love-hate-and-grief

I met Megh when I was in college. She was smart and popular—always surrounded by people who were only too glad to shower her with the attention she demanded. She shamelessly pouted, smiled, and sulked her way into every person’s consciousness, and as soon as the object of her attention surrendered to her charms, she grinned victoriously—mission friendship accomplished. But among all those willing friendships, she claimed me as her “best friend.”

I always assumed we were too old for the “best friend” nomenclature. It felt too needy, too clingy, and too embarrassingly obvious about the Pedestal of Special it demanded. Having come from a life where anything important—like self-worth and future plans—was dismissed or eroded by the same people who claimed to love me, I felt anxious about being considered “best” anything.

But Megh said it out loud, and often. She made no bones about being my friend—about holding me above and beyond anyone else around us. And over the years, she proved it, time and again.

Still, I always thought I was immune to her claim on me—indulgent of her need for attention and love, gladly giving her both, but convinced she would never really get to me.

And then she died.

For the record, there’s nothing like loss and grief to lend perspective on your own life. No matter how much you resist, grief pulls you through its stages, and you can’t escape its lessons—no matter how terrible they are.

I’d gone through denial and bargaining while Megh was battling cancer. We had laughed through scans, taken funny, captioned pictures of the “zipper” scar that ran from her sternum to her navel—like it was a medal she had won. When she went back under the knife, we made a deal: we’d both quit alcohol if she made it through this final surgery. Everything would be okay.

So when, despite everything, she still refused to live, I found myself hating her—and the cheap trick she pulled by dying. Because, more than anything, I realized that over the last decade I had spent with her, she had somehow managed to get under my skin.

Anger—the most clarifying stage of grief—was finally here.

At first, not knowing what my anger was really about, I directed it straight at her family. In those final days, in a country far from me, they made the decision to take her off life support. I hung all my indignation on the idea that they hadn’t consulted her—that no one knew whether she was ready to go. Regardless of how correct the decision was, or how hopeless the medical situation had become, in her death—as in her life—control had been taken from her. They were hateful, horrible people. They had killed her.

But a few weeks later, when I visited her family for her memorial, I found myself among friends—most of whom I had made because of her. Her family welcomed me as one of their own. We held each other like lost souls clinging to a shared life raft. I realized they didn’t deserve my anger. In fact, my anger had never been about them at all.

Because when I entered the memorial service, tears streaming down their faces, their hands trembling, their sobs choked back—I discovered that the one person I couldn’t make eye contact with was Megh.

A decade ago, she found me at a time when I was young, strong, attractive, and healthy. Sure, I had a family that hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in years. I’d never had a boyfriend, had a poor self-image, and was determined to break as many things as I could on my way out of the cage of self-loathing I lived in. I didn’t need anyone. I had no intention of picking up lost strays—least of all someone who laid claim to my friendship like it was hers to begin with.
I didn’t need her.
And yet, there she always was.

Sitting at her memorial while someone recounted her many wonderful traits, I finally saw the truth: she had seen the best in me. Over the past decade, she had been in my corner—no matter what happened. She believed in my nobility, in my honesty, in my strength and vulnerability.

She was the only person in my life who had met my entire dysfunctional family—step-family included—even though they hadn’t met each other. She knew all my boyfriends, knew what I felt about them, knew why I had hurt them, and hated them for hurting me.

Everyone knows you can’t tell your parents everything, and you can’t tell your friends some things either. There are times when your family destroys you. There are times when your friends shun you.

Through all those times, Megh was there—telling me she loved me, that she would always love me, that she believed in my heart and my goodness.

She connected all the disconnected parts of my world. At a time when I believed that nothing lasts, she earned my trust—one molecule at a time—until I finally believed that she would always be there. That she would always last.
And now she’s gone.

I never asked to depend on her. I didn’t need her. But she forced me to care. She forced me to open up and include her—and others—in my life.
Only to leave.

She saw me at my best, and believed in it more than I ever could. And now I hate her—because with her gone, and all the very specific history we shared erased, no one else will ever know the minutiae of me again.

No one will believe that I used to be unscarred.
No one will know the stories behind each scar and still believe that I deserve to be loved—and am capable of loving in return.
She spoiled me. I hate her for that.
And I miss her. Every single day.