As I was rushing around Monday, trying to get on the road to Houston, I heard a voice mail message being left by a former friend. She called to tell me that she'd run across my blog when she was checking around the Web to see if I was dead or alive. The "dead or alive" part creeped out Superhighway. I thought it was a valid question, the answer to which is, mostly not. Former Friend wanted me to know that I'm not quite so anonymous as I'd like to be."The people you're writing about can find you," she said.
I broke my therapist's no-contact rule and returned the call. I simply needed to find out what she meant. I didn't engage in any conversation, though I felt a little impolite. After I hung up, I called back to thank Friend and apologize for my abruptness.
Former Friend and I knew each other from high school. We met when we were both 17. We were friends, off and on, until about ten years ago. By that time, it had become very clear to me that we simply weren't going to be able to remain friends. I can't do friendship the way she needs and she can't do it the way I need.
She had raised her voice to me. Three times. I warned her twice that I will not tolerate being yelled at by anyone. Not by anyone. Not my husband. Not my employer. Not my family. I grew up in a violent and abusive family. I won't have it in my adult life. The third time was the last time. I can't have that kind of friendship.
Remember me? I'm the "pathologically independent" one. Former Friend wanted a lot more contact than I could tolerate. Not long before she told me not to call her and then hung up on me, Friend intimated that she was tired of putting up with my "limitations" (not having any herself, of course). I didn't see much reason why she should have to tolerate them. I could take her inventory here, but why would I? We're different, that's all.
At the end, I had been really ill for a couple of years from a stress-related disease so intense that it was all I could do to get through work every day. I was having some major repair work done to my house and I was in charge of the whole ordeal. My father was slipping into ever-deepening psychosis and I was his mainstay, no matter how many times I tried to establish limits. I was in the middle of coordinating a huge annual company event and...oops...I missed her birthday. I didn't even notice that I'd missed her birthday for several days. Oops. Now, if you miss my birthday, I'm fine. I might actually be better if you miss it. We're different that way.
I called to apologize and she was furious. When she hung up on me, I was furious, too. Oddly enough, the next day I was fine. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I talked to my therapist about it, about my "limitations," about what a bad friend I'd been, about what I should do next. Therapist proposed the no-contact rule. Her take on why we should just stop trying is not the same as mine.
I'm certainly not the perfect friend by a long shot. I can go long periods of time without talking to friends and yet still feel connected. I'm a little distant. I have very definite boundaries and, when they're breached, I become even more distant. I'm not inclined to argue or engage in veiled hostility. I like to step back and think about things before I talk with people about disagreements. I could be wrong, you know, and I like to examine both sides. Everyone, without exception, finds this difficult to understand. I'm only a great friend if you can tolerate a certain level of benign indifference. I'm fine by myself. I'm very, very independent.
Former Friend has reached out several times, but there doesn't really seem to be much point in responding. We will only end up right back where we are now. I can't do it and neither can she. We're just too different.
It's too bad, really. Former Friend is bright and we shared a skewed sense of humor, a source of great pleasure and connection for me. I have lots of lovely memories of times we spent together and the early years of our relationship are especially dear to me. That was a long time ago, though. On some level, we do not understand each other. On some level, we understand each other too well.
