Sorry I blocked you on Twitter. I’m just surprised that you even found me again, because I’d taken lengths to try and minimize my presence in your life, after you’d made me feel little in my own skin.
In June, 2015, I still remember running to the sinks and turning on the faucet. I never turned on the faucet with my bare hands in school because the sink faucets were dirty as hell, and we all knew it. That day I clutched the faucet so hard as I turned it to its fullest, letting the rust and dirt seep into my skin as I cried. This was after I had met you. One of my other friends, a reason why you blew up in my face, started yelling in the fourth and third floor toilets, looking for me.
In July, 2015, you sat in front of me, turned around, and started to talk to me like my anger towards you meant nothing. I was fine with that. I was alright until I wasn’t; what a cliche phrase of a cliche fall-out between two best friends. I remember going to your house a year before and getting my neck stuck on your ironing board, having dinner with you, and welcoming your worries with a hug and words of warmth.
In July, 2015, you sat in front of me, turned around, and continued to talk like nothing had ever happened.
I was scared of you. I was scared of another girl smaller than myself because I knew what you were capable of. It was beyond the yanking of my tie, yanking of my heart strings, yanking of my fears into the spotlight for your own entertainment. It was the fact that you, a human being, had the capacity to turn me into a snivelling creature after I had been the Kleenex box for all your tears. I don’t know what happened.
January, 2016. January 2017. We ended up being in the same class for two more years, and I watched slowly as my own confidence dwindled with every action I took, every time I spoke up in the classroom. I heard every whisper and heard my self two years ago crying in the toilet like a fool over a friendship which only hurt me. September, 2017. I slot it here, in the middle of a paragraph, and not one of its own, because it doesn’t matter. What I did doesn’t matter. We were going to graduate.
That mattered. I wrote out five letters, and gave them to all of you. I gave yours last because you had impacted me the most, and the deepest. I felt my heart burn as if I’d wolfed down a plate of carrot cake in the steaming sunshine as your eyes flicked over the letter, and then raked over my retreating figure.
I felt like I had won. I had survived without killing myself, I had survived. I had survived. I had not gone through with the plan to fade away into myself and into the ground, into the soil of the Earth and never come back, because my best friend had turned her back on me for hanging out with other people. I had reached a point where I was tougher than the envelopes of the letters I gave the five of you; I was no longer for wear-and-tear.
You gave me a letter back. January, 2018. We’re in different schools, and I kept the letter. I am fine with that. I am fine with this.
June, 2018. This story is about me, and of my anguish – somewhat – with an immature friendship that will remain immature, because I do not want to think about it and how it scarred me as a teenager. But the same night as the night I see my best friends again; the same night my best friends traipse down to the pool with me, and pose for silly pictures, my dad behind the camera, and laugh until we cry over boys and backstabbing and silly little burns we felt in lives before graduating together — these new best friends, these best friends I will cherish forever, I mean — that same night, you follow me on Twitter.
I don’t know what to think.
In secondary school, I juggled numerous leadership roles and commitments. Being a fairly friendly child, I had friends, and I liked to make all of them happy. When my social circles clashed – fine, that was a problem – but more often than not, they got along. However, the first and closest group of friends I had made started to hurt me. They acknowledged my growing social life, and made me acknowledge their growing anger. I had tried to reason out with them; but most of all, I tried my best to make sure they knew I treasured them. That I always would.
Of course, we were very young, and I do not blame them for not agreeing with the point of view that I held in favour of their own.
Stricken and afraid of everyone after something very close to my heart was used to provoke me – by people I had trusted the most — I wanted to close my eyes and die. If it had not been for my parents and friends that continued to stay close to me, I would never have graduated.
I owe it to friends for cracking me. But I also owe it to friends for making me whole again.
So I’m sorry I blocked you on Twitter. But I had my reasons then, and when it’s possible, I’d like you to listen this one time.
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