Foul Weather Friends - A Story
Believe it or not, I was once unhealthy after being healthy.
I met her at a Brandi Carlile concert. We were both big fans. Both married lesbians. She had a kid and I was trying for one. It was meant to be and we became fast friends. My marriage was in trouble and she was there to listen. She needed friends; her wife said so. When IVF didn't work, she was there for me.
My marriage had started to crumble. What started out as couple friends rapidly became one on one besties. Bestie lived near me and so I'd drive to her place to hang out. It's not what you're thinking. We were only ever just friends.
When my first wife and I separated, Bestie was there for me. Always listening and never asking for more. Divorce makes you self involved. Still, I asked my friend questions about herself and got little bits in return. She was adopted and had been in touch with her birth mom. They didn't get along. Her adoptive mom didn't approve of her "lesbian lifestyle" on account of Christian beliefs. Bestie was a staunch atheist and didn't approve of smoking.
I was a mess. I started dating - men - but Bestie didn't judge me. She said sexuality was fluid. I was relieved - one lesbian hadn't thrown me out of the tribe. I started dating this one guy more seriously. It started as a one night stand. The next morning, I told him I was only attracted to alcoholics and addicts and was he one? He said no. My Bestie got all the sordid details.
The guy was a server who couch surfed. I'd pick him up after his shift - or what I thought was right after he got off work. He'd reek of alcohol but I adored him. Bestie invited us both for dinner. He wore pants too short for him and took baths from the side of the tub. Within a month, he was living with me. I put him on my phone plan and paid for a new phone and tablet.
One night, driving out again at 2 am to pick him up, there was an incident. He had already admitted to getting a few drinks after his shift. As if I didn't know. I was a drug and alcohol therapist for pete's sake. That night, reluctant to leave, he made me wait in the restaurant bar while he finished his beer. Normally a little shy, this night, he was lighting up the bar with personality.
He'd interrupt other servers, still working, calling out their names and asking them to dance. They ignored him but I was not amused. Tired and irritated, I just wanted to go home. But if I left him, where would he sleep that night? Finally, he finished up and paid with the wad of cash he'd earned that night. We set off for home in the new car I'd bought with my divorce settlement.
A trek from the downtown area where he worked, I was still living in my marital home. It was about a 30 minute drive. In the car, he was abnormally silent. Booze had begun eroding our relationship. I felt trapped - I'd started to fall for him but then he'd killed it. This night would seal the deal but of course, I wouldn't cut ties for a while.
We were near home when he started not to feel well. I asked if I should pull over but he said to keep going. We rounded the corner to the house when it started to happen. First, he puked in his mouth, presumably swallowing it. I cranked into crisis mode. We'd barely pulled into the garage when he opened the door and spewed. He ran into the house.
I sat in the driver's seat, half in and out of the open garage, stunned and staring into space. I looked over to the passenger seat and saw that he'd peed himself. Thank god for leather seats. What had I gotten myself into? I was in yet another full blown rescue relationship with another alcoholic. Of course I was. This was a rebound, right?
The next day, hosing off the drive, I called my Bestie. She was so pissed. What a dolt he was. But did I still love him? I didn't know. I was in the middle of getting the house ready to sell. I wanted to be closer to the action. I was a new divorcee with a novelty boyfriend. She thought I should wait it out and see if things got better after the move.
The boyfriend wasn't officially living with me but might as well had been. I felt responsible for him. If he wasn't with me, he had no place to go. He'd come from a tough childhood. Mom was schizophrenic and dad wasn't around. He'd grown up in the projects of St. Louis. He'd already been through a lot and needed a break. Bestie agreed.
Fast forward and we're living in the cool part of town. I'd made a new friend after putting the guy on my phone plan and finally we were living closer and could hang out. Lona was suspicious of the boyfriend - she asked pointed questions about where he had lived before moving in with me. When I said he stayed at different friends houses, she said he was homeless. I protested. She left it with, "Ok then, Laura."
I finally got sick of the boyfriend's shit and threw him out. Bestie met me at the house to wait for the locksmith. She wanted to be there just in case the boyfriend came home. A few days earlier, she'd given me some "tough love." Warning me that she was going to say something harsh, she'd practically whispered, "Laura, I think he might be an alcoholic." I'd braced myself for more and just nodded in agreement.
