'My friend of 50 years ghosted me. Then I received an email.'

This article was originally published on Medium.

There must be something I'm not learning. Some lesson that evades me. How else do I make sense of my current loss? I feel the pull of invisible hands dragging me through hot coals, making me dance on fire as if I haven't danced enough for one life. I thought I had.

Yet here I am in my sixth decade, seemingly blindfolded, fumbling, grasping at the threads of a dangling rope like I'm just starting on this journey of betrayal, not the veteran I've become. How is that even possible?

I've come to understand that we all face specific challenges, whether it be love, commitment, trust, money, addiction, or the million other things that keep showing up in our lives and slamming us until we learn what makes us conquerors instead of victims.

When we learn that elusive lesson, I imagine we're home free. The s**t stops showing up, and our lives take on new themes. A different genre starts to take shape. You're done with that old storyline and can finally create something new from that magical place of understanding.

The unburdening must be euphoric. One can dream.

Betrayal has been the theme of my life. It's been there from the beginning, woven into my DNA as sure as my ancestral trauma. From the schoolyard to midlife, if I wrote a list of the treacheries I've endured, it would read like an ancient scroll passed down from the Pharaohs, but it still wouldn't cover the enormity of some of those losses.

I thought I was done with the big lessons that rip your heart out and render you useless. The ones that consume your every waking thought. You can't eat, sleep, or focus. Forget about writing. I'm no Virginia Woolf. I can't write from the dark night of my soul. It needs to be in the rearview when the light breaks through.

I didn't know my theme had a label until a lightbulb moment in my 40s. My marriage ended in the worst possible way, with secret double lives revealed and decades of deception all coming to the surface.

That dark night almost ended me. It is still up there on the top of my scroll. Back then, I had a revelation. Like a cataclysmic collision inside me, every betrayal I'd ever experienced exploded in my psyche.

Now I get it. This is what I'm here for.

Didn't Mahatma Gandhi say it first, 'My Life is My Teaching' or something like that? If it is, I'm not handling the lesson very well.

I've spent the past two decades attempting to rewire my brain. I succumbed. I will be a sponge, soak up the wisdom, and do the work my younger self scoffed at. My ego must have been the size of Jupiter. It needed some serious downsizing, so that's what I did. That's what I'm still doing.

A friendship cemented in time.

A few months ago, my friend Sam came for a visit. We've been friends since the 1970s, but our friendship hasn't always been consistent. We've had long periods of absence, our lives going in different directions, but we always found our way back to each other after months, years, or even a decade once.

It was the kind of friendship that continued where it left off, as if no time had passed — we share a long history. But a lot had happened, and we relished the hours of debriefing and catching up, vowing never to lose touch again.

"Marcy, we must promise to always be there for each other now — no more falling off the face of the earth. And never let a man come between us…"

I'd heard the latter more times than I can count. Sam was referring to herself.

We missed a lot in the gaps — marriages, divorces, deaths — but we never held grudges for past mistakes or differing opinions.

We reunited again in 2018 after a particularly long gap. Sam had just left a bad relationship that had taken 13 years of her life. I'd met him in their first year of dating and immediately disliked him. My gut screamed at me, "You need to warn her he's a chauvinistic pig, a dirtbag not to be trusted, and probably an alcoholic." I said nothing.

She was in love then, still in the honeymoon phase. I was newly single, broken, and still clinging to the side of a sinkhole. I didn't want to burst her love bubble with any negativity I might be radiating. Maybe I was just paranoid and hating on love.

Alone again after 22 years, and all I saw were lovers everywhere, holding hands, kissing in public. What was this new hell? Valentine's Day was on steroids; everyone was in the land of coupledom, and their public displays of affection made me cringe.

Yep. My Ebenezer Scrooge persona needed to go. I didn't want to s**t on my best friend's happiness, so I made myself scarce. The gap widened.

And so, Sam wasn't witness to my healing journey, my five years of dating, and all that entailed. She wasn't there when I met my second husband, our wedding, our challenges, the reign of terror I endured at the hands of my husband's ex-wife. Sam would've kicked her boney arse to the curb.

My dear friend didn't hold my hand at the deaths of my brother, mother, and father or attend their funerals. She wasn't there when menopause hit me like the Big Bang theory and shattered me to pieces. I became a shadow of my former self. She didn't see my joy at grandchildren being born or my book being launched — that long journey of self-discovery. The list goes on.

She missed a lot of my life.

And I wasn't witness to the downfall of her relationship, the narcissistic terror she endured for years — I was right about the dirtbag, after all. I didn't see her mother die or attend her funeral. Fallouts with her siblings, whom I once called friends. I missed her travels and adventures, her trip to Europe, and our long-lost Italy. I still haven't been. She's been many times — we could've done that together.

I missed a lot of her life.

We missed a lot of each other's lives.

But this time, our reunion was profoundly different. We were old and had weathered storms that weren't evident on our faces yet, not a physical attribute. It was more in our demeanours, our subtle toning down of our once fiery youths, a mellowness that only comes with experience and wisdom.

