When a Friendship Ends

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As women we think of break-ups and broken hearts to be at the hands of men. You sit with your girlfriends and analyze the what-went-wrongs over a bowl of ice cream. You cry, you vent, you burn pictures of happier times (or in my case, box it up, label it “asshole” and demand your mom bury it in the attic) and you move on.

But what happens when a friendship ends?

When a bond dissolves and all you are left with are the memories of a friendship that used to be? When there are no losers, obviously no winners, but so many losses.  The loss of what-used-to-be; the deafening laughter, shared secrets and memories of joyous life celebrations; and the loss of what-could-have-been.  Regardless of whether the relationship ended in slow and subtle deterioration or if a defining moment marked the beginning of the end, the hurt is real either way. When the person we have cared so deeply for, trusted with our hearts, becomes a stranger to us; when the words coming from her lips leave us hurt and broken, either from her complete indifference or from the spitefulness in her voice, we are shattered just the same.

As women, how do we handle this loss?  How do we handle the hurt?

Lately, as it seems, we feel the need to label the lost friendship, give it a shameful name and advise women to avoid this “type” of friendship at all cost.  For the past few weeks, I’ve seen articles/posts/essays written about these so-called ‘toxic friendships’. Those friendships that leave you feeling broken and beaten, rather than inspired; or are motivated by manipulation rather than love and respect.  The articles depict toxic friendships as those in which one friend is intensely demanding, hurtful and obviously destructive.

Do I think these friendships exist between women? Absolutely.

But I also believe that not all friendships that end are were toxic… or at least they were not always this way.

I believe that like long-lasting friendships, these began as strong relationships and were originally built on mutual respect and trust. But over time, these (toxic) friendships eroded into an unhealthy balance of give and take; one in which the friendship and expectations were poorly defined.

Dependent and Enabler.
Giver and Taker.
Unrealistic expectations and Undefined boundaries.

And eventually, for whatever reason, these friendships fall apart.

And as the dust settles, the path becomes clear allowing for reevaluation and reflection.

We realize that what we had, and more importantly, what we could have become, is gone.  It’s no longer about anger or forgiveness, but rather the apprehension, fearfulness and unwillingness to make yourself susceptible to hurt again.  Conflict arises in all relationships, but it’s how we handle ourselves in this conflict that matters.

Does anyone handle themselves perfectly? Of course not.

We all make mistakes.

But words can hurt. Used carelessly, words have the power to leave you feeling shamed, unloved, unappreciated and disrespected. And while words can be forgiven, they can not be unsaid, unheard or unfelt.

A successful friendship is one in which both parties feel comfortable and open to vulnerability.  A solid friendship is one in which we graciously expose our weaknesses and our vulnerabilities, giving them insight into our hearts and providing them with the power to hit us where it would damage us the most… and trusting that they never will.

Sadly, not all friendships are forever, but no friendship is wasted. They teach us what we want and what we don’t want in our relationships. They also provide a mirror to who we are in the eyes of others, both the good and the bad.

Ultimately, if you can’t trust that you are in a safe friendship, have confidence in knowing that walking away is not the same as ‘giving up.’  Never be ashamed of what you feel or for striving for nothing less than what you deserve. Be careful not to aspire for perfection, but rather for sincerity and honesty. Be true to yourself and don’t be afraid to define the friendship and your expectations of it.

Don’t let the feeling of having had enough make you feel like you are not enough.

You are enough.

And your friends should think so too.

The Hands of the Devil: A Family’s Nightmare

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I heard a scream at 6:30am this morning. It was followed by three sets of cries. Lily had a nightmare and subsequently woke her younger siblings. I grudgingly rolled out of bed and comforted my littles as I filled sippy cups and put Ninja Turtle cartoons on the T.V.

By 7:30am, I had made the bed, started a load of laundry and began to empty the dishwasher. 
It was the beginning of a normal day. 
Until I remembered the date. June 25th. 
Suddenly my thoughts drifted from the sink full of dirty dishes to a beautiful little girl with bouncing curls.

On this date, two years ago, at the curious age of 3, little Olivia was killed by a drunk driver.

