You Were Never Really My Friend, Were You?
Sometimes it takes me a while to see the truth
I thought what we had was different. It was different from anything I’d ever experienced, anyway. I had never had a friend who was also something more— which is a sad commentary on my romantic life considering I was fifty years old and had been married twice when we met.
I had never understood (but definitely envied) those couples who seemed to be passionately in love with each other and also claimed to be best friends. The best of both worlds, right? I had always lived at the extremes. I’d had fuck buddies who were definitely not friends and only barely acquaintances. I’d had friends toward whom I’d had no sexual attraction. I’d had lovers who had been entertaining and fun — their company enjoyable — but with whom I could never, ever quite be my whole self. Because that wouldn’t be sexy, would it? My whole self would have been too much. Too much honesty, too much unhealed pain, too challenging, too loud, too unapologetic.
So I lived at the edges. Everyone had their box and they stayed where they belonged.
I’d had husbands who were something altogether different from those that I dated, but still not what I needed. What I didn’t even know that I needed. The husbands were not friends and not fuck buddies. They had started out as lovers but never…
