The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

A Good Friend

I think that one of the things I treasure most in life is friendship.

Maybe it's because it's been a difficult thing for me, getting to know people well enough to be able to call them 'friend', but the friends I do have, I try to keep close. I think that most of the time, my regard for our relationship is stronger than theirs is, and occasionally this hurts me, but I'm mostly comfortable that each of us are in it for the long haul. There haven't been any major conflicts in our small group, none that would have caused a schism at any rate, and we've been bridesmaids, godmothers, confidantes, moving crew and general support for one another for many, many years. We are sounding boards, we are tissue givers, we are cookies and chips while watching romantic comedy. I have held their secrets just as they've held mine, and I've come to know that each of them would be better trusted with my troubles than my own sisters would be, painful as that is to acknowledge, and in some ways I feel closer to them than anyone else. I don't tell my family or significant other about my sexual dissatisfaction, my infrequent bouts of missing R., my fleeting fantasy about sipping wine with Johnny Depp in the French countryside. Those kinds of things are reserved for the girlfriend, the best friend, the 'kindred spirit' a la Anne Shirley.

And yet, despite the exclusive bond we share, there are still secrets. There are things we keep to ourselves that we could never tell each other because it might undo everything good. Those secrets fill my mouth on occasion and I have to purse my lips tight so that not one syllable of them will trickle down my chin and catch under it, the first ominous raindrop which, if it falls, will bring on a deluge unlike any before it. Those secrets are the things we know would ruin the illusion of happiness in one another, even if it would be morally correct to reveal them.

I like to fantasize about how I'd go about coming clean. I like to imagine the four of us, sitting around the coffee table in my family room, sipping red wine and slathering brie on baguette, having an honest, adult conversation about the things we've noticed in one another, the things we feel need to be corrected. I imagine the conversation being delicate and forthright, a kind sort of wisdom being handed over from one to the other without suspicion and aggression. I say fantasy because I know this would never happen, mostly because everyone would be defensive and annoyed, ready to pull out their personal arsenal of criticisms, and everything would get lost in a cacophony of 'well you's' and 'who do you think you are?'s'. Of course, if there was some kind of unexpected calm, it would most assuredly be followed by the more undesirable thick, tense silence, where everyone would stare off into dark corners, breathing heavily, trying to harness the blooming hatred for one another that would most definitely begin to burble under the surface.

If I could tell them, though. If I could let it all out and not fear their ire as a consequence I might say something like...

K., my dearest, oldest friend, you know I love you and want nothing but happiness for you, but there's a couple things I need to say to you that I've been banking for years. First, I can't stand your husband. I have disliked him from the first time I met him, and I continue to dislike him and I've never really been able to figure out why. Maybe it's because he stole your art from you, took away your creativity by being so basic himself, so disinterested in the world around him. I am angry with you for letting him do that, for turning you into the kind of woman you said you'd never be. I hate that you don't seem to feel passion for him, that you have given up on the idea of crazy, messy sex and have opted for the occasional, missionary style, five-minute distraction. You say he wants you to wear the thigh high boots and the flimsy lingerie, and you say no because it isn't who you are. If he really knew you at all, he'd be aware of this, but what I can't get away from thinking is that if he inspired you in any way, you might want to wear them. You might want to be on top. Now, your sex life isn't really anyone's business, but really, isn't a girl's sex life fair game for the best friend? I think it is. Aside from the way he has extinguished the fire in you, he is also offensive, in the way he ignores women when they try to offer him directions, opting for the perspective of whichever male is nearby. He is offensive when he makes comments to you that infer you are an annoyance while we are sitting there to hear it. He is offensive with his thinly veiled racism, misogynistic bent, and general narrow-mindedness.

You don't call me as much as you used to, and you are distracted when you do, having become part of the soccer mom crowd and the chicken wing on Fridays cult. You used to paint. You used to listen to music. You used to need me. I blame him for a lot of it but I am blaming you, too, because you should care more about yourself than you do at the moment. You should care about your friends, too.

Dear C, other dear friend, I have some things to say to you as well. Of all my friends, you are the one I am the most honest with because you seem to like it, perhaps even need it. You like it when I yell in exasperation, find it funny even, like I entertain you with my incredulity, but I've come to find this sad rather than annoying. You're used to being yelled at and are accustomed to being told you're doing everything wrong. I don't want to do that, anymore. I can't feed this strange addiction of yours, the one you don't realize you have, yet.