As the weeks passed, the boyfriend came and went. All his stuff was still at my house in two trash bags. He kept meaning to come by and get them. When I asked him to pay for his share of the phone, he'd promise me money when his paycheck came in. In the meantime, he claimed someone robbed him at knife point and stole the tablet. He even showed me a healed scar on his belly. Bestie and I were both dubious.
Bestie got up to the moment gossip. She was totally "Team Laura" whenever I texted updates. When I gave him the final warning - come get your stuff or I'm putting it in the alley - Bestie was there for support. We'd hung out all day, when the boyfriend finally showed up, drunk as a skunk at 4 in the afternoon. Bestie and I peeked through the window, watching and commenting on his wobbly sorting from the bags. He was there an hour, picking out on the most valuable items he could carry on foot and leaving the rest. No wonder his pants didn't fit. Bestie was titallated and floored at his choices.
I'd introduced Bestie to Lona, thinking they'd get along famously - both from similar backgrounds with kids. Bestie had invited us over for a pool party then ignored Lona. I was confused but balanced my attention between the two of them. Lona had taken to calling the boyfriend an alcoholic, homeless waiter. She thought I could do better. Bestie thought Lona was being insensitive to his past, uncharitable. But Lona had come from rough circumstances herself and made the point that she'd done better and so should he. She made a good argument.
Other drama had erupted at work - a story for another day. Bestie was on it, taking my side and coming up with cutting barbs about my business partner for my amusement. She was always there, screening to sensitive voicemails and reassuring me, or making me dinner while listening to my tales of woe. The boyfriend still reached out, professing his love, while having moved in with another woman. She wondered if I should give him another chance as he obviously loved me.
I'd been a licensed psychologist in private practice for 4 years at this point. I'd trained and worked at a treatment center and written my dissertation on food addiction. I'd seen my fair share of addicts and divorced my ex-wife after years of her alcohol abuse. What had I been doing dating an active alcoholic and a man to boot? This wasn't love; he was using me.
I'd just turned 40. I'd been in therapy for years and done so much work on myself. I had only the divorce to blame for this chaotic relationship. It had upended my world. It was for the best. My ex had sobered up and we were on friendly terms. But still, hadn't I'd learned enough to pick up on the signs and pass on someone as unhealthy as him? I was just thankful I hadn't run into some cult as this would be the time I was vulnerable enough to be recruited.
The turning point came when I decided to move back to Chicago. I'd miss Bestie and Lona who was rapidly growing into another bestie. But alas, I had to go. I promised to keep in touch and come back to visit as it was a short car ride away. Hopeful and giddy, I packed up my things, said my goodbyes and was off to a new start.
Remembering the words of my Bestie's wife, I worked to maintain the friendship. I texted her every few days and when she gave minimal responses, I chalked it up to being a busy mom. Dating men had run its course. I was back in therapy with a new psychologist who also made me do yoga. Things were looking up. I'd decided not to settle and was ready to try dating women again. I'd held off because women were serious - I didn't want to get involved until I could commit. I'd felt dumpy and washed up after the divorce. Men were easy and made me feel attractive. But it was just a phase.
Bestie met me in Colorado to see Brandi Carlile at Red Rocks in the VIP section. It was 2015 and we were going to light it up. Marijuana being legal in Colorado and her on a girls trip with no kids, she wanted to get gummies for the concert. After a purchase from one of the cinderblock fortresses, we were off to the mountains. VIP meant we got to go to sound check. Five rows up from the stage, we toasted gummies and swallowed them down.
I'd never been a big fan of weed - it always made me feel dumb and irritable - but the store clerk had assured me I hadn't been trying the right strain. This was not the first (or last) time someone would suggest this but I was hopeful and happy.
By the time the music started, we were surrounded by adoring fans. Bestie was having the time of her life - free, high and dancing her ass off. Meanwhile, I was swaying, regretting my choices, and irritated that I couldn't follow the lyrics. Sigh, at least she was having a good time.
Back in Chicago, I continued to keep up with Bestie but her replies had started to dwindle. I'd met someone special and was excited. Bestie was cautious and unenthusiastic for details. It was the start of the Black Lives Matter movement. The new gal was a cop.
