Part I: "What It's Like In Your Arms (Part I)"

The summer passed without incident, though we never got together as we had planned, though you never put much effort into planning—I tried hard to find a few days to meet, but you never seemed to have the energy to actually go through with it.

The school year began, and I travelled ten hours away from you, all the way to the west “coast” of Minnesota. Life at Morris was (is) amazing. To this day, I honestly don’t know how I survived my previous college. Everyone was friendly, I didn’t dread going back to my dorm, and my friends—my friends—we got along so well. Astoundingly well. I didn’t know what real, deep friendship felt like until this point. My friends and I, we never had to argue to prove we were honest and true with each other. I felt safe, loved, comfortable.

You felt the opposite. You felt abandoned, alone, and beaten. I told you to make friends, that even I had managed to make friends when I was there, but you refused. You wanted me, you wanted me to come back—you thought I was coming back after the semester was over. Needless to say, I didn’t.

You gradually accepted that we were going to be apart. But it would work out, we convinced ourselves. We would be able to meet up, even visit each other. You had your boyfriend and your friend’s cars available, and there was always the bus system. We visited Chicago together over spring break. We texted a lot, and you called me all the time—you called me to tell me about your troubles, about how our friend was depressed without me there, how he and I should date—you seemed to press upon me the idea of me and our mutual friend dating, even though you knew I was asexual and aromantic. You didn’t care; you knew that we were perfect for each other.

The phone calls got gradually more and more serious—you were texting your ex again, you were “friends” with your ex, you “accidentally” had consensual sex with your ex while your boyfriend was at home, oblivious. You told me over and over again that I was the only one who understood, that I was the only one who wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t yell at you and your stupid, stupid decisions. And I listened without yelling, though inside I was screaming at you to get your life together.

You visited me, you and our friend. You came to see one of my performances and got to meet my friends. Later, my best friend would tell me that she thought you were bad for me, that you were abusing me and tearing me apart. By then, I would already know, and her words would be moot.

You needed me to come to your birthday party at the end of May. However, I was to study in London in May and would need time at home after school was done to prepare, pack, and mentally ready myself for the trip. I told you that if your birthday party was the weekend before I left, I would not be able to make it.

You scheduled it for the Thursday of my finals week, meaning that I would have to somehow make the ten-hour journey overnight to make it to your party, even though I don’t drive. To be honest, I didn’t want to go. I hate parties, and I knew there would be drinking, and I would be uncomfortable the whole time. Besides, I felt safe and loved with my friends at Morris—why would I sacrifice that for an exhausting trip across the Midwest for a party where I would be the only sober, scared person there?

I told you I couldn’t go. That was okay, you had said, since the party could be moved to Saturday. However, that was my last day at home before I left for London. I reminded you I couldn’t go, that it wouldn’t work out.

It wasn’t until the next day that it all fell apart. You called me. You never called unless something was terribly wrong. I was at my friends’ apartment, hanging out, when I picked up my phone with shaking hands. I went into the bedroom to answer.

“Hello?”

I was out of line, I had hurt everyone’s feelings, I was so selfish, didn’t I care about how selfish I was? The world didn’t revolve around a weak, spoiled, depressed girl in Minnesota, you told me. You spit out insult after insult, telling me I had no excuse not to come, that my mental illness was always used as an excuse. I wasn’t the only one with anxiety, you reminded me, yet you screamed at me that I use it as an excuse, that I enjoy being mentally ill, that it lets me have a reason to not do things I didn’t want to.

You blamed me for your attempted suicide. You blamed me for my friend’s serious depression, that I should just date him and maybe he wouldn’t hate himself so much, that it was too bad I was aromantic as everything would be better if I just dated him.

I shouldn’t have left, you said. Everything would be fixed if I was there with you. I was selfish for leaving, that I only cared about myself, that I thought the world revolved around me and my wants.

I tried to defend myself. I don’t even remember what I said, because it all sounded like weak excuses, that I was an awful person for wanting the best for myself. I do remember, however, telling you that yes, we both have our mental illnesses but that we both need to take care of ourselves in different ways. “You need to be around your friends to feel better,” I said. “But when I’m recovering from something, I need to be alone.”

“Then you don’t deserve to have friends.”

The last words I ever said to you were two short shouted curses over the line before I hung up and threw my phone across the room. I cried—an understatement—in a corner of my friend’s bedroom for the longest time, going through the conversation over and over and over again as it was the only string of coherent thoughts I could come up with.

I finally texted your boyfriend, informing him that you and I had fought, that I was unbelievably angry at you but that I still cared about you and didn’t want you to do anything stupid. You called me again, shortly after, but I let it go to voicemail.

When I listened to the recording a few hours later, once I had calmed down, your voice was angry and bitter in my ear, just as you’ve always sounded. Your boyfriend was with you, you informed me, because he was a true friend. A true friend wouldn’t have to call to make sure you were okay, you said. A true friend would be there to take the noose off from around your neck.

When I was with you, there had been plenty of nooses around my own neck, but I had always had to take them off myself. When I had moved to Morris, I forgot what it felt like to have the metaphorical coarse rope around my neck, and I knew only what it was like to have friendly arms around me, even on my worst days. You had had the rope in your hands for a while, enough for you and enough to take me down with you, but I knew then that I would never let you have that much control over me again.

The next night my friends and I dragged our mattresses into the tiny living room of the apartment and had a movie night, and you were out of mind. You came back the next morning, but by then we were driving home for the summer, and I soon forgot about you again. You came back the next day, but by then, I was off to London, seizing opportunities and freedoms I had found in my new home at Morris.

You came back into my mind, occasionally, but by then, I had forgotten what it was like to be your friend. I had forgotten the good times in favor of the numerous bad times. I had forgotten what it was like to have you in my arms, and knew only what it was like to have been held in your arms—your encapsulating, controlling arms—and knew I would never seek the false comfort of those arms again.

(To be concluded next week)