Forget Me Not

What happens when the distance between you and a friend you thought would always be there, grows? What do you do? Plant wildflowers? Not as a metaphor but as a fence that blocks you from the pain?

You write blog posts in second person as a way to distance yourself from the embarrassment of the subject matter.

Loving someone from afar feels like a mosquito bite you can’t stop itching. You wish you could just ignore it. You drink Benadryl. You apply afterbite. But still it gnaws. You scratch and scratch and scratch. The itching helps you forget.

Do you talk about it with them? No. With other friends? Of course. But never the one who has pulled away. No, speaking openly about it often simply makes the distance more official. No longer a cloud over head full of mounting precipitation. The talking makes it open up and pour. And everyone heads for cover. There’s no good way to have that conversation. Even when spoken about calmly, curiously, and lovingly, the cat is out of the bag and scratching up the sofa. There’s no way to make distance smaller by naming it. Because the choice has already been made. You’re already too far away to hear each other. Words sound like gunshots instead of the questions they truly are. A gat pumping lead into holes inside you that had finally scarred over from the last round of grief but are now ripped open anew. Healing is much less linear than a bullet.

You never dare ask what you want to ask. How does this not hurt you, too? What do I do with the place in my heart I set aside just for you? I paper over these question with different words that don't really say anything. Soothing words that mean nothing. Words that hold no power next to: what happened?! I stay awake in the night spinning my wheels like Rumpelstiltskin, but the thoughts never spin into gold.

It hurts to care. You tell yourself you’ll toughen up but you know the truth. Inside you are mush and chain mail. Each heart ache oozes onto a chink in your armour and hardens like cigarette tar on lungs.

You find new routines. New people to text. You don’t expect a word from them and secretly hope this is all in your head. This is happening because you are crazy, not because something is wrong. You blame yourself. Of course. That’s easier than an unsatisfying answer. Why do we flock to those who don’t care if we’re in their flock? Why do we let ourselves be optional?

Modern signs of apathy: never liking your Instagram reels or photos. Modern signs of losing the plot: measuring love by likes on a screen.

Ways to soothe: Stop scrolling. Try and get out of the slot machine pull-down of the algorithm and instead make warm milk at 3 am. Add a pinch of cinnamon, turmeric, and a little honey. Watch it bubble in the pot. Sip slowly. Close your eyes. Try to go back to bed. Tell yourself you’re being silly. Watch Nancy Meyers movies. Let the coastal grandma aesthetic whisk you away to a world where beautiful kitchens solve everything. Wonder if your lack of giant kitchen is the reason you're feeling this way. Google: Meyers kitchen reno. Look at work at 3:45 am convinced you can still write while sleep deprived. Discover you can write while sleep deprived. let that fact keep you up a little longer.

Put yourself to bed. Try not to grip the little one too tight when she eventually curls up beside you at 6am, twenty minutes after you finally fell asleep. She cannot fill the longing. That’s not her role. But her hugs are still sweet. Feel confused about how to guide her through her own heartbreak some day. She doesn’t need people in the same way. To need is okay to be needy is not. I’ll explain it to her another day. I’ll probably say nothing at all. My heartache is not hers. My sensitive spirit isn't hers, either.

You cry as a different friend hugs you good bye after staying at your place for a week. You don’t want her to leave. You don’t know why. Everyone has to go home, eventually. We are grown ups. You don’t want her to see you cry. She does. It’s unbecoming. You will not write about it. You will not disclose it. It is too needy. Too sad. Too icky. Oops.

You call another dear one. You tell them your worries. You wonder if that’s okay. You think about boundaries. You hold the responsibility of never believing anyone when they say 'it's okay'. You ask them how they are. You hang on their every word. You dread the moment they say they have to go back to their life. You miss them every day in between now and the next time you hear their voice. You wonder if the kind of talking that gives you relief burdens the person on the other end of the conversation. You get lost in thought. You lose people. You contemplate change. What do normal people even talk about?

You think about Andy Warhol and how he was so scared of people he put a camera between them and himself. He needed a way to communicate that included a buffer. So it was less painful than talking straight up.

Another friend tells you how pissed she is that you checked your phone in the middle of a conversation. You tell her that’s valid. You apologize. You tell her you’ll be more aware next time. You see every infraction as a distance that can’t be closed. You care too much and not enough about the right things. You steel yourself to be better.

You tie yourself up into knots worrying and somehow forget to brush your teeth one night. Wash your face the next. You go out for walks. You walk with friends. You walk by yourself. You walk with the dog. Until he lies down and refuses to move. You walk without earphones. You try to hear your own thoughts. You try to listen to yourself. Even you go quiet, sometimes.

You continue your one-sided maybe-conflicts. You hurt your own feelings. You let the wondering keep you awake. You play the victim. You laugh at how silly that is. You drink more warm milk and check in with movieland’s gargantuan kitchens that only exist elsewhere. Somehwere only Nancy Myers could dream of. You assume hard conversations are only for the brave. The ones who have people they can afford to lose. For the resourced lucky ones. The ones who wouldn't notice one less person in their sphere. The ones who see losing friends as one less person to worry about.

You can't read minds. So you stop trying.

You promise not to lose yourself in trying to keep others. No one is worth forgetting to brush your teeth over. You think someone somewhere may be wondering the same things about you. Are you someone else's friend that got away? Maybe no one thinks about you at all. Maybe you are forgettable. Maybe you are not enough for them. Maybe that's okay.

As she refuses to go to sleep, Ruth asks you to tell her about when you were a little girl at camp. You regale her of the time you went to Mont Cascade with a group of kids from JCC Sports Camp and found yourself alone. Swimming in a pool on your own. It was freezing but you found it refreshing. You dove under water. Did hand stands. Came up for air. Giggled. Stepped on a bee. Cried. And swam and swam until your tummy growled with hunger. You didn't feel alone. You felt free. You remember that specific flavour of bliss. You remember it when you go on a little walk all by yourself one summer night. As you stare up at the moon who showed up early. It looms in the sky before dark. It hides behind fluffy clouds that look like they were painted on. You take in the beauty and your breath catches in your throat. You stop and notice skies and shifting clouds. You are someone who gasps at beauty. You know you are not the only one who does this. Someone else is staring up at the same sky and feeling the wonder of its ordinary majesty.

Then later, you find yourself washing your face before bed. Applying your potions. Rubbing your own cheek with care. Looking in the mirror and finding enough love for the person staring back at you, to grin.