I have had a friend, this one friend, since about the 4th grade. She is the kind of friend you get at that time before childhood cruelty and the spirit-crushing self esteem issues come calling. The kind of friend with whom, at the very start, you are your own true self—fearless, honest, full of life and adventure with no thought or care for what your future holds. I met her and it was love at first sight, so to speak. No pretenses, no “trying to be cool” posturing got in our way because when you are 9 years old, such things don’t exist. You love each other purely and truly just because of who you are.
Although this friend of mine and I have had our rough patches over the years, as any long term relationship will, I think it was this early vision, this clear picture of who we really were, that kept us from “dropping” each other. We saw through each other’s bullshit preteen angst and desperate teenage wannabe-ness; it was too late for us, “we’d been to the puppet show and we’d seen the strings.”
My friend’s family life loomed large in our friendship; my home life was unconventional at a time when I wanted nothing more than to be conventional, to fit in. In her house, she had a laundry room, cabinets full of the latest convenience foods, one of those crazy double refrigerators with the water/ice cube dispensers on the outside. She had her own bedroom with matching furniture, clean sheets, a dining room table, and regular dentist appointments. To me, her family epitomized normalcy and I envied her…not in a bitter, jealous way, but in a way that made me wish I was not her friend, but her sister.
Some of the other families of my classmates in our narrow little town looked down on me because of my unorthodox upbringing and sometimes made remarks that made me feel small and worthless. Neither my friend nor her family ever did. Not once did I ever feel ashamed or not good enough to be her friend. Spending time at her house with her family made me feel cleaner. Less of a misfit outcast. I didn’t feel as poor or dirty when I was with her; thankfully, I spent much of my childhood and teen years at her house. She never judged my house or my family; in fact, I think she was one of the few friends I’d ever even allow into my family life. I loved my mom and my sisters and didn’t ever want to have to be in a position to feel as though I had to defend them, so I did not allow people in.
In my eyes, she had everything, and best of all…she liked me. She laughed at my jokes and wanted to be around me. I could hardly believe my good fortune. Then, as now, her faith in me made me feel more special and interesting than I probably really am.
She and I have not lived near each other in almost 20 years and have only sporadically seen each other in all that time, but ask me whom I consider to be my best friend (outside of my sisters) and without hesitation, I will tell you it is her. It’s true I take her for granted because I know when we see each other again, it will be like no time has passed at all. The rhythm of our jokes, her voice…I remember the sleepovers, the late night consumption of pizza rolls and other “food-like” products.
My teenage diaries are absolutely full of her and I realize now that is because she was the only meaningful, fully-drawn, and lasting relationship to survive those scary years. Our fights were drawn-out, painful, dramatic scenes borne of the sort of passion we’d later expend on physical lovers. When you grow older and become a lover, wife, or mother, your need for these bonds with close girlfriends dies and it’s unlikely you’ll ever again sustain such a passionate, platonic relationship.
I am comforted to say that Amy was my first, last, and BFF, and in my life so far, she has been the only example of “forever” that has come anywhere near to living up to its definition.
