Eulogy For a Friend

Coming out in high school threw my social circle into disarray. The people originally closest to me subtly—yet notably—distanced themselves, and I found solace in relationships with people I had never thought of as anything more than strangers. Seven years later, I’m still not sure I’ve fully recovered from the pain this experience inflicted upon me. As hard as I try to fully engage with my friends, I find myself withholding parts of myself from friends and loves ones, refusing to holistically invest in relationships as a means of keeping myself safe. 

The emergence of the COVID-19 pandemic had a similarly chaotic and brutalizing effect on my social life. Relationships I previously cherished became a source of stress and, later, disdain throughout the pandemic. Conversely, people I had previously regarded as mere acquaintances quickly became close friends as we bonded over the shared trauma of quarantine and online school.

Why do friendships die? How do we know when to lay them to rest? And most importantly, how do we recover from that grief and loss? Can we? I can’t pretend to have an absolute answer to these questions. Every relationship is different and, as I hope to make clear, I am certainly no master of interpersonal affairs. Nevertheless, I embark on this essay to pursue these answers that have continued to escape me for years. For closure. Or, as close as I can get to that fabled state of mind.

Let me preface what comes next by saying I love her. Or I loved her. Or I love her, but our friendship taught me that love isn’t always a healthy thing.

At one point in time, Mel was my best friend. She was also my worst friend, which can probably only be true because we were best friends. United through mental (in)stability, a penchant for substances that drowned out feelings of despair and solitude, and, most powerfully, a passion for live electronic music, Mel and I were nearly inseparable during our first two years of college. Sure, we had bouts of conflict—which were always defined by a palpable lack of communication between us—but they never lasted. At the end of the day, Mel and I were a team. 

The lifestyles Mel and I led were by no means healthy. Disordered eating, a refusal to truthfully engage with mental illness, and substance abuse were the norms—and we rarely, if ever, strayed from them. In many ways, we became each other’s keepers in the first two years of our friendship: partying, studying, socializing, and, finally, existing became acts that we did together.

In other words, my once light-hearted, carefree relationship with Mel rapidly transformed into a fragile, codependent one. Whenever another person threatened that prized position we held in each other’s lives—romantic partners, other close friends, etc.—an unspoken, yet blatantly noticeable, tension would erupt between us. When I became cognizant of this dark side to our friendship, I started distancing myself from Mel and actively working on loving myself in my entirety. I recognized that my self-esteem depended upon external validation (oftentimes from Mel), and I also knew that our relationship—or, at the very least, the way we related to one another—was unsustainable.

Whenever something goes awry in a relationship, whenever a seemingly insurmountable issue arises within one, we look for someone to shoulder the blame. If we cannot accept the blame ourselves, we convince ourselves that it was the other who was in the wrong, it was the other who spoiled a once precious bond. And, while this might be true in some cases, I find that this way of thinking is, more often than not, skewed. Surely, in the case of my friendship with Mel, there was no one person to blame for our eventual falling out; we had both contributed to—and actively participated in—the codependence that defined (and, later, spoiled) our relationship.

Is there anything that can be redeemed in friendships turned toxic? Can we salvage anything inherently good, anything worthy of sustained effort in these soured friendships? Despite the unhealthy nature of our relationship, I frequently found myself pondering the possibility of a future with Mel. Could we move forward from our codependency? Could our unhealthy bond transform into one that fostered self-confidence, growth, and mutual respect? 

In December 2020, after a particularly long bout of silence between us, I sat down with Mel, intending to help her recognize the toxicity not only embedded in our relationship but also in those she maintained with our mutual friends. I had convinced myself that Mel and I did have a future, and I had hoped to use this talk as a way of ensuring that future, of cementing that possibility into a reality. As much as I desperately tried to cling to this friendship I formerly cherished, however, our talk ultimately forced me to reconcile the fact that Mel’s behavior would not change—regardless of what I said or the help I tried to provide. Mel was not the person I had once found joy in, and I was no longer capable of accepting anything less than the support and friendship I deserved.

This recognition of my incompatibility with Mel forced me to ask incredibly uncomfortable questions: were Mel and I ever truly friends? Did I originally find joy in our relationship, or was I simply blind to the fact that Mel never reciprocated the support and care I offered her? Could I really have been so close to a person like that for so long? Was it the changes in Mel’s behavior that harmed our relationship, or was it the changes in mine?

This essay is, in many ways, just as much a eulogy for a friend as it is a pursuit of answers surrounding that friendship. It is a melancholic acceptance of the death of a friendship, and a desperate call to move past the shattered bonds that once kept our heads above water. In order for us to advance past these bonds, we need to recognize (and actively seek out) what kinds of connections sustain us. For me, the connections that sustain me, that keep me afloat in the chaotic torrents of life, are those bonds filled with care, effort, and reciprocity. They are not fixed things; rather, they are amorphous, constantly shifting depending on the level of work I choose to dedicate to their maintenance. Most importantly, though, these connections drive me to do better, to be the best version of myself, to never settle for less than what I deserve. They are bonds that help me recognize the everyday presence of love and joy in my life, even on those days that I can barely motivate myself to leave my bed in the morning. 

They are my lifelines.