Dear Cary,
I am having problems with my friend (let's call her Mary). Mary and I have been friends since college. We are in our early 30s now. Neither of us is married: Mary is completely single and I have a significant other. We have lived, traveled and partied together. Mary has seen me at my best and emotional worst. We have a large group of friends in common whose weddings and baby showers we attend together. In many ways, our lives have paralleled each other's -- we have both moved from coast to coast and, for the third time, we have found ourselves living in the same large metropolitan area.
A year ago, I was laid off from my job. I decided to search for a job in the area where Mary lives. During that time she was very supportive of me -- she allowed me to stay with her whenever an interview brought me to her city. I accepted a job near Mary, and she allowed me to stay with her while I searched for an apartment. During that time, despite my lack of income, I made sure to treat her to meals out, bottles of wine, etc.
Six months have passed since I started my new job, and I have settled in to my new life. My friendship with Mary is rapidly deteriorating. She is part of a gaggle of single, professional women who like to have expensive nights on the town during which they "trawl" for men. Mary earns a lot of money and often bankrolls these nights out for certain of these girls who don't make a lot of money. She even goes so far as to organize and pay for little overnight and weekend trips. As a result, she has collected a group of women friends who really look up to her and will drop anything to spend time with her. In principle, I have a problem with this. Even if Mary would pay for me, I wouldn't let her. As a government worker, I can't afford the expensive lifestyle. At first, I went along with these outings, but lately have declined the invitations and suggested alternative daytime activities such as going to museums and on hikes.
Whenever I make plans with Mary, at the last minute, she brings other people along to the activity. For instance, if I invite her to dinner and make a reservation, I find out that at the last minute she has invited other people along and changed the reservation. I once invited her on a hike and to dinner at my house afterward; she invited five people along without asking me first and then wouldn't let me know whether anyone was coming, even though I called her several times. In the end, I got tired of waiting and made other plans. When Mary called me to let me know they were "on the way," I explained to her that I had made other plans when I didn't hear back from her; she got really angry. Another time she invited me on a day trip, and, after I accepted, I received in an e-vite in which she had asked 35 other people to come along; then she told me I would have to find my own transportation to our destination because she had to drive the others who don't have cars. I canceled.
I feel like it is rude for Mary to always include so many other people without asking me when I am the one who has made the invitation. I feel like it is rude of her to wait until the last minute to let me know when we can meet up. I feel like she is doing this because she has to be in control of the situation. I can't stand being controlled in this way, so often I cancel when she pulls these stunts. However, it gets worse.
Lately, when I have plans to meet Mary, she is really late. A few weeks ago, she told me to meet her at her house. At the agreed-upon time, she texted to say she was getting a pedicure and would meet me in 10 minutes. She didn't arrive until 45 minutes later -- I had to wait the whole time on the sidewalk in front of her house on a dangerous street populated by hookers and crackheads. Last week, at a party we were co-hosting for our college friend from out of town, she arrived almost three hours late. Then over the weekend, when she was supposed to meet me and my boyfriend for drinks and dinner to celebrate my birthday, she arrived one and a half hours late and we missed the dinner reservation. Each of these times, there was no acknowledgment of the tardiness or apology.
You are probably thinking this is a no-brainer: Cut ties with Mary. But it is not that easy. The truth is that Mary and I have many memories and friends in common. She considers me one of her best friends. We actually do have a good time together.
What should I do? It is hard for me to accept the fact that Mary has to be in control and won't be happy unless I follow her around like a puppy. My heart tells me that, deep down, Mary is very unhappy about something and is acting out. I feel like I can't have a heart-to-heart with her because Mary would never admit to having anything less than a perfect life.
Help
Dear Help,
I think you said it very well: It is hard for you to accept the fact that Mary has to be in control and won't be happy unless you follow her around like a puppy.
So how? How do you "accept" and "move on"?
First you must "fix" this phenomenon. Not repair it, but "fix" it in the traditional sense of the word: See it as permanent. You cannot repair this. But you must fix it, i.e. freeze it in time, see it as a fait accompli. As long as you try to repair this, you will never fix it. You will be swept along in it like flotsam on a wave.
One way is to do as you have done above, only more so. List her transgressions exhaustively. List all her offenses. You do not need to make it in narrative form; it can be simply,
What fascinates me about the inner life, or, if you will, the spirit, is that by "fixing," or making a pattern of behavior visible (this pattern is "character"), we see the contour of a spirit; likewise, by "fixing" a pattern of behavior we can see the contour of a friendship. Once we can see it then we can let it go.
As kids we made rubbings of pennies and leaves. You place the object under a paper and carefully -- or savagely, depending on your temperament and style -- rub the flat side of a pencil lead over the paper so the lines of the object appear. (That was such a beautiful thing, to watch an image appear, transferred to a portable medium; also watching a photograph develop in a tray: the same thing! After the image appeared on the Kodak paper, my father would bathe it in fixative, making the image permanent.)
Until we fix the condition we continue to wait for hours on cold steps for our friend. Strangers pass and size us up. We feel powerless and put upon. So we name it. What would you call it? The Incredibly Unavailable Former Friend? The Spectacularly Insensitive Hostess? The Monumentally Uncommunicative, Perpetually Late, Uncaring, Chaotic, Childish Former College Friend?
It matters that you give it a name. But you do not need to be accurate in its diagnosis. You are not going to cure this disease. You just need to name it and fix it in time.
You name it and fix it in time so you can accept it: This is your former friendship. This friendship is lost to you now.
Note the "friendship" is lost to you. The "friend" is still there. That is what is so vexing. The friend is still there but the friendship is gone.
So you say, "this woman I used to be friends with." You say, "this incredibly selfish person I was close to in college." Ah. That is hard, no? By fixing it you lose it. Then you have to mourn it.
It's really, really sad, I know.
You have to feel it. You have to feel it and let it go.
That is what you do. You capture this image; you freeze it, as if taking a photo. Then you develop it and bathe it in the fixative of your own gaze.
Friendship troubles? See pp. 6, 44, 77, etc.
"Since You Asked," on sale now at Cary Tennis Books: Buy now and get an autographed first edition.
What? You want more advice?
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