“It didn’t occur to me that something was off about my new friendship until it began to explode — in small bursts at first, and then more pyrotechnically”
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The conference was for scholars and writers, but the scholars were many and the writers were few. There were only four of us, in fact, and of the four, only this woman and I spoke English. On the first evening, we sat around a large table, and each of us was asked to share our intellectual autobiography with the group. I didn’t know what an intellectual autobiography was. I only knew that presenting mine to a roomful of strangers made me want to step out of my skin.
.thecut .pull-quote.leftAlign {background-color:transparent;border-image:url 60 0 stretch;font-family:MillerHeadlineLight, Georgia, serif;font-size:45px;line-height:1;font-style:italic;padding:15px 0 0 22px;color:#020f3f;margin-bottom:30px;} There are times when I think I’m an intimacy addict. This is what my husband sensed and feared, the thing he was trying to warn me against.He sighed. “That’s my line. I’m the misanthrope. You’re supposed to be the social one.
.cover-section-break { width: 30px; margin: 5px 0 20px; position: relative; display: inline-block; background: url no-repeat center center; background-size: 100%; height: 27px; } For the rest of the conference, my new friend and I were inseparable in the most adolescent and obnoxious sense of the word. Like sixth-grade girls in the lunchroom, we passed notes during presentations and saved each other seats when one arrived at an event before the other.
I haven’t left. I had a panic attack and had to get off. My luggage is home. I’m in a hotel near the airport, waiting for the men in white coats to come carry me away.I sunk beneath the covers. I responded: Do you ever stop and wonder if you’re really suited for your own life? @media and { .ad.vp-0-600 { display: block; } } @media and { .ad.vp-600-1024 { display: block; } } “I’ve always been good at making friends,” she tells me now. “And I always made them a priority.”
But a few weeks before eighth grade, Erin called to tell me we couldn’t be friends any longer. She was going to a private high school and her new classmates thought I was weird. I hung up the phone, sat down on the floor, and then the world broke open inside me. I took out my heart-shaped earrings, took down the posters we’d taped on our walls of Christian Slater and Corey Haim, tore up the journals we'd kept on the cutest boys.
@media { .ad.vp-1024-plus { display: block; } } @media and { .ad.vp-0-600 { display: block; } } @media and { .ad.vp-600-1024 { display: block; } } I have a better idea, she wrote. Come visit me in New York for a few days. It will be so much fun. I’ll show you everything and we can plan a party and invite this guy I’m trying to seduce.Of course you should, she answered.
The friendship I made with the woman at the conference was different, more like the ones I’d known in my teens and 20s when I’d had infinite time to pour into gossip, confession, conversations that could circle around, dissect, and deconstruct a single topic until the circling became more meaningful than the topic itself.
As girls and young women, we are allowed our friendships. We are afforded our close, intimate, intense relationships with one another. It is accepted and expected of us. On television, in novels, in every corner of popular culture, we are inundated by examples of women enmeshed in joyful, painful, complicated, stormy relationships with each other: the girls of Girls, the women of Sex and the City, the novels of Elena Ferrante.
When I got home and looked at my phone, there was another message asking me to please not spread gossip around, asking, in only slightly more diplomatic terms, that from now on, I mind my own business. @media { .ad.vp-1024-plus { display: block; } } “This is a yes-no question. Do you want to eat her pussy?”I heard her 2-year-old crying in the background. “Hold on a minute,” she said. While I waited, I stared at a portrait of my family on the mantle, listened to the ticking of a clock whose batteries I’d been meaning to change for at least three years.She paused to consider. Or maybe she was distracted by her kid.
For the next few months, this unease spread, even as the friendship continued. My new friend came to visit us. She brought the children gifts, tolerated a day at the zoo, listened to the Frozen soundtrack a couple dozen times, but still the children weren’t quite sure what to make of her, even as they warmed. One day, as we strolled through the Art Institute, she confided that she’d landed an interview for a tenure-track teaching job at an Ivy.
Not long after she returned to New York, she told me she’d gotten back together with her boyfriend and I joked that this was probably the end of the romantic phase of our friendship.“It’s good,” I said. “I think it’s good.”I wanted to believe it, but the moment she hung up, I knew everything had changed.
@media and { .ad.vp-0-600 { display: block; } } @media and { .ad.vp-600-1024 { display: block; } } Not long before all this happened, another friend of mine, a wife and mother of three, had an emotional affair with her own new best friend, a woman she met at a coffee shop. Right from the beginning, there were problems. The friend was gay. She was straight. The friend was single. She was married.
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