All I could think of, as I sat on that train to Boston on a September evening, was what an idiot I was. What a horrible friend, what a terrible woman, what an ugly, unworthy, and selfish being I was. I had done something I knew would hurt one of my dearest friends, and now I was going to Boston to confess my dirty deed.
Jenna and I had been friends for many, many years. We shared a love for theatre and the arts. She was kind, sensitive, sweet, and incredibly generous. I held her dearly in my heart, and thought, frequently, that we would be friends forever. We did many plays in school together, and when we went away to colleges that were really far away from each other, we stayed in touch. She was one of the very few friends I had in my life whom I considered a soul sister.
But these were things I took for granted. Not realizing their rarity and weight, I threw them away. I was on that train to Boston to tell Jenna, to her face, that I had slept with her ex-boyfriend, a man she had loved for many years. It was a secret I couldn't keep from her. I didn't know how to continue being her friend after having done that to her. I knew, as I sat there on the train, that I was about to hurt my friend irreparably.
When I arrived to Boston, I wanted to sit down with her somewhere quiet and tell her right away. But she said she had a night class and she absolutely had to go. Even though I was feeling like death, I told her I'd wait for her. I sat on a chair outside the classroom while she was in class, staring at the wall; the weight of my confession sitting on my chest, getting heavier with every minute. When she got out of class, we went to her dorm. She showered, talked to some people, took care of some things around the house, while I waited on her bed. Now, in retrospect, I am able to realize that she already knew I was about to tell her something devastating, and she was stalling for time. Maybe she wanted to delay that painful moment and protect herself, or maybe she was stretching out the minutes before our friendship ended. I don't know.
Finally, she came into her room and closed the door. We sat on her floor. I couldn't look her in the eyes. The words I had carefully chosen in the hours I'd spent preparing my confession escaped me. Any prepared speech seemed perfectly ridiculous. Looking down at her wooden floor, I said, "I did something I don't know how to explain. It involves your ex-boyfriend." She asked me to look at her. Her eyes, which had always smiled at me, were cold. Then she said, "You had sex with him?" I nodded my head yes, once again looking away from her. "Then the word you're looking for is fucking. That's how you can explain it." I sat there, not knowing what to do, wishing I could evaporate and take my shame with me. There were things I could have said, there were explanations for my actions, there where complicated details that justified my behavior, in part. But there was no point. The essence, no matter what I said or how I phrased it, was that I had betrayed her.
Not once did she cry or yell at me. She looked at me at one point, though, after a long silence, and said quietly, "I knew you were selfish, egotistical, and self-centered, but I never thought you'd do something like this to me." Her pain was tangible. Again, I looked away. Her words would haunt me for a long, long time.
I slept on the floor of her living room that night, still feverish and ill, grateful that she hadn't kicked me out into the night on my own. In the morning, I went up to her room to say good-bye before I left back for New York. She didn't get up or walk me to the door. There was no hug, no hand-shake, no last look. That was it. I had proved myself unworthy of final good-bye gesture. I knew, as I walked to the train station, that I would never see her again.
I tried, several times, to write to her. I apologized and hoped to mend that broken bridge. But I knew that I had done something unforgivable. I had, in a few moments, lost years of a friendship, and I had no one but myself to blame. I felt I deserved to have lost her. I had done something I knew would hurt someone I loved, for my own selfish reasons. I had no business bugging her to forgive me and I knew it. I had to let her go now, and bear the burden of my guilt. I had brought this loss upon myself, and now I had to learn to live with it.
My chest still tenses up as I think of this story. Although many years have passed, and surely Jenna is living a peaceful life surrounded by people who are worthy of her friendship, I still have to work on forgiving myself. Mostly, I just miss her. The regrets, the embarrassment, and the "if only" thoughts are not as strong as the sad, heaving feeling of having lost someone I cared about. I still see things that I'd like to share with her and am saddened that I can't just pick up the phone and call her. I still miss her advice, her patience, and her smile.
This is one of my mistakes, the one by which I learned who I really am, what I'm capable of doing, and the consequences of my reckless actions. It is a part of me I am ashamed to own up to, but it is, nonetheless, part of what makes me who I am. I have to remember that there are parts of me I am proud of too, and it all makes up a whole- a person capable of both good, selfless actions and hurtful, selfish ones too.
It is easy to embrace our lightness. The challenge comes in accepting our darkness. It is a lesson I am still learning.
