being loved by someone I loved
It’s been a year since one of my best friends for the last decade left this world. I don’t have many photos of him and almost none with him since I moved the year after we met. Really what I wish I could show you is the way he made me feel.
At first, the reason T liked me was because I didn’t like him. The reason I didn’t like T was because everyone liked him. He was smart, charming, generous and the life of the party. He always had an outrageous travel story or would orchestrate an experience out of the ordinary for those lucky enough to be around him. He was a cocky mother fucker with good reason to be and a good heart.
T’s intelligence made him incredibly insightful. He quickly figured out the way to win me over was by showing me that he could see beyond my aloof and critical mask through poignant teasing that highlighted my tenderness. He saw me and he loved me. He helped me see and love myself.
In February of 2016 I got the call that his father was murdered when I was in New York saying goodbye to my grandmother, my greatest love and champion in this life. Our parallel grief bonded us more deeply than our trauma commonalities of having a mentally ill parent, struggling with bipolar disorder, and strangely shameful isolation of a privileged Jewish upbringing.
A year ago his death rocked me. He was my person. The person I could call when I was at my absolute worst and feeling completely hopeless who would meet me where I was at and sit with me in the dark, cracking a joke that was like a strike of lightning in even the deepest depression. He would meet me in the low places then slowly buoy me up. He sold me on life again and again, not necessarily by the things he said, but by showing me I wasn’t alone.
The relationship we shared was deeply vulnerable and honest, which made the love that resulted from it so valuable. He saw me, he loved me. I showed him me, he loved me. I admired him, not for his accomplishments, but for who he was. Being loved by someone I loved and admired made me feel like maybe I was worth loving after a childhood that systematically told me in very plain language and with consistent repetition that I wasn’t.
In the years after his fathers death, the police investigation, criminal proceedings, lawsuits, mental health diagnoses and life’s repeated setbacks, was one of the hardest things I have ever done and a great honor of my life. I got in the dug out with him and I stayed because I wanted to, because I could, and because he deserved it. This is what we do for each other in this world. We show up and stay when we can. We don’t all have to stay for everyone, but loving and being loved leads to more love because it’s healing in the relationships you are truly willing to let yourself be seen.