I'd never dated anyone in the military or law enforcement. Psychologists and therapists were all in for people of color and against cops. I was torn. My new love wasn't like that. She was empathic, kind, and compassionate. As a detective, she didn't enforce small infractions of the law and advocated for the people she arrested on first felonies to receive adjudicated sentences. She hated that the communities she served were prisoners in their homes due to gun violence and eschewed Facebook "slacktivists." In the thick of it, she knew what was really going on.
Bestie and I arranged a visit that summer to hang out at her pool. I wanted to tell her everything about this new lady but she'd slyly change the subject. Eventually, I asked her point blank what she thought. Bestiue said she wondered about my judgment and was worried for me. I took this in thoughtfully as I was still figuring this out for myself. This time, I changed the subject.
Fast forward to that Fall and I begged Bestie to come visit me in Chicago. I still had my apartment but was living with the new gal. We were in glorious love and I wanted to share it. Bestie could stay at my place and we'd show her the city. Another fabulous girls trip adventure.
Bestie loved my apartment. In the heart of Andersonville, formerly Girls' Town, it walking distance to all the shops. But that was about all she loved. She wasn't ready to hang out until the afternoon and only good for about 3 hours. I told myself she was escaping her hectic home life and didn't want to be around the two rowdy step boys I'd acquired. But the truth was much darker.
Once she got home, I got it out of her. She didn't support me dating a cop, good or otherwise. She was disappointed with me and didn't think she could continue the friendship. I was crushed, sort of, but I'd seen it coming. Ever since I'd moved away, she'd grown more and more distant. We decided to give each other space.
I didn't doubt my girlfriend and our relationship for a second. I knew who she was and that I wasn't consorting with the enemy. Surely Bestie knew this too? If so, her reasons were underground. Was it me? Did I do something to offend her so deeply she wouldn't talk about it? Did she finally get to know me well enough that she didn't actually like me? Had I worn a mask that, now shed, revealed my flaws?
I struggled with this for a long time. It wasn't until another visit, girlfriend in tow, to see Lona that I finally put it to rest. Bestie and I had made plans to talk but she'd backed out. Our last day in town, over breakfast, I finally let my girlfriend and Lona know all the ugly details.
Both aghast at Bestie's behavior, they assured me I'd done nothing wrong. That I wasn't wrong. They put the onus on her and agreed that it wasn't about the cop thing at all. Lona had been there for the worst of the divorce and supported me every step of the way. She floated a new story - Bestie only liked me when I was miserable.
Over the next few weeks, I got to thinking about this. Bestie hadn't pulled away when I started dating the cop but right after I moved. I was starting a new chapter of my life and emerging from a pit of dark days and poor choices. My life was brightening and for the first time in our friendship, I was becoming happier. Bestie didn't know what to do with that.
I tried to get into her head and test this new theory. Maybe, if I no longer needed support, she didn't see a place in my life? I thought back to her wife saying she didn't have friends. If someone needs you to be down in the dumps, then of course they'll run you off. If I wasn't going through a hard time, I didn't fit into Bestie's relationship dance. Either she was going to drag me back down or lose me. Cutting me loose ended up the easier option for her.
This new story made far more sense than some terrible mystery thing I'd done. I was released - this wasn't about me at all. I've come to call Bestie my "foul weather friend" and avoid her ilk. It was only after Lona imparted that bit of wisdom that I figured it out. I call Lona my "true blue friend" because she's the kind that sticks around in rain or sunshine. When my wife (formerly new girlfriend) died by suicide, she dropped everything to be with me. She's the kind of friend everyone needs.
The moral of this story is that it's not about you. Usually. I learned a lot from my friendship with Bestie. People attracted to trauma and crisis have trouble valuing themselves for more than their usefulness. I received her care but she didn't give me a chance to reciprocate. I wish her well and to her credit, after hearing about my wife's death, she sent a handwritten card. Lona joked that Bestie and I could be friends again but I wisely did not resume the friendship. I already had enough besties and a new crop of new hard times to get through. But if I ever need someone to validate my poor choices, I know who to call.
Oh, and every time someone mentions Brandi Carlile, I think it's Belinda Carlisle ... because I am old.
Friends are odd, aren't they? I had a few through the military, but once I left, or they left, we drifted apart. I only have one REAL male friend, and I met him when I was 7 in a Cub Scout Den. I haven't seen him in years (he's in Colorado ... you know him? LOL), but I am 100% certain, and he is also, that if the need was there, we'd be there in a flash.