We were changed — better versions of ourselves. We both knew this time that there would be no gaps moving forward. We were in it for the long haul now. Whoever died first, the other would be there at the funeral, holding the grief until we would meet again.

When your plan B is gone.

Sam would joke to my husband.

"If you ever hurt my best friend, she will come and live with me. I'm watching you, Mister."

We'd all laugh, but I found great comfort in that. If life has taught me anything, it's that nothing is guaranteed. Knowing she would be there to help pick up my pieces, whatever they may be, gave me a kind of subliminal relief. I would never have to go it alone again.

She was the sister I never had.

Remember the promise? Never let a man come between us.

She called the day before her planned arrival. I was looking forward to her visit. It had been months since we'd seen each other. We live three hours apart and have busy lives, so it's not always easy to plan.

She told me something had come up at the last minute, so she'll be a few days late. I questioned her with concern, thinking something was wrong.

"Don't worry. I'll fill you in when I get there and stay a few extra days."

This changed all my plans, but that's okay. It must be important because Sam never changes a plan so late in the game. It's one of her rules. She's all about sticking to a commitment made to the point of inflexibility. You want to hope someone has died if you change plans with her. That's a solid excuse. Changing your mind on a whim is a wrath you don't want to experience.

I moved things around, cancelled a lunch date, let go of my writing schedule, and put a few other things on the back burner. I can play catch-up later.

I imagined she'd arrive flustered and annoyed. It was the complete opposite.

She'd spent those days with an ex-lover, an old flame she couldn't entirely extinguish even though he'd broken her heart when he dumped her once before. She was high on the afterglow of a dirty weekend. Her 'boyfriend' was at home, none the wiser.

Now, I, of all people, can appreciate a good, dirty weekend. I had more than I can count in my single days. I get it. But the cheating part — I was silently mortified. Aren't we too old for that s**t? Isn't there karma to consider? And what of respect and integrity? Should hormones be a driving force above wisdom at this point?

Can someone please give me some of those hormones? I'd rather eat cake and nap than summon the energy needed for an F-buddy weekend. We're not 40 anymore.

My gut churned at the betrayal. I know the boyfriend. He's in love with her. It's one-sided. His family adores her. They'd just returned from a family holiday in Bali, grandkids included. Her lack of guilt at her blatant hookup disturbed me.

I didn't say much, except it might be wise to cut ties with her boyfriend as she clearly doesn't have feelings for him. She agreed. It was over. She just needed to tell him.

I left it at that. I didn't want to be that judgey friend full of opinions and finger-pointing. It's her life, her karma. Who am I to dish out lessons? I didn't want our time ruined, so I let it go.

But by the time she left, it wasn't her cheating that had taken up space in my head; it was the fact she lied to me. I learned that she knew weeks in advance about her dirty weekend, but she said nothing. She waited until the day before, yet she still hadn't told me the truth.

What kind of best friends were we? I felt the weight of disloyalty sink in. I didn't understand why I felt so betrayed. Her thoughtless disregard for my plans started to irk me. I silently stewed but aimed to let it go. I'd put it down to oversight on her part and not make a huge deal out of it.

Days later, she emailed me. That's how we stay in touch. She knows I'm always at my desk and more likely to read an email than answer a call. Her update included plans with her boyfriend. I had to read that line again. I shook my head at her audacity and inability to cut ties. The woman has no shame.

I couldn't sit back and idly sweep it under the carpet any longer. I decided to reply and drop a few truth bombs, respectfully, not abusively. That's not my style.

I was hurt. I should be able to tell my best friend what's on my mind. That's what friends are supposed to do. They should also call out s**tty behaviour when it's valid. How else do we grow and mature? How else do we see through the lens of untainted glasses?

Nothing. No reply. She ghosted me.

She didn't turn up for a weekend we'd planned when my daughter and future son-in-law announced their engagement.

She was a no-show.

Weeks later, I finally saw her name pop up in my inbox. It was one paragraph that addressed nothing I said.

"I'm not sure why my character is in question… if you felt hurt, you should've said something at the time… I'm the one who is hurt…"

I'm still trying to figure out that gaslighting tactic.

And here I am, at the start of another gap. The duration is anyone's guess. I'm heartbroken that this one may be our last. Time is not of the essence. Perhaps I should've kept my mouth shut and opinions to myself for the sake of friendship. It's done now — end of story.

Final thoughts.

Loss is a fickle game, and that's when you see it coming. Sudden loss is a bit trickier. That can take a lot of soul-searching and time. Our grief is as individual as fingerprints. No two are the same.

All we can do is take the time to grieve, reflect, and use the experience as an opportunity to learn and grow. Once the hurt subsides, we may even figure out how to avoid repeating the patterns and themes of our lives. When we do, we should bottle that.

All I can do is let go. Forgiveness is not on the cards just yet.

And according to Conni Walkup Hull, it isn't always a given.

Her story resonated with this eye-opening perspective.

This article was originally published on Medium and has been republished with full permission. For more from Marcia Abboud, click here.

Image: Supplied.