Goodbye, Thank you, I'm Sorry: A Jumble of Words for a Friendship Farewell
This essay came about in multiple drafts, in multiple extended deadlines from my editor, and multiple moments staring at my computer wondering how to give the ache in my heart context. The truth is, I have been at a loss for words for a long time, struggling to piece together not only my own understanding, but my own sense of the truth. Was there a right and a wrong side to the dissolution of some of my friendships with other women? And if so, which side was I on? Was there a commonality to the situations? But the resounding question, the one that should seem the most easily answered, is still the one I pose as I write this. How do I move on from what was lost? I wonder if my loss for words isn’t because I don’t have thoughts and feelings about what it’s like for a friendship to end, but rather because we very rarely give it the language it deserves, like we have with romance. You see, writing about ex lovers comes easy, in some ways, because we have constantly been given the words.
I want this essay to be perfect, because then maybe I would have done our friendship justice, or then maybe I could say it was properly honored, and finally let it go. This essay needs to be perfect, because then maybe our friendship wouldn’t have ended in vain, and I could say I learned deeply from it and grew and healed. Maybe I could finally say that it is for the best our friendship ended and that it ended in grace. But it doesn’t work like that. My words will not absolve me, and they won’t bring us back together. It’s hard to write this because losing a friend is hard. It is that simple. I won’t pretend I am better off without you.
The thought that keeps resounding in my head was that I was never prepared to lose a friend to time or anger. I was never aware that friendships could be ephemeral. I find I was never told that it’s okay for friendships to end. On the contrary, it seems like it comes as a personal defect — that if we are unable to hold on to our friendships, then there must be something intrinsically wrong with us. We blame ourselves, wonder what we did wrong, how we could have been better, or tried harder. It sounds familiar, it sounds like the loss of a partner, a traditional breakup, but we don’t look at the ends of friendships with that much nuance. It is not given the honor it deserves.
From a young age, we were told to find our “person,” someone joined at the hip, thick as thieves, our best friend forever. Even the phrase best friend comes with the promise of no end date. As children, I saw them in Lizzie and Miranda and Raven and Chelsea. When I got older, the representation got messier, friends were allowed to fight more, but there was still the til death commitment of Thelma and Louise and the infamous girl gang from Sex and the City. Significant others were always the ones to fall off; “your girls” were the ones who were there to pick up the pieces. So maybe that’s what makes it harder too. Not only are we left with the ultimatum of forever, but should forever end early, there is no one there to help you pick up the pieces.
I carry a lot of guilt over the friendships I’ve lost and let go, regardless of who was at fault and who said what. This is not a scathing indictment, but an apology to both the women I left behind and the ones who left me, to the women I hurt and became friends with again, to the ones who hurt me and became friends with again. We were taught to compete with each other at a young age. We were taught to be another person’s “person” and ask no questions. It’s hard to exist like that — when we are taught to be each other’s rock, but also measuring stick, when we are taught to allow our friendships to consume us, there is no giving with the tides. There is no breathing room.
I have been grieving for a while now. I don’t know how to say I miss you, or to admit that maybe what happened was for the best. But I have struggled to find words when the people I am missing were not people I was in love with, but at some point, were my best friends. The women I grew into myself with, the women who taught me how to curl my hair, who encouraged me to take risks, who split bags of Airhead extremes with me.
I keep asking myself if I have finally made it, if I have surrounded myself with women who I understand, and understand me in return, and if we are able to build upon that and grow when we encounter blocks. I keep asking myself if this is it, and that I don’t need to worry about losing a friend anymore. But I guess that’s the point — when you live gracefully, with your best intentions, it doesn’t matter if the friendship ends. Things are not meant to be sustained forever, and loss doesn’t mean it was for nothing. And so I try to no longer wish for forever, to no longer anxiously attach myself in a guarantee that they, or someone, will “stay.” Instead, I just consistently wish for the best, to learn and grow for as long as is needed, and that if the time comes, we end in love. So don’t promise me forever, promise me for as long as we can take the best care of each other.
About the Author
Maura Fallon is a filmmaker and writer who recently graduated from The George Washington University. Her creative process is rooted in collection — the collection of emotion, memories, postcards, people, matchbooks, and experiences. She hopes that in her art she can guide people to reconnect with their own collection of things, and do justice by the ones that make up her own.