I know your husband treats you badly, sometimes. I know he calls you fat and useless, and I know he tells you you're selfish when you keep your dinner to yourself rather than giving it to your son who usually wolfs his down before you've taken a seat at the table. I know that he has your kids looking at you in the same way, with your son telling you that he is embarrassed by you, that you aren't as good as the other moms because you like to eat chocolate and sometimes seek your worth in a bag of chips. You are obsessed with your weight now, but you won't get angry with them for making you feel as though you are some kind of freak. You don't stand up for yourself with your husband and you don't act like a mother to your children. You are not their equal, C. You are the mother, the one who feeds them and clothes them. You love them and try to make their lives better, and in return you are told that you are nothing, that you shame them by association. You like to read romance novels and have great disdain for doing laundry, but you're kind and you like to laugh. I've never seen you put yourself ahead of your children, though he accuses you of it all the time, and I want to scream at him, C., because he's unaware of what kind of damage this is doing. He thinks the terms 'emotional distress' and 'verbal abuse' are new age mumbo jumbo. He thinks he's entitled to make you feel small, believes it will somehow transform you into a more acceptable version of yourself. He is teaching his son that it's okay to belittle the woman you say you love, and is teaching your daughter that it's not okay to love herself for who she is.

I think you should leave for a while, C. I think you should come here or go somewhere where no one is going to tell you you're not pretty, that you're not worthwhile. Not forever, C. Just until they realize what kind of woman you really are, that you are necessary, that you deserve a thank you every day for being there. I wish you understood how serious it is, that you didn't nervously laugh every time you tell me what they say. I don't know if you laugh out of disbelief or if you do it to hide the sadness. Maybe it's become an expectation of yours, C. Maybe you think this is what your life is supposed to be. I just wish you'd wake up, dear friend. You have to be awake to make changes.

My other beloved K.,my wild and fancy friend, you drink way too much. Today is your birthday, actually, and I imagine you will cap the day by draining a few bottles of wine and stumbling into your bed just as the birds reawaken. You carry on like you are still nineteen, yearning for the weekend so you can sit around a bonfire, tinkling the ice in your glass, getting louder and louder until you stop making sense altogether. You say this is not a problem, K., but I know better. I have seen you when you get violent after too much vodka. I have seen you in a hospital bed after a night that ended badly. I have seen you throw furniture at your husband as you're telling him you don't love him, only to wake the next day and have no recollection of doing either. This is not normal, K. You know it isn't, or you wouldn't try to hide it from me. I hear most of it from others, people who've been scandalized by the bonfires in your backyard. You are gossip fodder. You are the woman who refuses to grow up. You are tattooed and pierced and painted. That's okay, K., you're attractive and this is what you like, but when you put it together with the refusal to grow, with the partying that has gone on way too long, the whole picture comes off muddy. And, your children, K. Where are they when this goes on? I've been telling you for a few years that your littlest one seemed...different, and you knew it, but refused to believe. I wrote you a few weeks ago and asked you to get it checked out, apologizing for doing so, knowing it would hurt, this suggestion that something might be wrong but I had to do it, K. I had to let my secret out, that I thought there was something wrong. Now, I hear you've finally done something, that there are words like 'autism' and 'disorder' buzzing around you, but you can't bring yourself to write me, yet. You can't acknowledge the words I confided, but, I don't blame you. We know not to shoot messengers but we can't help but resent them, just the same. I do hope you'll call me, though. I do hope you have a wonderful birthday, despite all the noise in your head. I am your friend, even if I sometimes forget I'm supposed to keep my thoughts to myself. If I could steal you away from it all, smash all the bottles, calm you with a well-intentioned stroke of the hair, knowing that you would resist me at first but would eventually succumb, I would. But, I know K. I know if I tell you that you have a problem with drinking and that you need to grow up and that you sometimes ignore the things you shouldn't, you wouldn't want to know me, anymore.

Dear friends, I love you, but sometimes I think you are doing it wrong. I want to reach into your lives and pluck out that things which I feel are making you less than you are, but it isn't my place any more than it is yours to come into mine and move my furniture around. Sometimes, I wish it was just us four again, where things were simpler and we were all more important, but I couldn't give up my life for you and know you wouldn't give yours up for me. All I can do is wait. I wait for the monthly phone calls. I wait for the drunken admissions. I wait for the tears we will later deny shedding. I wait for a time when we four will matter once again.

A good friend stays silent as she waits with arms extended, knowing it's more important to catch you than to be right.