I am locked down in my Brooklyn apartment with my husband. Basically, with the exception of David, I am alone. We recently moved the office of the business we jointly run back home for the first time in almost 20 years. I’m a neat freak, while my husband has an unbelievable superpower: He can take a spotlessly cleaned room and turn it into a disaster area … in LESS THAN 8 minutes.
Three days ago, David found a brand-new Dyson hand-vac on Amazon—for only $120! My excitement for this new machine matched the way David feels when a new Samsung Smart QLED 8K TV Ecosystem comes out. After the shipment arrived this afternoon, I ripped open the box, ready to mimic Freddy Mercury in the I Want to Break Free video. Inside, what did I find? Some knockoff called a “Dibea.” You could see the glue oozing out between the cheap plastic parts.
I WANTED TO KILL HIM. We fought for five hours. It felt like he took my soul and crushed it like a can of Diet Coke. And it pretty much goes like this every day, every hour, on the hour. I lose it or he loses it. In my animal brain, I know our marital spats are worsened by Covid.
But I recently came to realize that this craziness is reaching out into my entire life.
Covid has not only killed almost 800,000 people to date, but it has destroyed—and continues to destroy—friendship after friendship. This is the collateral damage of this pandemic. Covid-19 has every one of us in a fragile, highly sensitive state. I got into a fight with a friend of thirty years back in April because … wait for it … his governor was handling Covid so much better than my governor. “My mask is better than your mask” covertly regulates every conversation.
And, like many, I’m so stir-crazy that I am either alone or only with my partner—and I am gradually losing my group of go-to people when I need to vent. But the worst part is, I find that I’m willing to let friendships end. And I’m doing less and less to stop it.
Anyone who knows me—all of my closest peeps—know that this is NOT who I am. Until Covid-19, my friends were my Solid Gold. People I can now bitch to when my husband orders stupid crap on the internet, like a Dibea, are an endangered species.
Natasha is no longer speaking to me because … oh, it’s so stupid I can’t even explain. Keesha is angry because I wouldn’t concede that her life is worse than everyone else’s. “I got your back” and “you’ve got mine” is out the window. Thanks to Covid-19 exhaustion, we are all running out of steam. Thank God for my mask, because there’s not a smile under here. I am not dying of Covid-19, but I am dying of another disease: the loss of friends.
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Looking back at some of the stupid mistakes I’ve made recently dealing with my crew, and the mistakes they’ve made dealing with me, I have four pieces of advice to help save your friendships … before it’s too late:
1. Take total responsibility: “Who’s at fault?” is just a black hole.
When Natasha falsely accused me of revealing her daughter’s secrets to a mutual friend, I should have calmly asked why Natasha thought this. Instead, I freaked out that she was impugning my entire personality and honor. I went too far; I should have de-escalated. Instead, I cheered my husband on when he ripped the phone from my hand and started yelling, “Natasha, how dare you not give my husband the benefit of the doubt?!?”
We had a six-hour phone war that engulfed our entire families. First, David hangs up on Natasha. Then, Natasha hangs up on David. Then, Natasha’s husband calls and shouts at David, “How dare you not give my wife the benefit of the doubt?”
I am now standing in the rubble of a relationship that was needlessly destroyed by anger, ego, honor, and defensiveness. Humpty Dumpty fell so far that we can never put him back together again. And now I see that it was my fault. If I had taken 100% responsibility for maintaining that relationship—even if the other party was “wrong”—I would still have my beloved friend.
2. Just listen, don’t interrupt, and don’t try to fix it.
I am a fixer by nature. It’s impossible for me to hear a friend vent a problem without telling him or her what they need to do to fix it. When my BFF, Keesha, called to let off a ton of steam because her father threatened to cut her off financially, I immediately began dishing out advice on how to handle her father. The result: Keesha felt completely unheard. She wasn’t looking for solutions. She was looking for an ear.
The next thing I knew, the whole thing became “who has done more for whom.” And we were both suddenly embroiled in everything we had been holding back on saying for the past five months since Covid forced us into our respective bunkers.
Now, when we both need one another most, we are currently walking on eggshells, carefully gluing back together our 30-year-old friendship—piece by piece, moment by moment. I could have stopped this by just listening to her pain, instead of playing Mr. Fix-It.
3. Stop playing “who’s got it worse.”
When Keesha told me, with no irony or self-awareness at all, that “This has been the worst year ever—for me,” all I could think about was how “first world” all of her white-girl problems were. She has no idea what it’s like to carry a business, hold three mortgages, be responsible for employees who keep having babies … oh, wait a minute—here I go again.
It’s not a contest. Remember, your friends, even the smartest, richest, prettiest ones, have problems and get to complain. And you, as their friend, should remember that listening to their complaints is a privilege. #shutyourmouth
4. Don’t sweat the small stuff.
Remind yourself what you value in and need from a specific friendship; each one is different and serves a different purpose in your life. I actually held onto resentment for more than a month because Wade told me his governor was better than my governor. I bit my lip about that, but that was just the first of his many opinions about Covid and the country, which quickly turned into political diatribes.
Seriously, for two months, every time I saw his caller ID pop up, I immediately dreaded him going all Rachel Maddow on me (and we’re on the same team). Normally I rejoice when I see his caller ID: He is the most brilliant and compassionate person I know. He has the most beautiful take on color, hue, art … he sparks joy in the way I see the world. But dammit, my governor is better. Just writing about this ridiculous argument makes me cringe—yet we both let ourselves get sucked into it for months.
And now I can’t imagine how many friends want to avoid my calls because every other word of mine has been “BarMethod online” this and “BarMethod Online” that.
Here’s what I know. Each one of us has the power to be generous during a crisis. I also know that each one of us is going to screw it up during a crisis. And I know each one of us has the power to forgive, and to decide whether to do so.
Each one of us is a walking, talking antidote to Covid.
I need to stop making everyone wrong and taking everything as a personal attack. The truth is, no one is thinking about me one way or the other. Everyone’s just scared.
The world as we know it really is sort of ending. And if that’s not a time to band together—to be generous and forgiving—then there never will be.
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This post is republished on Medium.
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