Friendship Difficulties & Losing Friends

'We're over this, you can't keep putting it on us - it's not fair.'

I was at my friend's house, with a few mates, just deciding what we were going to have for takeaway. I had just turned sixteen and it was about three months after my dad's funeral. A song had come on that had struck a nerve, so I left the room; I didn't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. One of my friends followed me out of the room, I presumed he was going to check if I was okay. I remember hearing him walk over and I instantly felt better; like maybe I was where I was supposed to be in that moment because someone was going to look after me. That wasn't to be. 

I went downstairs, called my brother and he came to collect me. I never went back to that group of friends. I did try; a year later when we were all going to sixth form, I went to the same college as them for a morning. I left before lunchtime. Walked an hour to the other local college where I knew no one and signed up there. It wasn't my friends fault, I wasn't the same person anymore.

If you're reading this, chances are that you don't need me to tell you how losing a parent as a young adult makes you see the world differently. Everyone else you encounter can see beauty, experience joy and even shrink from danger - but, for a while, you're not able to do those things. Sometimes, you pretend to, just to feel normal again; but the painful fact is, your life becomes a wasteland. You process things differently from other people - including your friends. Of course, you don't expect them to think about your loss every second of every day - like you do - but you hope for a little empathy. 

I've known some people who want the exact opposite, of course. 'Treat me like you always have, I want to escape my grief when I'm with you.' For me, it was having a mix of the two. However you are feeling in the moment, the people you care for the most are the people you lean on; to know I didn't have that support from my closest friends just increased the feeling of being alone. 

Looking back now, maybe it wasn't just that sudden burst of emotion that made them feel uncomfortable. This was the first time since my dad had died that I'd left my mum and gone out. I felt guilty, that weighed on me and perhaps it showed. Then, when I got there, it didn't matter what anyone was talking about, nothing broke through. Outwardly, I thought I had done a good job at trying to fit in; laughing in the right places, joining in the banter and being as present as I knew how. But obviously, everything had changed since the last time I had been in a room with all these people. I've heard people say that grief leaves you 'numb'; but for me, it was like I had a layer across the top of my skin and nothing could penetrate it. I could act my way through a conversation, but no matter how much I wanted to care about the latest tune I was meant to like, it wasn't important to me. Maybe this was obvious, maybe I didn't have it in me to try hard enough. Maybe they could all see it. 

 At fifteen and sixteen, I can't blame my friends for not wanting to be around someone who reminded them that life wasn't always simple and at any moment, it could hit you with a devastating blow. 

Years later, my best friend, who had delivered the jarring words that prompted this blog, lost his father. He had idolised him. Although we hadn't spoken in years, we went out for a drink and he told me he has no idea how I had coped losing my dad at fifteen years old. 

 'It’s the people who get you through it,' I told him.