving place in my heart, in a very special place where only you and I can see it.

It will be ours and ours alone.

I need you to hear that I accept the apology you never gave.

And that I will laugh every time I see a rainbow wig.

Love always,

Weave-o

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Comments

  1. I’m so, so sorry.
    I could go on and recite all the usual social media platitudes we sputter at times like these but they’re useless. I have no explanation for the death of your friendship but your grief saddens me in a profound way. I hope E can read this beautiful letter and know that she was in your heart the whole time… no matter what.
    *hugs*

    Reply

  5. I know we are just aquaintances, but girl you need a big hug today. Sending it your way. This made my heart hurt.

    Reply

  6. Having been your friend through all of this – the marriage, the breakup, the divorce, the reconciliation – I can tell you that I had my reservations. I didn’t want to see you get hurt again. And I was your friend who had not spent 25 years “knowing” you the way she had. I was just as invested in “you” as she was, though. I guess that’s where the similarities end, because I grasped the idea that this was your life and your choice, and I did not have to like it, but as your friend, I did need to support it, and be in your corner and be in HIS corner for you. I’m sorry she missed out on that opportunity: the opportunity for my resetvations to be proven wrong. The opportunity to see you flourish as a person and in a true partnership with THD. I’m sorry she didn’t have faith in you. And those insensitive fringe people? The classmates, the other friend in your trio? Eff them, seriously. Forgive them for being the narrow-minded d-bags they all were, and are, but eff them. I hope E has received her judgment, whatever that may be. You deserve the peace that comes with letting her return to the earth, my friend. Much love to you.

    Reply

    • Thanks, my friend. I know that you understand where I’m coming from and I thank you and appreciate you for being there and being MY friend, even when you weren’t sure you could be his.

      Reply

  7. First, let me thank you. You made me realize that I have been guilty of some of those “friend excuses” and they are a pretty lame way out. I will try to be more aware of those and be willing to listen without judgment even if I do know both parties.

    Second, even though I do not know both parties here, I am sorry you lost your friend both times.

    Third, thank you for being willing to be open about your experiences. It helps me to know that I am not the only one going through some of the weird stuff – misery loves company.

    Reply

    • Misery definitely loves company. LOL. If nothing else, I hope this post reminds people to just “be there” for their friends. You can support someone without taking sides. 🙂

      Reply

  8. Kit Kat!

    I had no idea and I feel like such a bad friend. This gave me pause today and made me realize that we really do need to stop and listen to others through all of their aches and pains, be it physical, mental, or spiritual. This is one of my things for 2019, stopping and really being present with others, so that in their time of need they feel wanted and loved. One never has to take sides to support another. I hope that she is able to see this and read it!!!!
    You are seriously an amazing person, the amazing person I met all those years ago when we were wearing itching, ugly skirts and being forced to go to high school. I don’t know if I would have been able to survive freshman year without you in my corner 😉 More than anything, I am so grateful that I was able to reconnect with you and that you are happy, as you deserve that. Love You!

    Reply

    • Well I didn’t advertise it much. As I said in the post, if you talk about it too much, people lose interest and then suddenly you find yourself being labeled the “bad guy”. I don’t want people to think I’m bashing in this post. I just want people to understand my point of view, and to do exactly what you’ve said, which is to stop and be present and listen when someone is in pain. Since I posted this today, I’ve had a lot of people reach out to me and tell me they understand the isolation because they’ve experienced it too. We all need to do a better job of being there for each other.

      You’re amazing, too, my friend and I’m so glad we’ve reconnected after all these years! 🙂 Love you!

      Reply

  9. I had no idea about any of this. I found myself shaking my head and saying wow as I read this. I am so sorry that happened. Words are so powerful and we really have to think about what we say and how it makes others feel. That is my try for this year- no resolution because I know I will break it- try to listen more and use my words carefully. I’m so glad you and THD were able to work in and come back together.

    Reply

  10. Kat,

    You did all you could to try and work things out with someone who, for reasons only known to her, perhaps, just wasn’t able or interested. My heart goes out to you and I’m so sorry you had to go through this. Thank you for sharing something so difficult and personal with us. You briefly mentioned this conflict in an earlier post (I don’t remember which one now) without going into detail; however, now I understand more fully the impact of your loss. This post resonates with many of us out there. A long-term, best friend relationship that ends on not-good-terms is heart-wrenching and is as difficult or maybe even more difficult than a divorce. God bless you, my friend; may your friend find peace wherever she may be and may you also find peace. BTW, I just want you to know that even if she had apologized, that doesn’t mean it would necessarily have fixed whatever was wrong or even brought a sense of closure with her. A great big hug to you! Mona

    Reply

  11. This makes me incredibly sad and angry. Of course, I feel that cliché “Sorry for your loss.” I’m sorry you’ve had to grieve this person twice, now. I’m sorry you had to grieve her alone. I’m sorry your other friends couldn’t be more supportive and understanding.

    You’re not alone anymore, Kat. Whatever you’re grieving or is causing you pain, however “small” it is, you have people in your life who want to hear from you. I’m always around.

    *hugs*

    Reply

  12. This is really emotional and quite heartbreaking. Sometimes we can ruminate on stuff like this and it can end up taking your life over. You have definitely done the right thing, but it’s still raw. Hugs to you xxc

    Reply

  13. This breaks my heart. I agree with Lori about those fringe-people, and I hope they all read this and realize that they could have done more for both of you instead of “not wanting to get involved “. Hugs.

    Reply

  15. I’m so sorry that’s really really horrible. I’ve had the ghosting friendship happen to me. That former friend is fortunately still with us but I don’t hear from her at all. She was my bridesmaid and one of my best friends. Not sure what happened.

    Reply

  16. Thank you for sharing you story, Kat. It is one thing to let go of a friendship but to intentionally block it is another. You handled this with more dignity than most people, I’m sure.

    Reply

  17. Ouuuuch.
    I lost a friendship like that. I don’t know what I did to get on her bad side, but I do know I wasn’t the first person she chose to cut out of her life. It really is exactly like grieving for a death. It still aches in a way that hurts more than an actual death, because you got abandoned and betrayed…
    I’m so sad for you. I hope you forgive and heal with, er, more dignity than me, haha.

    Reply

    • Thank you. Writing that post actually helped a lot. I’m still sad, but I’m at peace with the fact that I can’t change it so I just have to keep going!

      Reply

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