“The most prevalent kind of despair is not being true to oneself.” ~Søren Kierkegaard
It wasn’t a sudden disappearance.
Initially, I lost myself—slowly, quietly, like when someone you trust makes you doubt your own thoughts and emotions.
At first, she was captivating. Affectionate, passionate, making you feel unique with her focus. I felt lucky to be friends with her, enough to obscure what came after.
It started with minor things. My intentions morphed into hers. My viewpoints were subtly and continually deconstructed until I questioned their validity. A choice I made created such a rift between us that I found myself apologizing—sometimes uncertain of the reason.
This became our routine. I acted. She responded. I apologized. I adapted. Each change seemed rational, like a minor adjustment, until I realized I was far from my original direction.
It was difficult to identify as it didn’t manifest as overt control. No loud arguments or threats. Nothing theatrical enough to clearly indicate it.
It was more subdued. Her disappointment. The guilt crafted so seamlessly I believed I had created it. Anticipating my remarks before speaking, censoring myself to evade her reaction.
I ceased to trust my instincts. Gradually, like a muscle atrophying from lack of use. I had been indirectly told that my judgment was flawed—that I was overly emotional, misremembered things, or that my responses were problematic. I began to accept this narrative.
I never anticipated I would internalize the narrative she spun about me so completely.
The Indicators I Overlooked
In retrospect, the indicators appeared early on. I simply lacked the language to articulate them.
She made everything appear urgent—her demands, emergencies, plans. Whenever I had something important, the discussion would swiftly return to her. I stopped sharing, not deliberately, just gradually. There was no space for my concerns in a friendship overwhelmingly centered on hers.
She was giving but with unnoticeable ties. If she provided assistance, it resurfaced later—not in the form of a grievance but in a manner that left me feeling obliged. “I was there when no one else was.” That sort of phrasing. Uttered lightly, often. Enough to keep a mental note of what I owed her.
When I failed to meet her standards or wasn’t present, a chill emerged. Not rage. Something subtler, more challenging to address. A withdrawal of affection that compelled me to strive to regain it, frequently by relinquishing what had created the distance.
I reassured myself that this was how deep friendships functioned. Compromise, flexibility, and adjustment were vital. I thought I was too self-sufficient, too inflexible, unwilling to prioritize someone who relied on me.
I was mistaken. Yet, it required time to grasp why.
The Moment of Change
The shift wasn’t dramatic. It was an ordinary Tuesday.
She was speaking