Wednesday, December 2, 2015 // The Statement
7B
ILLUSTRATION BY CHERYLL VICTUELLES
Personal Statement: A year ago I got friend-dumped
by Cheryll Victuelles, Statement Creative Director
H
ello friends, I’m home! Let me know if/when
you have time to get together before Sunday! —
November 26, 2014, 3:23 p.m.
***
Going home used to be exciting for me. That changed
about this time a year ago.
I was home in Illinois for Thanksgiving break, eager to
see my friends from high school. I was the only one who
left the state for college, and having spent the summer in
Ann Arbor, it had been a while since we were all together.
That weekend was especially important because my best
friend, who I had known since I was seven and shared a
(self-appointed) couple name with, was turning twenty-
one.
I texted our group on Wednesday, asking if anyone was
free before I had to go back to school.
No response.
When I asked again later if we were doing anything
for my best friend’s birthday, worried that I hadn’t heard
about any plans yet, I was told we’d be maintaining our
tradition of going to our town’s tree lighting ceremony
the night after Thanksgiving and going back to one of our
houses to watch a Christmas movie. This seemed a little
off to me, but I went with it, figuring that very few of my
friends were big partiers.
Friday night, she got up to leave after “Christmas
Vacation” ended, and I went in for a hug. Still no mention
of real birthday plans. I asked, “Am I going to see you
again before I leave?” She gave me a small smile: “I don’t
know.”
I spent the next day at home with my cousin. At some
point I checked Snapchat as a distraction from whatever
assignment I was only kind of trying to do. I was going
through the motions of tapping on each story to get that
stupid little plus sign to go away when I saw it: they were
all together, celebrating her birthday — without me. I
turned to Facebook for confirmation. Photos of her and
my other friends captioned “Happy birthday!” mocked
me from my computer screen.
I watched the stories again. I could feel my throat
closing with each tap. Maybe those other girls I don’t
know in the picture planned it and didn’t know about me.
My stomach dropped. Tap. That doesn’t make sense, then
why would the others be there? Tap. They wouldn’t know
them either. Tears began to form in the corners of my eyes
when I finally processed it all. Tap.
I’m not supposed to be there.
I rushed to the bathroom to save face in front of my
cousin. I knew I couldn’t be in there for too long, so I let
the initial sobs come out, took a few deep breaths, and
splashed my face with some cold water.
Apparently I wasn’t very convincing. When I came
back out, he asked if everything was okay. Usually I lie,
but that night I no longer had the heart. We drove around
just to get my mind off things. Later that night, I decided
to take the initiative and text my friends about how hurt
I was. No immediate response. For the next few hours,
my eyes would dart to my phone at each ghost vibration.
There was still nothing when it came time for me to go
to bed.
Halfway through my drive back to Ann Arbor, my
phone buzzed. A glance at the screen told me it was her.
My heart skipped a beat. I anticipated the worst and
feared my own reaction if I decided to pull over and read
it. I had two more hours before I could look at what she
said. I sang along louder to each song to distract myself.
My gut feeling was right. The gist: she felt like our
friendship had been over for a while already. Her birthday
party was her idea. As we progressed through our college
years, it seemed like I only contacted her when something
was going wrong and that our interests were too different.
I gave myself three reads before it really sunk in.
I texted her back with a desperate apology and a plea
that we try to fix things. She responded that now wasn’t a
good time — she had a lot going on. Crying, I slunk to the
floor and frantically texted my next closest friend from
home.
She didn’t want to talk about it, but she made a point
in telling me that it felt like I only wanted to be her friend
when I was in town. That’s when everything started to
piece together: the unanswered texts, the “we’ve been
really busy” responses I’d get when I’d ask how everyone
was, the feeling that celebrating 21 at the town’s tree
lighting ceremony wasn’t quite right, the fact that no
one could look me in the eye when I’d ask about birthday
plans. They’d been keeping me in the dark for months,
secretly resenting me.
As I sat crumpled on the floor of my bedroom, their
accusations ran through my mind. Were they right?
Have I really been that selfish? Did I change for the
worse over the years? A mix of defeat and indignation
took over. I guess I do only text when I’m coming home,
and I only have been telling her about my mishaps. But
texting can go both ways! And most of those stories
were funny! Shouldn’t you be able to turn to your best
friend in times of need anyway? These questions and
answers replayed in my head for months. I couldn’t
fathom how they could have felt that way for so long
without saying anything. I scrutinized every inch of
the past, experiencing each stage of grief until I finally
reached acceptance.
I had never been more thankful that I was living in my
sorority house before then, because you know love after a
hallway of girls drops everything to see you stop crying.
And that’s what I realized as time wore on. I realized it
when my cousin drove me around after the initial shock. I
realized it when my best friend in Ann Arbor let me come
over that night, cry on her couch, eat ice cream for dinner
and watch an awful romantic comedy on a Sunday night
even though we both had a break’s worth of homework to
do. I realized it when my parents, whom I rarely speak to
about my personal life, called me that night because they
knew something was wrong. I am still loved.
***
Going home doesn’t feel like it used to. I still hesitate to
get in touch with my other friends for fear that someone
else will end things. Our group never talked about what
happened, at least not with me, and when we have big
gatherings, she and I are nothing more than awkward,
polite strangers. I still walk on eggshells for fear I’ll be
told again that I’ve changed.
The thing is I have changed. I just no longer feel guilty
about it.