My plan for this piece is somber. It’s a lengthy story about friendship, filled with hurt, anger, confusion, and unhealthy dynamics.

However, my thirty-year friendship with Wendy wasn’t all bad. (Why would you stick around if a relationship was consistently malicious?)

There was an enormous component of side-splitting hilarity, too.

Naturally, I chose a kooky-looking camel as a visual aid for this piece while reflecting on my long-time friendship with Wendy.

I’ll start there — with the good stuff.

The Comical and Innocent Years

One thing I miss dearly about my friendship with Wendy is our comedic connection, the kind of telepathic kinship you have with a sibling where one glance equals gut-busting laughter.

We were still in the single digits when we met. And I hate to say it, but our friendship was on founded convenience. Wendy’s family purchased a house across the street from my grandparents. Our brothers befriended one another, and soon after, Wendy and I found company and comfort in each other.

I often visited my grandparents on the weekend, and Wendy was readily available (and conveniently located) in their neighborhood. She was only two years younger than me, but her small stature and emotional immaturity made me forget that we weren’t so far apart in age. Back then (and for many years), I could identify with the calm-and-collected older sibling persona, and our personalities meshed quite well for decades.

We had a blast together. Like sisters, we shared a similar sense of humor, and our days were filled with side-splitting humor and “inside jokes” galore.

I didn’t see Wendy much during the week since we both attended different schools, but we certainly made up for it on the weekends by spending every minute together. Undoubtedly, the Idiom Gods had us in mind when they created the phrase ‘joined at the hip.’ We spent our summer vacation skating, swimming, having sleepovers, and trading rainbow-colored Lisa Frank stickers. Wendy and I quarreled, but a ten-year-old and an eight-year-old can only have so much tension between them before they are outside playing together again.

We spent ninety-nine percent of our childhood laughing together.

I miss that.

The Complicated and Imperfect Years

Life became more convoluted in our teen years. Both of my grandparents passed away by the time I was thirteen, and eventually, my family and I moved to their home and lived next to Wendy’s family, just like she and I had always wanted.

A few years later, Wendy showed up at my door with a backpack full of her stuff and a pillow. Her face was red-hot, and her eyes were swollen with tears as she spilled the beans about her mom finding out her dad was cheating on them (because it affects the whole family.) The affair wasn’t an anonymous one either, which made it that much more traumatizing. Her dad had been hooking up with a big-name Porn Star. The next day, let’s say, is when the Idiom Gods invented the phrase ‘when shit hits the fan.’

While reeling myself in from the choppy sea of our friendship’s history, I asked myself, why am I telling you this specific story about Wendy’s dad?

Retelling that story was my way of expressing how I was in her corner from (almost) day one. But there was often a void on my side of the ring when I needed wound care. To be fair, I played the “older sibling” role to a T (ego and all). I was more comfortable caring for Wendy when she was vulnerable than asking for help. And with Wendy’s life in constant chaos, there was little room for my wants and wishes.

From an early age, our friendship had various themes; as you read, these aspects weren’t all negative. However, two dynamics that kept rearing their ugly heads (which I tolerated for thirty years) were a lack of empathy and reciprocity, the epitome of co-dependency. I often dropped everything to be a good friend indeed for a friend in need; Wendy tended to be more self-serving.

Our devotion and inseparability waxed and waned over our teenage years; there was an undeniable hot-and-cold element to our bond. Wendy would leave me on “read” for days, sometimes weeks. She knew I would stick around no matter how she treated me.

Admittedly, I worried about her as a mother would, and she usually reacted to my concern with immature backlash or ignored me for a while until I put my ego aside and broke the silence.

I told her how hurtful and frustrated I felt when she stonewalled me, but the push-and-pull pattern only worsened as the years went on.

Many years later, I realized my contribution to a toxic friendship was from co-dependent patterns engrained in my subconscious.

The Celebrated and Incomparable Years

Our years of early adulthood were thrilling. When you mix a long-time friendship, the newfound freedom of early adulthood, and legalish drinking age— you get a sickly-sweet cocktail of high jinks and unbridled comedy.

I worked at an upscale Italian restaurant in my late teens and early twenties. Wendy held the fort down at Southern California’s favorite burger joint, In-N-Out Burger; her work ethic was impeccable. She worked her way up to assistant manager before opting out for a career change.

