I’ve written here before about my college friend Andrew.
To summarize: Andrew was going through a lot when we dated: his mother, an alcoholic, was drinking so much that it nearly killed her, and he was finally remembering the deeply traumatic childhood memories he’d repressed for years. Despite all of this, he has flatly refused to speak with a mental health professional, and instead “deals” with his pain by psychologically abusing me.
In the seven years that followed, Andrew worked closely with a psychotherapist. He apologized to me deeply and meaningfully, and as I noted, even though I don’t forgive what happened, I do forgive him. Most importantly, he was in many healthy romantic relationships, consistently treating his partners with care and respect.
Slowly, Andrew and I built a friendship. From the beginning, I was clear that this was not a prelude to us dating again — he had hurt me so much, so deeply — and he understood and respected my boundaries. But yet it’s still clear that we’ve been dating all these years: we get along like gangsters.
To this day, we still know things about each other that no one else does, so we can talk about our lives from a place of honesty and vulnerability. We share our hopes and fears. We laugh until we cry.
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As more and more time passed, I began to draw neat boundaries around the past: this was then, this was now. Andrew and I have grown and changed. We shed the roles that defined our broken relationship like a snake shedding its skin.
And then, last week, I had a rude awakening.
We were at a college football game (of course), cheering on our alma mater with a group of equally enthusiastic friends. Andrew was at the end of our line, then our friend Emily, who was even more drunk than me. Our team was on third and goal – a crucial moment – so I wasn’t interested in anything but the game. But then I heard Emily shout, “Andrew is tickling me!” Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her playfully pushing Andrew, trying to push him away.
I didn’t think about it – that’s their natural dynamic; Andrew is always trying to tickle Emily because she hates it so much.
We recorded, and suddenly, amidst all the loud cheering, Andrew was trying to get my attention, saying I should stand between them, and Emily was laughing and agreeing. This was all part of their usual trick. I responded that I was trying to watch the game, that I hate tickling (does anyone enjoy being tickled?), and that he could solve that problem.
“Then I’ll leave,” Andrew said and pulled away.
Emily and I were sure he was joking. We’ve all played this exact interaction at least a dozen times; There was no reason for this to be any different. But Andrew never came back, and he missed our post-match plans as well. Finally, I texted him to ask if he was okay.
Nothing could prepare me for the response.
He said his mother started drinking again. Emily was drunk and teasing him, and it reminded him of his mother and upset him. He asked for my help to alleviate the situation, but I was not there for him. You dropped the ball. You failed. It was my fault. I need to apologize.
So I did it right away. I was sorry about his mother. I was sorry about Emily. I was sorry because I had no idea. I wanted to be there for him. I wanted to help him. I wanted to do better.
Only hours later I realized what had happened. Something external had triggered Andrew’s deep-seated problems, and we both immediately fell back into our old roles: he’d blame me for things that weren’t my fault, I’d apologize profusely and unapologetically, then position myself to be his punching bag again.
It was very scary for me. After nearly a decade and thousands of hours of therapy for each of us, we are right where we left off.
Sometimes, I think a relationship – or one aspect of a relationship – is fundamentally broken.
Although Andrew and I can act healthily and appropriately around friends and other partners, the pattern of our dynamic together when affected by his mother’s drinking is too deeply ingrained in each of us to change. The only thing to do is to take a step back, for our own sake. By enabling him, I’m not helping him at all, and hurting myself badly in the process.
I told him, as his friend, that I wanted to be by his side in this difficult time, but I could not; I wasn’t willing to be hurt like he had hurt me once before. I encouraged him to return to therapy and look into Al-Anon, which other friends of mine had had great experiences with.
I also encouraged him to try to understand his treatment of me as part of his issues with his mother, so he could be sure he would never do it to anyone else. He was surprised and sad but said he understood.
I love Andrew. I want him to be happy, and I want him in my life. But the way he deals with his grief is not in my control, and I cannot allow myself to be a victim of it. I miss him already. But the Andrew I miss is kind, considerate, and a friend of mine.
I hope to see him again.
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