Scarred

A note about the wounds of a friend.

I want to have friends, but friends hurt.

You start relationships you say are worth keeping because there’s value.

You get close to people. People who know you but don’t understand. People that hear you but don’t listen. People you grip up but don’t feel the pain you want to share because you know the cost just might be too much for them to bear. After all, it’s a lot just for you.

But you open up. When you’re open, you have no control. Lacking control is not good because somebody will come along to tell you how you’re not measuring up to what they project of themselves.

What if you don’t want to be perfect? What if you just want to exist — finally — in peace?

But thousands of miles away, he was beyond my reach. And I can’t let that go.

The last time I told my friend I was depressed, they told me I looked like it. They suggested a haircut or a new outfit. Perhaps, if I looked better on the outside, I’d feel better on the inside. Initially, I didn’t take offense. I thought they were kind to care enough to give me the raw truth as they saw it. But I considered. I opened a wound, and their words were salt.

I’m not broken. I don’t need to be fixed. Maybe getting dressed up would improve my mood. Though what I’m wearing cannot be changed as garments in a fitting room. I’ve been in the same pandemic as everyone else. I’ve been mostly in the house, maybe unlike some. In the house with a kindergarten student in virtual school. A baby growing one step and one word at a time. A partner who has their own internal struggles. All under one roof. It’s claustrophobic, especially with grief.

My oldest says things like “I miss my uncle Zac…I wish he was here.” Shit. So do I. He is supposed to be in this house, too, but he’s not.

He was the most dependable person I knew, even if it cost him. I’m older, but I looked up to the way he showed up for his friends, showed up for me. I cared deeply, but I was always so busy. Too busy to notice the things you can only notice when you’re present. Those guilty pleasures that turn to crutches you need to make it through the jejune sunrises and nondescript sunsets.

I thought I had another chance to show up for him. The first time — at the old house — I told him to go. He was a grown man. Had trouble finding work and had trouble hiding that pint of Hennessey from me. I’d probably felt better if it was out in the open, but he hid it out of shame. Now, I’m ashamed that I couldn’t see past the tears. I saw someone who needed some tough love. Real talk. I’m the big brother who already lost one brother to the department of corrections, so I became the warden.

“What you need bro?” I don’t think I asked. If I ever did ask, I wasn’t honest. I asked only to start a conversation to tell him what he needed and didn’t need. He needed a job, any job. He needed to be better about his hygiene. He didn’t need to be lending folks the little money he did have. He didn’t need those spirits or that video game, both seeming to arrest whatever was left of his coherence.

I told my brother he had to leave. He needed to sink or swim; to be thrust to the sky to learn how to fly. But he never did.

I thought I caught him again. Right before I went to Paris that year. We said he could move in as soon as I got back. But thousands of miles away, he was beyond my reach. And I can’t let that go.

I’m sad because he was a damn good friend, and he needed a damn good friend, but friends hurt.

When some people love, they suffocate. Sometimes you need to breathe.

Friends don’t work on themselves as much as they work on you. They’ll examine your every word but somehow you still feel misinterpreted. “How could you think this of me when I’m revealing to you I’m struggling?” I’m bleary, and these days impulsivity and dysfunction tag along with exhaustion.

I said I was depressed, but I guess they think I meant helpless. Friends will solve the problems they think you have so you can have the happiness they think they have. They think you need a caregiver, but you just need a friend. Someone whose honesty is mutual.

Sometimes friends project their fears on you. When they hear your pain, it makes them uncomfortable. They just want it to stop. So they’ll do anything for that friend. It’s difficult because you know they care.

I’m not religious anymore, but I’ve always seemed to remember this proverb.

The wounds of a friend are faithful, but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. Proverbs 27:6, Berean Study Bible

It seems you can’t count one as a friend until you go through something. Hard times dissolve the superficial relations of materiality. We like the same clothes, music, movies, but time tests the strength of all bonds. Even time is a commodity, so we think in terms of length and not love. When some people love, they suffocate. Sometimes you need to breathe.

You need them to be present, and that’s enough.

I wasn’t present for him. And now he’s not here.

Wounds heal. But some leave scars.