Other than working our routine menial jobs and boyfriend troubles, we were living our best lives: weightlifting in the morning, carb-loading at IHOP after our workout, and drinking pints of beer while laughing our worries away through the wee hours on the weekend.

I don’t drink anymore, but damn, I miss those carefree days with my childhood best friend. We went through a lot together. Now and then, I wonder if we can make our friendship work again. Then I remember why I tapped out after thirty years and how some relationships aren’t for a lifetime like we originally planned.

There is so much—too much, that I want to tell you about my friendship with Wendy. Long-time relationships are complex like that, jam-packed with layers of intimate history. There is a lot that I’m leaving out, like marriage, motherhood, moving, and lifestyle mishaps.

I’ll explore those topics later, but for now, I’ll conclude my story with the puny piece of straw that broke my back.

The Infamous piece of “straw”

It was the year 2020, the pandemic had just hit, and Wendy and I hadn’t spoken since I set boundaries about babysitting her son. But I put my ego aside (again) and broke the silence because I really needed a friend.

“Darren and I are getting a divorce.”

“WTF?!”

Over the next two years, I agonizingly detached from the life I’d known for twenty years. As I flailed in a violent sea of overwhelming emotions, Wendy did her best to comfort me with “try-looking-at-the-bigger-picture” talks and yes, more bottomless pints of beer. But something wasn’t working for me anymore — many things weren’t if I’m honest.

I didn’t want to drink anymore; I was depressed enough.

However, as time passed, and I was knee-deep in the worst possible part of my life, I found myself backsliding to old habits; I was still catering to Wendy’s wants and needs just as I always had.

I fought tooth and nail to balance what I needed and being a good friend. I checked in with Wendy regularly. I asked how she and her kids were doing, stopped by when I could, but continued to push through by doing my own thing. I had to. My thing was figuring out how to pay my lawyer her ridiculous hourly wage and get through my medical schooling to support myself after everything was said and done. This meant I wasn’t as available to drop everything when Wendy wanted to hang out.

At this point in life — I couldn’t afford not to put myself first anymore.

Have I mentioned how majorly stressed out I was back then? I was living with my parents while simultaneously dealing with a jackass of an ex, reassuring my kids they were going to be okay (even though I clearly was not), and studying which veins to draw blood from (and which ones not to).

I was mangled, sad, mad, and reeling. I was stressed beyond belief and tired of drama with my so-called best friend.

After distancing myself and having no choice but to focus more on not failing my classes, I received this rageful text message from Wendy.

Life challenges, changes, growth, silences, we’ve been through it all.

I don’t know how we got to where we are.

At this point, I take your overall silence to mean you had to use me for the money that got you to where you are at now.

I still have undying loyalty and devotion to my best friend in the world, but I battle daily with what our friendship has become besides sad.

I am so pissed at what the relationship has become. I have been 100%, hands-down, the best friend you could ask for, and I am so pissed about where we are.

I am completely content that it is not me, not my husband, or my family. I am so angry that I don’t know where to go with it.

As you can imagine, I was completely shocked after reading her text message.

Here’s a breakdown of my state of mind at the time:

• I can’t believe after two years of drowning in divorce and aspirating my salty tears, my so-called best friend kicked me deeper instead of throwing me a life raft (Where’s her empathy?).
• How could she not see the pain in my eyes and the absolute hell I was going through? How could she accuse me of exploiting her to pay my lawyer when she offered to help? And when I paid her back in full within six months? (More empathy, please.)
• How could she be ‘content’ with taking ZERO responsibility in our thirty-year friendship and blame me for everything?

I didn’t understand where all this anger was coming from.

What did I do wrong?

As I mentioned earlier, our relationship had a push/pull dynamic. I regularly initiated communication until I didn’t. On this fateful day, I grew tired of pulling and, as my therapist says, ‘held her feet to the fire.’

I needed her to take some responsibility for our friendship.

I responded with:

Good morning.

I hear you. And my experience is different from yours.

However, I can see that you were angry in your last message, and I wanted to give you another opportunity to express yourself more kindly towards me.

I want to understand where you are coming from. And I need mutual respect and compassionate communication from the people I choose to stay connected with.

Happy Mother’s Day.

I’ve got nothing but love for you.

It’s been almost two years since I sent that text message.

I’m still waiting (and hoping) for her to respond with the kindness I have given her all these years.