What Happens When the Friendships That Saved You Don’t Survive

There was a moment a few years ago, if you can imagine, where I stood around a big, old, recycled timber table with some friends.

Some friends.

No, that’s not quite right.

My three best friends.

My very best friends.

We had decided to meet up at Lentil As Anything (RIP) - the rich, green Abbotsford convent lawns stretched before us on a clear, blue, Melbourne afternoon.

Spring time. 2019. I remember that it felt peaceful.

It was there that we shared a moment, that would become a memory - so tragic and beautiful. One that I almost felt disassociated from.

I remember feeling, at the time that “this is beautiful.”

That this was significant.

That I would hold this with me for the rest of my life.

I didn’t know why.

I just knew.

One of the women seated at the table, mildly enjoying her vegan Dahl and gluten free mud-cake - was my younger brother’s, very recent, ex girlfriend.

She was bleary eyed, sad and confused and sat between two of the most important women in my life.

The first, a woman I’d known since high school but only reconnected with years later. Firey. Kind hearted. But also loud. Obnoxious. A one eye brow raise that could halt an invading army in its tracks. She was advocate for those she loved, could argue until she was blue and yet the crisis of confidence that appeared to wash over her more recently was undeniable. She was incredibly beautiful. It was not her most important feature but I wanted to tell you regardless.

The other, a friend of my partners, ergo a friend of mine for the past 8 years. My housemate. A confidant. A sister. A soul mate. Someone who knew every deep, dark, terrifying secret I had. Someone who had seen the worst parts of me whether I wanted her to or not and still stood in my corner - ready to take on the world.

It’s hard to describe these women in a way that does them justice. In a way that shows you how magnificent and magical they are.

As we were sat, enjoying the mid afternoon revelry (circus artists were practicing and tumbling across the yard) - my two older friends consoled my brother’s former flame.

The nature of their cataclysmic conclusion bears no repetition however, she was someone who had shared my life, for a while, my home and had my love for the past seven or so years. Someone I had travelled with and despite the circumstances - loved dearly.

Love dearly.

They were holding her. Stroking her hair. Looking deep into her eyes. Squeezing her shoulders and taking her hands in theirs. Speaking to her with the kindness and wisdom of being only 5 or so years her senior. At one point she dropped a head to a shoulder.

The hindsight of mid 30s womanhood versus late 20s womanhood is not to be taken lightly.

They had been in, through and out the other side of that great love of your early years. The ones that most grow out of or move on from. They had done the divorce. The distance. The infidelity. The openness. The unmet expectations. The couples therapy. The growing apart.

They had lived another lifetimes worth of sorrow and sadness in the years between her age and theirs.

I remember stepping back in that moment

I can still see it in my head.

The moment was so tender.

They hadn’t known her as long as I had.

They had known my brother for far longer.

They could have been dismissive, minimising, annoyed at the derivative notion of consoling the broken heart of a 20 something.

They could have been defensive, inconsiderate at the idea and so easily taken sides.

But instead they were tender.

Responsive.

She was someone who I cared about so by extension she was someone who they cared about.

They understood the depth of feeling. They could comprehend the level of loss and identity dismemberment that comes with that kind of break up.

I remember thinking, “that’s it.”

“I’ve arrived.”

I felt like I’d finally made it to the place I’d long heard of. The places it long longed for. The place where all other women seem to exist and yet I only exist as an observer.

A place that, when I say it, there will be a clear line drawn in the sand between the women who understand me and the women who don’t because they’ve never been on the outside.

It was 2019, I had just turned 30 and “I finally have friends”

And not just the kind of friends you get by association. Not the kind you inherit when you join a group by sole invitation, nor the kind you experience when you land in a workplace where everyone’s got their “work wife.”

Not the kind you fall into through family or something as simple as shared space and time.

Real. Friends.

And not just one - a friendship group.

To say I love these women still is underselling the extent to which they impacted me. To say I loved them gives no where near the meaning or feeling or gravity. To say I loved them feels like a cheesy hallmark greeting card or a wishy washy rom com.

But I loved them.

I love them.

And yet, I sit here 7 years later.

12:13am

In a new town.

In a new life.

I have a new identity.

New career.

I am remade 100 x over since that moment.

I love them and yet 7 years later -

One barely replies.

One refuses to talk to me at all.

And one is dead.

And in reading that I mean to convey the exact sensation in reading, as I feel when writing.

If it lands like a thud that is because that is how I mean for it to land.

It lands like a thud.

In my chest.

On my bones.

For it feels all for nought.

And I once again find myself alone.

It was a few years later that I dragged myself to a shopping centre. 2024, 3 years postpartum with a toddler at my heels and long Christmas shopping list that saw me driving all the way from Northcote, to Highpoint, in the western suburbs of Melbourne.

It was a sweltering summer afternoon, the kind that feels like the autistic death by a thousand cuts.

The heat.

The sweat.

The thighs that rub.

The child that wants to be held closer than is comfortable.

The loudness.

The peopleness.

The incessant(ness) of those fucking Christmas carols.

The prick of overwhelm slowly stabbing you from the inside out until your intolerability (a word I’ve yet to coin) bleeds from every tiny wound into the words and actions you try endlessly to edit.

