Inconveniently Honored

Unironically, Ex-BFF's

“Be honest- what was your first impression of me?”

It was something like that I had entered as the welcome message on one of those early Facebook apps, “honesty box” it was called. It was built on anonymity and teenage bravery. And I was the perfect blend of insecure and in search of validation to sign up for my own. They were a digital confessional booth of sorts back when Facebook had just foregone their college attendance requirement in favor for more traffic. A message snuck through quietly: someone telling me I seemed kind. Friendly. Easy to talk to. I eagerly reached out, hoping to make the connection.

The next day at school, I went looking for her.

I found her at lunch, sat down beside her, and in true extrovert fashion- drummed up a conversation like I’d already known her- claiming her as my now bestie.

Though, we weren’t just best friends in the way that high schoolers casually claim people- our bond closing in on closer to sisters with ease. Our bond held a closeness not build on perfection, but on repetition. Inside jokes, secrets divulged, shared routines. We bickered, of course, over stupid things like who said what- or who was doing more work on the partner project- but we resolved those disputes always in time. The two of us always said our friendship was cosmically planned- like twin spirits separated in the heavens to reunite here on Earth. Platonic soul mates, if you will.

She was always just a little ahead of me. A year older, a step further into adulthood. After she graduated, when life didn’t quite open up the way it was supposed to, she came to live with my turbulent little family, and we both bounced between planning extravagant futures- and polishing off our man-eater credentials. Even when I left for college in another state, we didn’t drift apart. We scheduled calls, checked in, and maintained the kind of friendship that people say distance destroys.

She had qualities I lacked. She was slender where I was fluffy. Effortlessly cool where I was awkward. Focused where I floundered for direction. I was often jealous of her- but not resentful. If anything, I admired her more. Being close to her felt like being close to a version of life that was aspirational, yet within reach.

She was there for me after my suicide attempt. It was such an ugly, brutal, heavy time. I was not a good friend leading up to it, as you can imagine- and when I finally checked myself into the hospital, it was her that went out with my mom. Sharing drinks and crying at my choices that had led them there. She gave me endless grace, when my mental health cratering created a financial burden on her. She spoke life into me, when I was still trying to determine if it was worth living.

I will forever be grateful to the friend she was to me, and to my family.

When she got engaged, I was ecstatic. I threw myself into her wedding with everything I had. My mom and I would marathon TLC shows like “Say Yes To The Dress” and “Four Weddings” and I felt keenly prepared for my duties when she asked if I would stand beside her as her Maid of Honor. Though we lived in neighboring states now, I endeavored to participate in every aspect of planning, either in person or on FaceTime- dress appointments, venue tours, paper goods, and the numerous parties celebrating the happy couple. I drove in a week ahead of the event to be of assistance. The wedding happened to fall on my birthday, but that didn’t feel like a sacrifice. It felt like an honor. (Besides, open bar, DJ and cake on your birthday that you didn’t pay for or coordinate? Hell yeah)

Not long after, she moved across the country to California, chasing the future she had been building towards- but leaving behind everything familiar. When she got pregnant, and delivered her adorable baby boy, I flew out to be there. I couldn’t wait to meet the embodiment of my friends capacity for love. I couldn’t wait to meet the newest member of my family.

So, when I got engaged, asking her to be my Matron of Honor wasn’t even a question. It was a continuation of the story we had been telling. Life shifted and changed, in ways that were exciting, and new, and planned for. And in ways we didn’t fully understand at the time.

The pandemic postponed our scheduled wedding. Stretching time and distance into something heavier. Though, our circumstances were drastically differing, I worked to be empathetic and reasonable when her participation looked different than mine- of course it would. Motherhood, wifely duties, and education were all roles and degrees of intensity I didn’t have to accommodate.

I tried not to be demanding. I tried not to be a burden. Not just to her- but to my bridal party in general. I didn’t want to be a “Bridezilla”, I didn’t want to be someone that needed to be appeased. In fact, I wanted to highlight just how important everyone was to me in the journey, and I tried to be intentional in the ways I asked them to show up. I wanted to have all of my people together, everyone who knew every version of me, in a way that I wasn’t sure I could ever have again, and I wanted to have fun.

There was one thing I just… couldn’t bend on: the rehearsal the day before. Not because of tradition, but because of what it meant logistically. I needed her there- not just symbolically, but practically. To help. To steady things. To stand beside me in the quiet before the chaos. And she was unwilling to book her travel to accommodate this request. She said the wedding was inconvenient. That my expectations were too much. That I was being unreasonable given I fell short in my own duties.

I remember the feeling more than the words. A ringing smart of ego bruising. A queasy kind of vertigo. A quiet, but immovable wall I couldn’t logic myself past. So I did something I am not keen on doing. I held my boundary.

I countered that if being present for the rehearsal dinner wasn’t possible, then maybe the role didn’t make sense anymore. That she could still attend as a guest of honor, but that I felt it was fair I needed someone in that position who could actually be there. I thought I was measured- aware that our friendship was teetering.

She didn’t see it that way. Instead, she stepped down, and then she blocked me on social media. No conversation. No attempt to repair. Just a clean, silent severing.

I don’t think we talk enough about friendship breakups. The kind that don’t have a clear villain, the kind that unravel slowly and then all at once. The grief felt heavier than any romantic heartbreak I had experienced prior. I wasn’t just losing someone I loved- it was someone I had grown up alongside. We were each others’ families. I loved her family and she loved mine. She had witnessed nearly every version of me, and we had promised to witness the ones ahead as well, and I believed it because we had already proven it.

Losing her forced me to confront something uncomfortable: love, even deep, admiring, enduring love, has it’s limitations. Has it’s conditions. For a long time, I questioned myself. Doubted myself. Convinced myself I had asked for too much, that I should have relented.

And yet, this was an ask I couldn’t make of myself. And I don’t regret the choice I made - only the outcome. That’s the messy, complicated truth at the center of this- that in not choosing otherwise, I feel I was honoring my real wants in that moment, whether or not that makes them selfish, needy, unreasonable. That I was entitled to a bit of snobbery on my wedding day.

That doesn’t make it hurt less.

I still think about her a lot. When something crazy happens in one of our shows, whenever I play Silent Hill or watch a horror movie, or when technology prompts me toward nostalgia, reminding me of a version of myself I used to be. I really wish her the best. I know she will be a success at everything she tries her hand at, and I know that her life will be beautifully, and aesthetically curated. I’m sure the sentiment is mutual. Grief doesn’t disappear just because you understand it. It lingers- it softens. But it stays.

I know now, that regardless of how a relationship ends, or persists, there is a message you are meant to learn from it. It’s a mirror of yourself that’s meant to be studied critically and with an unbiased mind. Are you happy with the reflection?

She was my sister. And in some ways, she always will be. Just not in the way I thought.

And that’s okay.