Friendship

A longtime friend and I were talking. Suddenly the conversation grew intense. What she said upset me as did the fierceness with which she said it. I reverted to an old coping mechanism. In the past, accustomed to violence when faced with disapproval, I became quiet. Kept my upsetness to myself. Pretended everything was okay. 

Old anxieties surfaced. I was too afraid to tell her how I felt and took the coward’s way out. I sent a carefully worded email. There was a back-and-forth response with no resolution. I kept hoping it would all go away. When we next met, I asked if we were clear. She said, “No. We have to talk.” 

Despite my anxiety, I appreciated her willingness to talk about the issue. I knew it was time to face my fears of talking honestly with someone who was angry at me. Scared as I was, I knew she cared enough about our friendship to say we had to talk, but it wasn’t me who set the time and day. I agreed to the meeting she suggested, still hoping it would all go away.

Before we met, I decided to figure out a way to respond that would anchor me. I would not meet anger with anger. I would ask her what she thought and felt without interrupting—something I’m prone to do. I would not be defensive. I would not attack. What would I do? Describe how I felt? What I thought? Strategies only go so far. I would have to talk about my feelings when we met; just the thought stoked my anxiety.

We sat in a comfortable place, facing each other. I was unaccountably frightened, despite my certainty there was no possibility of verbal or physical violence. I listened to her, constantly reminding myself not to interrupt. It was hard and painful to hear what she had to say. Hard to not interrupt and defend myself. When it was my turn, I began to talk about my initial upsetness but something odd happened. An old memory surfaced. In 1941, I was five, increasingly upset as I read a newspaper’s description of horrors occurring in Europe in WWII. “Who’s taking care of the children?” I cried, wanting an answer or reassurance my parents could not provide. 

Although the memory had nothing to do with what was between us, it was so powerful I had to tell her what was going on in my mind because I couldn’t focus on our conversation. I became emotional, tears in my eyes, as I described how the memory triggered current worries about what was happening to children in wars around the world. As I talked, I felt her compassion, which made it possible for me to talk about my fear of talking with her. I found the wherewithal to tell her why what she’d initially said was so disturbing. She listened without interruption. Our conversation was hard but honest. We kept going even when it was painful. We talked through all that was bothering us, resolving what had upset each of us, ending with a hug that was heartfelt. 

Later, before she left, we made jokes about the initial issue. The fear I felt dissolved. Our meeting ended in laughter and a deepening of our friendship. I understood more deeply: real friends want to talk. Want to listen. Want to resolve issues. Want the friendship to continue.

When was the last time you talked honestly with a friend? What was that like?