Officially autistic for almost 12 months at this point. I was only starting to understand and explore what this new diagnosis meant for me. To be honest, I’d barely had time to comprehend the implications for life, love, friendship, work, family, or parenting.

At this point I just needed to get the Christmas shopping done.

My capacity and my resolve had gone completely asunder when I finally caved to the 10,000th request to visit the toy shop. It’s a feeling I know every parent - neurodivergent or not- would know. The one where you hit that overwhelm event horizon and you’re just happy for the miniature moments of peace.

That moment when the complaining stops and you can dissociate for a few minutes without worrying your child is going to wander into traffic or disappear down a woolies lolly aisle.

Sat atop one of those toddler sized cars made from LEGO, in the shops front entrance; he was happy so I was happy. I was taking my moment of peaceful dissociation when I felt what can only be described as a dark cloud.

A heavy dark cloud

I felt it before I saw it.

Before I saw him.

A man I had barely thought of.

Not for a long time.

Who I had thought about far too much.

But not for a long time.

An ordinary looking man.

With a trolley full of gifts and wrapping paper.

A man that hurt me.

In ways that require legal recourse and criminal escalation.

A man who had escaped responsibility, restitution or compensation.

Who lived freely in the world.

Free enough to walk into that particular shopping centre and that particular shop, on that particular day.

For those who feel the heaviness of this entire piece please be somewhat reassured that the man in question clocked me and moved with such a pace and such a terror - if I had not been incredibly triggered - I would have been somewhat satisfied.

Swinging his trolley away from us like an opposing magnet, he disappeared down an aisle at the back of the store.

I stood for a moment.

Frozen.

I picked up my son.

Much to his protest.

And we left.

And the reason I segue, should you be wondering, from moments of tenderness to being triggered in the toy shop is because I got in the car.

Crying. Sobbing. Heaving.

My son anxious, observant, but aware enough that mummy was having a moment.
Let mummy have her moment.

I picked up my phone and I realised that I didn’t know who to call.

Seeing that man.

Running into him.

Being in that situation had been at the top of my “top 10 things I’m terrified of” list.
He had lived local to me, as far as I knew. And then I moved and further to that, today I was visiting a centre well away from any familiar haunts or local hot spots.

It felt impossible but also like I had let my guard down

I sat in the car with my son and I stared at my phone.

I stared.

I sobbed.

And I remembered that memory.

That memory of those women.

In that particular moment.

From years earlier.

The tenderness.

The shared care.

The open heartedness of it all

I remembered how I felt.

The safety.

The warmth.

The beauty.

The honesty.

The love.

The feeling that impossible things were possible because of buoyancy they afforded me.

Meanwhile, it goes without saying that there are some fantastic women in my life right now. Women who have taught me so much. Who carry that loveliness and lightness that we all crave to be closer to.

I have friends, of course. Not to be dismissed. There are women who care for me and my family and who I know well enough to know that when I speak to this longing, take no offence.

The longing for is for depth.

For weight.

The sinking significance of such soulful solidarity.

The difference between simply moving around the edges of the water, or sitting waist deep and being completely submerged. Floating. Trusting. Being held in a vast and unyielding ocean.

Staring at the sky.

And gently swaying.

It’s that friendship I miss.

For which I feel a sense of loss.

It’s that friendship that I long for.

I have the “good luck for your event tonight,” friend.

And the “call me if you need something,” friend.

The “urgh, that sounds really unreasonable,” friend.

And the “you’re definitely in the right,” friend.

I even have the shoot the shit friend.

The debrief and the “no judgement parenting advice,” friend.

And they are all wonderful.

What I miss is the, “I know it’s 2am but can I call you?” friend.

The “I took too many mushrooms and now I can’t get out of the laundry basket,” friend.

Or the, “you deserve better,” friend.

The “no matter what happens you can always come stay with me,” friend.

And the “yes I’ve got a lot going on but I always have time for you friend.”

It has long been a feature of my life that I will meet and love greatly. Fiercely. And then, somehow, burn out. In my experience, friendships of a life long nature feel obscure and unrelatable. When I hear women talk about their girl groups or how they’ve had the same friends since prep, I wince. On the inside mostly, though I’m not too sure it doesn’t show on my face.

There are relationships where I can see what happened.

The miscommunication.

The missteps. 

I fall short of social standards, which as an autistic person I struggle to keep up with.

Then there are those relationships where I feel genuinely perplexed.

Where I reach out over and over.

Where I assume the best.

They’re busy.

They’re overwhelmed.

They need a beat.

They’re forgetful.

I keep showing up.

I show love.

Regardless of the effort, the distance grows and I become more candid and less controlled in my expression.

I am more frantic in my messages.

I devolve into all the anxious thoughts that plague my mind and send essays at 2am of all the things I feel I, or they, or both of us should be apologising for.

The lack of closure kills me.

It is silent and inescapable.

The open loop.

The wondering why? What did I do? What could I have done? Why can’t I fix this?

There is an inevitable communication breakdown. Then silence.

That silence I sit in.

In the car.

At 2am.

In those moments.

In those memories.

And as yet I have no solution.

There’s no teachable moment.

Writing this is not about communicating some great revelation.

It’s simply an acknowledgment and a deeply held belief that in sharing this I can bring comfort.

And that, right now is enough.

If this resonates with you I’d love to know and if you have a friend that you feel would see herself in this - send it across.

Sending love

Bec x