Reaching Out/Coffee Date

Not My Image

Trigger Warning: Some mention of abuse and sexual behavior.

After reading my blog, a dear friend from high school reached out to me on social media. We connected via texting, and made plans to have coffee on Friday morning. I will maintain her anonymity during this post (First name only), but seek permission to post, via sharing the final draft with her. 

My friend looked wonderful. I can't believe she is a grandmother! It seems this stage of living skipped my world, because I've never had children of my own. I am taken aback when friends my age discuss grandchildren. 

Heather and I hugged and greeted. I waited for her to order a coffee and settle, then we sat together to discuss my blog. 

Almost immediately, Heather began to tear up. Her eyes pooled with awareness of the magnitude of suffering I had been through without her knowledge. She mentioned my suicide attempts 20 years ago, and told me that she knew I was in danger at the time. She just felt it, and tried to get in touch with me then. We've always had a deeper connection. 

We've seen one another since that time, so she just assumed I was OK. Mutual friendships had reconnected our circles, and we were current with each other's lives based in conversation and social media connections. 

We had some personal catching up to do that I will not share here. I have immense respect for those that take the risk to "lean in" to a relationship and discuss the things that may be uncomfortable or are preventing connection. My friend was courageous, and created space for a fruitful discussion that led to a deeper understanding of one another. 

But Heather also wanted to know about the abuse, and how it had effected me. She was inquisitive but kind and at no time did any of her questions unsettle me. She's just always had that way about her. Heather has always easy to talk to. 

I kept getting the feeling that, beneath the questions, she was expressing regret that she wasn't able to help me back then. During those times of struggle in high school, and before I got sober, she expressed sadness that she somehow wasn't automatically aware of my situation. 

Neither was I. I told her. 

And how could she have been? I was either swimming, using substances, or pursuing for anonymous sex in cruising areas with adult men, which habituated the exploitation I had suffered as a child. 

And I wonder why I wasn't a good student. 

I talked about how hard I worked to hide my history, especially from myself. And I discussed with her the ways that circumstance, not virtue, had led me to recovery. I spoke of all the wonderful people who had brought me to this place in my life via a journey of healing. 

Then I talked about 'going public' with my story. How my brain was telling me that this was crazy to disclose so much information, yet there was this tug from my gut to continue the work by telling my story.

I wanted her to know that she was not responsible. I find that people hear about my story and wonder why they didn't see it. In retrospect, my story was all around me, but invisible. It influenced my decisions in ways that I could not have imagined (both good and bad), yet tore at my soul the whole time. I was constantly reacting to the pain I was in, and fervently trying to avoid all contact with my grief.

While there are painful moments, the above paragraph is no longer an accurate description of my life. 

In my behest to make my friend feel better, I forgot something. The one thing I neglected to mention to my friend was that their love was enough. That they brought to me a very special kindness and understanding, just by being who they are. 

I must remember to tell her, and others about this too. 

Again, and again, and again. 

M :-)

PS: If anyone else out there wants to connect as a result of reading this blog, feel free to comment about the safest way to get together.