I want to say, first of all, that I am so happy to hear of your recovery. I always look forward to reading your thoughtful responses to letters.
I have, perhaps, many things I'd like to ask for advice about but for now I will get to the most pressing and troublesome issue:
I hate my friends. Not all of them, just a certain group of my oldest friends -- 10 girlfriends, most of whom have known each other since kindergarten, and all of whom went to elementary through high school together. These friends have been neighbors, classmates, teammates and confidantes -- we have spent a great deal of time with each other's families, gone on vacations and to summer camps together, and maintained a very close-knit group for the past 20 years or so (we are all now 24-26 years old).
I never had any reason to doubt that these people would be my core group of lifelong friends up until about a year ago, following the sudden, tragic death of a member of the group, who was also my closest friend within the group. She passed away unexpectedly at the age of 25 under ambiguous circumstances that we will never fully understand as the autopsy results were inconclusive and the acquaintances she was with at the time remain either unable or unwilling to disclose the exact events preceding her death.
I know that often people rave about the departed as though they were saints and eulogies often tend to be excessively laudatory, but for my friend who passed away all of those things would be 100 percent true. She was a beautiful, fun, bright and incredibly loving and open-minded person. It was no surprise when she chose a career as a social worker -- she was so warm and generous with her time and her spirit, she was selfless in her work and did not let roadblocks set up by her jerk boss deter her from pursuing a career she loved where she had the opportunity to really make a difference for others. She was a realistic and practical person but also somehow managed to stay optimistic in difficult situations and no matter what was going on in her life she was always there for her friends. If I called her even when she was incredibly busy with something, she would stop everything and talk to me about my problems -- she was one of those rare and precious friends who would tell you to call anytime, day or night, and really mean it ... and anytime you spoke to her you were in for a good story. She had a gift for storytelling, a propensity for spontaneity and adventure, a great sense of humor and a lighthearted appreciation for all the little silly and absurd moments in life.
Before her death, I thought our group of friends was very structurally sound. We were just beginning, in the years during and after college, to transform our little group from childhood/adolescent friends to adult friends. The 10 of us went to 10 different colleges in eight different states and wound up in similarly far-flung places after college, but we did a very nice job of keeping in touch: made great efforts to spend time with each other whenever possible, often circulated update e-mails or letters, exchanged phone calls and Internet communication, etc. I felt we had strong, irreplaceable bonds to each other that did not seem to dissipate over time or through the distance between us. In many ways she was the leader of our group; she was the one to call when you went home for the holidays because she'd be most likely to know when everyone was getting in and where we would meet. I've thought since her death that perhaps she valued and nurtured our friendships more than we did for her in return. When she died, I assumed our other friends would step up and try to fill that caring, nurturing role for each other. I thought in our grief -- when most of us were confronting mortality for the first time as adults -- we would cling relentlessly to each other for support and kinship, that we would be present for each other and for her family and other friends -- to hold each other, to cry together, to show our love to each other and to her, to share our many wonderful memories of her and mourn her death together.
But most of our "friends" were not present.
Not only did only three friends out of the group actually attend the funeral, many didn't even bother to call or write, save for a text or a quick message on the Internet here and there. Most of our friends were completely emotionally/spiritually and physically absent from the whole terrible situation. It seemed the expectation of those who absented themselves was that we not share with each other the unfamiliar and overwhelming pain we were experiencing, or worse -- that they didn't feel the pain at all or chose to ignore it.
When I expressed to my parents and a few other friends how baffled, hurt and disgusted I was with the lack of support I received from some of those old friends, they assured me things would change with time -- no one knew what to do or say right now, our wounds were too fresh, that I couldn't cast them off yet, they were hurting too. But as time went on and I still didn't hear from them -- as my attempts to call or write either went unanswered or insufficiently answered -- I began to sincerely hate them. They weren't there for me, collectively or -- with the exception of two still wonderfully supportive friends -- individually. More important, they weren't there for her family; most important, they weren't there for her. Almost all of them had managed to make it to her wedding the year before. But weddings don't require anything similar to the constitution needed to endure a young friend's funeral. Where were they now? When will they say goodbye? Will they go on thinking and acting as though things are the same and that friend with whom they once shared a life is still here with us now instead of being gone forever?
Despite my hate for them, and it is real and palpable, I still desperately want them to reach out to me, nearly a year after her death (she died in September 2009). I could never forgive them for all the months of abandonment, but I also don't know that I want to completely cut them out of my life and I think for the sake of our shared histories and the bonds that our families still share back in our hometown, I should make an effort. I still have a certain amount of faith that they will reach out to me on their own and I fear if I say something -- even in a very gentle and neutral way -- I will lose them completely too, because obviously they're incredibly uncomfortable with the whole thing. I don't want to lose them; I've lost enough.