I never had the privilege of meeting this little one, but I know her Momma and my husband worked with her Daddy.  The love for their children always radiated from them. The loss that they experienced that day, seeing their broken spirits (and bodies) in the hospital, hearing her mother’s cries, the desperate pleas to wake up from this horrible dream and seeing the strong look on her Daddy’s face as he tried to be brave for his wife and children; are burned into my memory.  And yet, the sadness, fear, and wavering faith I felt that day, are no doubt just a minuscule fraction of what they continue to feel every.single.day since June 25, 2012.

I struggle with my relationship with God (I’m not ashamed to admit it) and it’s because of tragedies like this one that sends me into a spinning nose-dive of “why’s” and “where were you’s”.  For months, I tried to wrap my mind around the tragedy, how He could allow this to happen to this beautiful family?

It wasn’t until recently when someone pointed out that this was not the work of God. That this was not God’s plan.

I always thought that was a ludicrous and insulting statement anyways, to suggest that this was “God’s will,” but I had no answer to suggest otherwise. But in what world, could the death of a child, be the plan of a loving God?  I can’t believe that and continue to trust and have faith in God. God’s plan was for Olivia to continue to grow, learn to read, have her first kiss, go to college, fall in love. No, this was not an act of God. This tragedy arose from the hands of the Devil. A Devil that entered the heart of a tormented and disturbed woman, causing her to be consumed with the idea of suicide, drink herself into obliteration and get behind the wheel that fateful Monday evening.

I have to believe that. 

*                             *                            *                            *                            *                            *

My morning started with my little girl’s nightmare, but our friends wake every morning living the nightmare of losing their little girl. For the rest of the world, our ‘normal’ continues. We register our children for Kindergarten, teach them how to swim, celebrate their birthdays. But for Olivia’s parents, ‘normal’ is a distant memory, one that can be divided into ‘before the accident’ and ‘after the accident.’  Their new normal is using their pain as motivation to fight for tougher drunk driving laws, in hopes that strict enforcement will save lives.

Lives like Olivia’s.

Please. Don’t drink and drive.
Ever.
The nightmare isn’t worth it.

“I Think That’s Fabulous…”

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Dear Grandma,

I saw you today.

Well, not you. But I knew you were there.

It’s still hard to believe that you are gone.

It still hurts too.

I wasn’t expecting that; to still hurt. To still physically hurt. I think about you and it aches.

Its been three months since you left for your ‘vacation’. For three months I have been wanting to write to you… or about you… or for you. I don’t know which is a more accurate statement. Either way, I find it hard to do, because the ache makes it hard to type and even harder to think. And I know you wouldn’t want that. You’d want me to write something airy, funny, and with the words ‘shit and damn’ in it somewhere.

This evening I was driving home from work and I was thinking about you and what I wanted to say to you in this letter.

Within seconds I could feel the burn of tears in my eyes.

Shit.

Then I looked to my right and saw “you”.

Driving along side me was a large white truck with the name O’Donnell on the side, printed in green. Except instead of an apostrophe, there was a big ol’ shamrock.

Well, damn.
I laughed. And then I cried some more. 
I cried for you, I cried for my mom, I cried for Grandpa, I cried for all of us. (And Lord knows, there are a lot of us).
And then I heard your voice, saying those four words that I hear every single time I think of you…
“I think that’s FAB-U-LOUS!”
You were always the eternal optimist. It didn’t matter what the situation was, you were always the one to point out the silver living… and you always started off with a loud, booming “I think that’s fabulous….”
I was coming down with a cold.
“I think that’s fabulous! Colds make your cheeks rosy, eyes glisten and voice sultry.”
I was struggling with declaring my major.
“I think that’s fabulous! How lucky you are to have so many interests!”
My boyfriend broke up with me (again).
Okay, you knew better than to start off with “I think that’s fabulous,” but you did find the silver lining in it… even if it seemed like a silver sliver at the time. 
As I drove along side the shamrock truck, I could hear you saying those words. 
Fabulous, because my tears meant something, especially tears being shed three months later. Those tears meant I loved you. Those tears meant that I was blessed to have you in my life for 30 years and 2 days. Those tears meant that my kids know Great Grandma Flo and her love for unicorns and snowmen.
And that’s fabulous.
No matter how much it still hurts.