Detour: A Friend Gone

Some days I feel as though I have more questions than answers. I suppose that there are times when everyone feels that way; how will I go on, what's next, who will stand with me when I'm weak, where can I go to escape this madness, why is this happening????? Sometimes we question ourselves. We question who we are. This leaves us vulnerable to the abrasive forces outside of us; wearing us down little by little until we either become secure in our own skin or break. My best friend came to such a decision in her life and I was causing the abrasions.

I remember my first day of High School. I met so many people; short, tall, black, white, etc. Each one I met with an open heart and mind; they were each my friend unless proven otherwise. I tried to figure out where I would be the most comfortable, which clique would suit me best. Because most of my classes were of the nerd variety, advanced english and science, I was immediately drawn to groups of studious kids. Kids who instead of going to the lunch, would prep the biology lab, kids who hung out in the counselors lounge, kids who used their spare time to do homework just assigned.

But there was another side to me besides the over-achiever, there was the artist - the poet. I chose to write for the school paper and magazine, and I wandered the halls writing poems in my notebook. I was still stifled by my emotions surrounding my father's abandonment, traumatized by the early separation from my mother, and highly protective of myself due to my mother's domestic violence experience. And so, there was a facade of a social butterfly that I wore like a mask, because it protected my softer insides from hurt. I wasn't sure if I could survive any more damage. Pouring out my feelings about my past, my present, and my future seemed to put me at ease, and although I was fearful of letting someone close enough to the real me to be able to hurt me, I was eager to find a kindred spirit.

Most of my friends at the time fit into a clique; nerds, jocks, metal heads, artsy kids. I liked to float from group to group, experiencing new things, expanding my limited horizon, creating an image of myself that encouraged people to believe I was cool. Then, one day I met her. She was a transfer student and shared a few classes with me. We began our friendship by sharing answers we had for homework and debating whose answer was more right. Slowly, I began sharing my poetry with her, and she began sharing her writing with me. I had finally found the person who I could be myself with. We visited each other’s homes; I remember lying across her bed and reading poetry to her. I remember sharing lunch near a pond in a park. I remember visiting the museum and discussing the modern art pieces. Once, on our way from the museum with a group of friends, we crossed through a park. I was wearing a blue lace dress and cute flats. We were laughing, and running, and talking; and suddenly, I decided to climb a tree. My best friend screamed at me to get down, and then broke into a laughing fit. I ripped my dress getting down :)

We continued that way all throughout High School. Sharing our most intimate secrets, the issues troubling our minds, and our hopes for the future; this was every day conversation - as if our words could somehow change things, as if they could combat our demons and make our dreams materialize. As we prepared for college, I felt closer than ever to her. I loved her like the sister I never had.

One day, my mother and I returned home from shopping, and she said I had mail. Looking at the envelope, I could tell it was from my best friend, I had no idea what it could be. I read the letter as I entered my home. It made me swoon; I ran to the bathroom with tears streaming down my eyes. I cried for almost an hour, rocking back and forth on the toilet with the door to the bathroom locked. When my mother knocked on the door, I could barely move my lips to tell her clearly that my best friend no longer wanted to be friends with me.

In her letter, she told me two things which shocked me: 1) She was a lesbian 2) She was in love with me. She didn't want to be friends anymore, because amid all of that laughing, and talking, and sharing, I apparently said something hateful about gays. I was devastated, had I really been intolerant at some point? Me, with all of the friends from so many different backgrounds? I hated myself. I didn't care that she was a lesbian, I didn't care that she was in love with me, all I wanted was my friend. I wanted to be able to talk to my friend. She was all I had in the world that was so like me. She was my crutch against the outside, and I loved her, but now, she was gone.

I learned about the weight of words then. I learned to measure them carefully.

Tomorrow, the Mask. . .