Poster Child: A Complex Grief for my Dead Ex-Best Friend

Summary

The author reflects on the complex grief and guilt over the death of their ex-best friend, marked by a mix of childhood nostalgia, teenage rivalry, and the realization of unresolved jealousy and trauma bonding.

Abstract

The article "Poster Child: A Complex Grief for my Dead Ex-Best Friend" delves into the author's emotional journey following the death of their childhood friend. The narrative weaves through memories of their shared past, from innocent beginnings to the tumultuous teenage years filled with competition, betrayal, and shared secrets. The author grapples with the immature reactions to their friend's death, the glorification of it in youth, and the lingering questions of influence and fault in the friend's tragic life choices. The process of creating a memorial collage serves as a catalyst for the author's introspection on their complex relationship, the impact of their actions on each other's lives, and the eventual acceptance of their friend's untimely passing.

Opinions

The author expresses regret over the immaturity with which they handled their friend's death, comparing it to the childlike act of making a poster.
There is a sense of nostalgia for the innocence lost in their transition from childhood to adolescence, marked by the transition in their shared experiences.
The author acknowledges a competitive dynamic, particularly in relationships with boys, suggesting a underlying jealousy and desire to outdo one another.
The author reflects on their friend's charismatic personality, which effortlessly attracted people, in contrast to their own experiences.
There is an admission of mutual self-destructive tendencies, possibly inherited from their parents, which contributed to their friend's early demise.
The author reveals a deep sense of loss and longing to communicate with their friend one last time, to address unspoken issues and shared trauma.
The article conveys a mix of anger and forgiveness towards individuals who may have contributed to their friend's downfall, including an ex-boyfriend.
The author questions the nature of their friendship and whether it was as significant to their friend as it was to them, considering the friend's peaceful demeanor and the author's own tumultuous feelings.
The memorial service prompts the author to confront their lingering jealousy and to acknowledge the shared memories that will fade without their friend's validation.

And How Her Death and My Reaction Was Immature

She would’ve been 31 today if she hadn’t died prematurely; and we hadn’t glorified her death eleven years ago as 19-year-olds do — still operating as children with poster board, scissors, and glue.

“Can you pass me the scissors?”

I cut into the heart of our history with each picture I piece together into a haphazard whole for her memorial, incredulous to the film footage lost from our most cherished time together. Back when our videos still had a tinge of innocence amid the ripped jeans and torn hymens. In hindsight, I also can’t believe she lost her virginity first, but I got her back by losing mine to someone she wanted to date. She still dated him afterward — good for her!

But my choices in boys worsened in short succession. Or were they her choices? The next guy she was into I got to first. Sloppy seconds were an understatement. I wasn’t privy to anything other than blow being passed around in his apartment, but by the time she replaced me she scored more than just him. Now, these are just rumors — but ones I took seriously enough to share with the school Dean once sophomore year started. Didn’t matter; she still died young anyway.

I’d been imagining her death since our friendship ended. I thought she took the wrong path. Did I lead her there? Was it my fault? We could’ve died years earlier of the same fate when a drunk driver led us through a garage, and then a tree — just missing an adjacent building’s brick exterior. Her window shattered into her. It did my prematurely degenerating hips and pelvis no favors. Nor my imagination, which can indeed fathom sharing a vehicle with her in her passing. But it was a different friend then. And that friend also survived her.

“I’m not going to use this one, but isn’t it funny?”

There’s a picture of her backside, lower half out of view whilst pulling her pants up in a bathroom stall. That’s the kind of shenanigans teenagers get into before the sex and the drugs and the music that could bring you together and break you apart. But we were friends even before the indecent exposure. It was like I knew back when we’d met in line for recess in the second grade. How else could I have remembered something so fleeting as that if it were not fated for something greater in the future?

“I wonder if he’s going to be at the service.”

I’m sure there’s going to be a lot of guys there. She attracted them, that’s for sure. But not in a provocative way. More like friendly flirtation, if anything. Her personality charmed guys more than mine did. There was a simplicity to her that was likeable and more importantly not annoying. Was that why I was always trying to one-up her? Was I jealous?

It’s hard to stay jealous of someone who is dead. Or is it? I think she had a death wish, as did I. We were both trying to kill ourselves one way or another, not unlike our parents who were more hellbent on their own demise than hearing our cries for help. She didn’t cry like I did, though. Not like how I did in her arms after my shower, when it all poured out of me once and for all in an emotional breakdown that I’d never experienced before or again. And she took that to her grave. I wish I could talk to her.

Our trauma bonding went rather unspoken, as it often does in childhood. We’d climb the limbs of “Treestock,” staying out ’til late, laying in a field of cattails — her warning of snakes. She’d show me KISS FM and I’d buy her a wooden pipe; our faces slapped in fake blood on Halloween at a crackhead’s den. We were supposed to wear the same shirt for our sixth-grade school pictures. Only I kept my promise. Hard to believe then how I’d break her trust time and again afterward.

She died never telling her mom of our car accident. What else didn’t she say? Had she no words?

Maybe so, given the girls who stalked my locker on her behalf after I told our Dean that I thought she was using heroin. Who could mess with someone so peaceful, donning a Grateful Dead hemp crossover bag no less? A drug dealer. A boyfriend with drugs. Someone and something to keep her content in the chaos.

“If he’s there I’m going to punch him in the face.”

But all her mom had was love for this ex-boyfriend. And his presence at her funeral didn’t bother me so much as charm me, which bothered me more than anything. In all her bad luck, she was fortunate to die so fresh out of high school — when all us fools hadn’t drifted too far physically so that it may be a premature reunion for the 10-year high school one we’d never have nine years down the road, pandemic in tow.

A friend to everyone evident in the cliques formed at the service. It made me wonder who was the true best friend, or did it depend on the day? My jealousy obviously didn’t die with her, but our memories did. What do mine matter without someone to back up my claims? This poster board will be ripped just as soon as the next bowl. Up in smoke, our old ritual.