About A Friend

Our similar adversities were among the things that brought us closer together. It was a surprise, having been introduced once, barely acquainted, that we would be in constant contact with each other -- exchanging leads, talking about our careers and sharing our woes as young single mothers who both came from abusive relationships and yet, who dream of that one big love of our lives.

There would soon be the regular get-togethers, independent of the connection that conjoined us as friends. They all ended well; I always went home feeling stronger as a young woman and relieved of all my apprehensions knowing that I have a friend who was putting up well with more than what I was going through.

I admired her, though at the expense of my perception of myself as a mother. I paid high respect for her uncanny ability to finish school while nursing a baby in between classes, work hard (and save) to pay for her child’s pre-school and still be so hands-on to his needs.

I was earnestly happy when she broke the news that she has found herself a new love – one who readily took her two-in-one package deal. That was also when we started to see less of each other. I understood, just like any good friend would. And I promised to myself that I shall always be around and ready to listen and help, just like any real friend would.

Two summers ago, she asked if we can meet for coffee and chat. I readily said yes, hoping to hear even more better things from her. But my excitement was cut short by the somber expression she wore as she walked in the café’s smoking section. I knew that something was wrong and her stories confirmed this. But we parted with hope made visible by the smiles on our faces.

It was the last time I have seen her well.

In the proceeding months, I saw her self-inflicted deterioration from the woman she used to be. I knew no other way to be her good friend but to distance myself and let her deal with her problems independently.

Months had again passed before our next meeting.

At the café, she walked in with a big smile; looking so much more at ease with herself than the last time I saw her. Inside, I was hoping not to hear the same stories that drove her to her self-imposed exile; the same problems that her stubbornness will not allow to be solved. But again, my hopes were unheard. I learned about her sufferings on top of her heels, and of those of her loved ones out of her own unconscious efforts.

It was just too much that I can bear for a friend: watching her deteriorate out of her own means.

We stood looking at each other for a long time – I, with so much concern, asking her to take care of herself in between sighs of hopelessness and her, repeatedly assuring me that she will be alright.

I walked away feeling guilt from a forced indifference.

Photo credit: Deterioration in Art at www.artreview.com