One day my best friend and I saw a small tile in a shop that read “we’ll be best friends forever, we know where the bodies are buried” and we laughed together because that’s what our friendship was. We knew everything about each other; and I mean everything! The good, the bad and the utterly ugly – no judgment. We were there for each other through every break up, every hideous job, every parental fall out. Would you believe it if I told you the last day I ever saw her was the day I told her I was pregnant approximately five years (and nine months) ago.
I had recently moved away and had gone back home for a wedding. I wanted to tell her face to face because I knew this was a painful subject for her. She desperately wanted a child. I had become pregnant accidentally at the worst possible time. She knew as soon as I refused a drink – a dead give away.
I saw pain in her eyes as I told her but I believed our friendship could survive anything. Months later I found myself in this new town with zero friends. She was kind on social media and caring for a while. The end came when I made the effort to go back home twice to see my friends – and both times she didn’t turn up. The second time – without an explanation or a text. I was devastated.
It was easy for me to be angry and hurt for a very very long time. I couldn’t speak about her to a single person without breaking down in tears. Then in emotional moments I would message her saying I missed her, I was sorry, please can we be friends again. No answer has ever come.
It has taken me five years to understand. I will never fully understand but I’m not angry anymore. I get it.
I imagine her pain at not being able to have a child when mine came so easily. I imagine her fury and anger at my Facebook updates constantly moaning about sickness and SPD and indigestion. I imagine it all being a constant slap in her face. I get it.
Unfortunately for me – and for everyone else – my first pregnancy was the first ever pregnancy since records began – I was obsessed with it. I wrote a blog about it. I posted endless statuses about it, but more importantly I moaned about it. I moaned about the jabs and the aches and pains and the vomiting and the SPD and the heartburn and anxiety without much thought for anyone else. I didn’t consider the pain she was feeling.
I am so unbelievably happy that she got her child eventually.
I can’t down play how painful losing this special friendship has been. I have wept to my husband at night, I have cried the night before my wedding because she was’t there, it has taken me a long five years to get to the place where I can even write this. Getting over men has been relatively easy in comparison – a new hair cut and a few shots were all I needed. But losing my best friend hurt like Hell.
I still dream about her from time to time. In my dream we see each other in the street – there are no fireworks; there is no movie style reunion. We just say “Hey” like nothing has happened and then we toddle off to the pub like we always did a lifetime ago.
Life isn’t as black and white as people would like to believe.
There are rarely purely goodies and baddies.
There is complicated pain and there are complex emotions.
There are also friendships that can’t survive our entire lives – some people are meant to be there for your youth, your drinking-heart-ache-traveling-discovering-yourself days – and as painful as it might be – they might be meant to be kept in the past.
We are lifetimes apart now. We have experienced a million different emotions and moments without each other at our sides. But we are both mothers, we have that in common. In some ways we will always be the same best mates we always were. We will always be part of each other’s tapestry.
I still love her. We still know where the bodies are buried.
Artwork by Nice Things By Helena