One of the other supportive friends from the group and I have talked extensively about how to handle all of this and while we both want the others to know our true feelings we also kind of feel like we shouldn't have to make that effort because if they cared, they would have reached out to us in some way by now.
So, how do we handle ourselves around them? We all hung out as usual when we were at home over the holidays and I tried to make things as pleasant as I possibly could. We avoided the topic of death. There has been scant communication on the Internet/by phone but still the topic of her death hasn't been discussed to any considerable degree.
Maybe it's important that I explain that in other facets of their lives, these old, neglectful friends are very decent people -- they hold noble jobs (two whom I consider the worst offenders of grief/consolation avoidance are respectively a child advocate and a youth counselor), are close to their families and are mostly either married or in committed relationships. This is the first time I have ever seen them act in a way that shows they don't care about others and it has been shocking and all the more distressing to me to see kind, intelligent and sensitive people be so horrible when it comes to dealing with death.
I just don't know how much longer I can keep my feelings to myself and I know that despite the outcome of whether or not I share my feelings, I could never truly be friends with them again. I want to do something that would have pleased my friend who died. I think she would encourage me to forgive them and would want me to maintain ties with them; maybe she'd even want me to take over her role as the core/leader of the group, but as much as I don't want to completely lose what were once strong bonds of friendship and as much as I want to do the right thing by our departed friend, I feel like I could explode at them at some point and I have so much anger and hurt, I don't know how much longer I can act civil, let alone friendly, toward them.
We assume we will behave well when tested. But we are tested when we least expect it -- in the middle of the night, in an unfamiliar area, when we are weak or distracted or afraid. If we could study first, we might perform better. But we are never prepared for life's biggest tests.
We know the right thing to do. Anybody could tell you: The right thing to do is to make the airline reservation, pack the suitcase and show up at the funeral. But in a crisis, a part of us resists.
In our weakest moments grow seeds of doubt and indecision and avoidance ... in subtle ways our best intentions are betrayed; we make grievous errors of omission. We become shameful no-shows. We experience memorable failures of moral nerve.
But through such failures we can learn. We fail to show up and we learn: You don't let things slide. Not again. Next time you show up. Forever after that, you always show up.
That is, you get to learn from this as long as your friends stick with you through your failures. If your friends give up on you because you fail one test, then you may never learn. You push it out of mind. You say screw this, screw them, whatever.
Because of that, you, my friend, have an opportunity here and I hope you take it.
This is a chance for you to do some good. You can turn this around.
I suggest you do the right thing: Open communication with these people.
Reach out. But how? The conversation needn't be an accusation or an interrogation. You don't need to air the dark feelings you've had. Rather, think of the other person.
What do you say? Well, what you say is not as important as how you listen. Say as little as possible. But here are some things to avoid saying: Do not say point blank that you are hurt by their failure to appear at the funeral. Rather, say that you are still getting over what happened, and would like to talk a little about it. Then just listen. Keep your mouth shut and listen.
If your friend asks you for your feelings, you might say something like, "I really missed you at the funeral. It was hard knowing that you could not be there."
She might talk about her decision not to attend the funeral, or she might not. I wouldn't press her. She may feel guilty and find herself becoming defensive. If anything, just ask open-ended questions -- how she felt about not being able to attend the funeral, what she was doing while the funeral was happening, if she was thinking about it, how it felt to miss it. Maybe she was relieved that she didn't have to go. That would be difficult to hear but courageous to say; truth is often difficult to hear. Whatever she has to say, I would just listen and let it sink in.
In this way, you can perhaps let go of some of your anger toward your friends, and take a step closer to them, and make progress toward living with this terrible loss.
Your departed friend was a social worker. She was in service. Being in service means, strangely enough, overcoming other people's objections to being helped.
We might be inclined to say, well, shit, if you can't fill out the paperwork, then maybe you don't really want the food stamps. If you can't make it to your appointment on time, then maybe you don't really want the counseling.
But those are our standards and our assessments. We may be like a jury, eager to convict. But we don't know what's in someone else's heart. We don't know their fears and demons. We don't know what barriers they face.
Likewise, it is ironic that the child advocate and the youth counselor did not show; you'd think they would be most likely to rise to the occasion. But perhaps their jobs leave them so emotionally taxed that they have nothing left over for moments such as these.
So your friends did not show up at the funeral. They did not rise to the occasion. Yes, that is bad form. Yes, it reveals some weakness in them. But that is what it is: It is weakness. It is human frailty made palpable.
But this was your group's first experience of death, and you, collectively, had no tradition for such a thing.
So perhaps you may think of this as your group's first failure, as a passage out of innocence into experience. It was a defining moment; how each person responded to this death becomes a permanent mark.
Maybe you can now rise to the occasion and make something good come of this.
Listen. Try to heal your relationship with each of these dear friends.
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