For Those Who Didn't Leave with the Rest
“Another thing about my life: Without my friends, I’d be dead. Without my friends, I wouldn’t have words for things that need names to shift, I wouldn’t have ever faced things you need safety to confess." Eloghosa Osunde, Necessary Fiction
Four days to my birthday. Warm laughter surrounds me, voices of happiness seep from the kitchen through the door to where I am. I am lying on my back, on my friend’s bed, K seated next to me. I am trying to find words to describe the feeling in my chest when they ask, “How are you.” I search, and search, and search, but after minutes of my tongue rolling and still coming up with nothing, I smile, and say I am hungry.
E bursts through the door, their face on mine, and in an instant, all the worry in my chest settles at the bottom of my stomach.
“Hey you…” they say. We wrap our bodies around each other. Our hearts murmuring. Our mouths silent, letting our souls speak for us. We haven’t seen each other in two months. Haven’t gotten lost in each other’s words in such a long time. Yet, standing here, our hands in each other, it feels like home. This place where we do not have to pretend. To feign strength. To lie about happiness. Or sadness. Because our eyes are familiar to each other. It feels like coming to the finish line of a race, and someone allowing you the joy of falling into their arms.
When we speak, there is no stutter in my voice. Even when they ask me about the things that always get stuck in my throat. There is a nakedness in my words in a way that is strange even to me. There is a slight hint of joy dancing at our fingertips, so we hold hands and just stare into each other’s eyes, allowing our bodies to soak into this warmth of us.
Someone else calls my name. Engineer. There is laughter, again, lots of it. I say I am hungry, again, and I try to head to the kitchen to look for something to eat. N is turning over the goat meat in the oven. B is making chapos. K says, “You don’t have to move; just stay here, I will bring the food to you.”
Then, the knots in my stomach come undone.
Later, when we have eaten to our fill, and the puns and laughter are ungovernable, I slump in my chair and allow myself to get lost in my head, albeit for a second. If you had asked me a couple of years ago, I didn’t think this was possible. This sitting on the floor at 9 p.m., surrounded by friends, drowning ourselves in softness, finding each other in our words, nursing each other’s wounds, and drinking from a well of pure, white joy.
I didn’t think this was possible; this finding a community among these people I have known for what? 7 years for B, 6 years for E and N, and 2 years for Kay.
I didn’t think it was possible. This kind of friendship where I can just….be. Nothing else. Just exist as I am. No masks allowed? What do you mean I can be distracted, sad, a failure, and still, your arms are wide open for me?
Later, when I am journaling, I tell myself how for the longest, I have always held on to friendships as if my life depended on them. Because my life depended on them. I stayed even when the atmosphere turned harsh. I told myself, “I have known this person for thirteen years. Surely, what is the point of leaving? Where am I going? Who else can let me into their fold? Surely, I cannot start knowing another person this closely, this securely. I cannot let another person know me this closely, this securely.”
So, I stayed even when I was othered. When the things I live for were slowly, at first, then loudly, later, trashed. Trampled. Othered. When my choices became othered, the knife being twisted over and over again over my heart.
In Ginny and Georgia Season 3, after Ginny goes through something traumatic and she is struggling with life after the fact, Georgia sists her down and among the things she says, the one that sticks with me is, “You cannot go through something and come out unscarred.”
I woke up one day, and my heart just couldn’t do it again. I walked away from all those decade-long friendships and sat with my broken heart for weeks. I wept. I lost weight. I stopped eating. I did not pick up calls. My spirit was as good as dead. Then, the THING happened in December last year, and the scarring became worse. I lost more weight. My body was a big ball of anxiety and nausea. I couldn’t look in the mirror, because the darkness in my eyes was scary even to myself.
Then, the remaining friendships from whom I had not walked away, walked away from me.
I spent a huge chunk of this year in conversation with R, who I have known for two-ish years. Who has grown to be my voice of my reason. Who, when I finished the second draft of my manuscript, and I was afraid it was bad, imperfectly so, and I felt like some things didn’t make sense, sat me down and said, “Listen, you are a phenomenal writer. You write as if there is a god inside you, as if you were placed on this earth to do just that – write. And I am not saying this just because we are friends; I am saying this because I understand how difficult it is, sometimes, to exist as a creative. I am begging you, please don’t live in your head too much.”
I have spent a huge chunk of this year replaying R’s words in my ears. During those times when the darkness became darker, and darker, and darker. The whirling threatening to turn me into ash. When I was worried I had lost all my friendships, and maybe life had no meaning at all, his words stayed clear: It is well, you know. I am still here, with you. That has to count for something, no?
So, when the goat meat is out of the oven and K is handing me the biggest, tastiest piece, saying, “Here, this is an early birthday treat,” I let myself bask in this acceptance. Of self. Of others. Of existence. Of happiness that bursts through your front door. Of joy in the eyes of the people you love. The people who love you. I let my heart skip in jubilance when B stands in the middle of the room and shares stories upon stories, letting our ribs crack with the loudness of laughter. I left myself bask in this acceptance when later, as I am about to leave, E wraps their hands around me and says, “I am so glad I saw you today, and I love you so much. More than yesterday. Do not ever forget that this is home. For you. For us.”
It is two hours to my birthday as I write this, and my colleague has asked me, “How do you feel?” My answer is ‘excited’. Because birthdays make me giddy. Like my child-self in a candy store. Like my now-self in a book store. But really, I am just grateful. Really grateful for the life that has finally found me this year. For the happiness I have managed to carry within me. For the shots I have shot – massive ones- and the massive YESes I have received. For God giving me the grace to keep my head over water. For the people who have come into my life and reaffirmed me, and made my life easier, better, happier, fuller. For the rest I have found in these friendships. These ones who didn’t leave with the rest. These ones who have vowed to stay with me, even during storms. Especially during storms.
It is two hours to my birthday and if you ask me, I am grateful I am here, right now. Typing this, heart full of joy. Lips full of praise. Feet full of dance. Life full of brilliant newness.
I pray, now more than ever, that it stays this way, now and forever.
