Talking Heads

Charlotte recently posted something to Facebook that contained 17 pieces of advice to live by.  Some of them highly original, some of them our grandmothers may have said. One of the statements suggested that you never cut something that can be untied instead.

So I tried untying my friend. Everything kept in tact, more or less, just a little less tightly bound.

The issue, in its simplest form, was gossip.  Pure and simple gossip. Gossips being one of the things Dante certainly put at the bowels of Hell.  I found out in pretty painful fashion that my "conversations" with my friend were not being treated as private. Even though the subjects were intensely personal, like many shared things among age-old girlfriends.  My thoughts. My insecurities. My worries. My plans. What was keeping me awake at night. What motivated me to put my feet on the floor in the morning. All being shared. Or possibly.  I am sure there were edits. But we'll get to that.

And worse, she was sharing with people who may not have the slightest of good intentions about me. Her friends, not mine. And so maybe she didn't have my best interests at heart either. Maybe she had an agenda. Maybe one that she kept from me. Maybe one that disregarded me entirely.

Of course I didn't know it right away. She'd been my lifelong friend. I'd trusted her. When Scott vanished into thin air, she was among the first I'd reached out to. Leaned into. Put the full weight of my soul on her shoulders. Of course I did.

I was raw. Naked. The rug had been whipped from beneath my life. I looked for advice. I shared my fears. My hopes. My atrocious heartbreak.

We'd texted and emailed and messaged more often than usual for a few weeks. It was nice to have attentive friends when I was feeling so lonely and had endless stretches of unoccupied time to deal with.  Friends who knew my heart, like her. And friends who were willing to learn about my heart, like others who impressed me with their openness to letting me lean on them. It was restoring. It was just what I'd needed.

At first her messages were all ones of concern. How was I feeling?  Was there anything I could do to turn around the ship? What would I do if he called and wanted to come back?  What was I doing to make sure I was taking care of my fabulous self? 

But the messages became more and more frequent. And took a bizarre turn. 

A little invasive. A little pot-stirring.  She'd ask questions that almost seemed intrusive. Made observations about things that seemed to aim to get me riled up. 

Had I noticed all the chat between this one and that one on Facebook?  Did I have the same reaction to this one's comment on on someone else's post?  Had I heard about this one and that one unfriending each other over her jealous rage about a third one? 

To be truthful, I was too self absorbed and entranced by my own misery to give a hang about anyone else's drama.  She was always the first to join the tempest in the teacup. I chalked it off to her busy-bodiness, and fascination with drama. 

But I'd never imagined that I'd be the subject of such fascination. And that is where it got interesting. And not in a good way.