I had a broken friend that changed me. I suppose anyone who has had their heart broken has had their life changed after the incident, or has been influenced directly by the breaker. I would certainly say so in my case. I’m a completely different person than I was a couple of years ago. I should say that I am finally my own person.

It started when I was eleven years old. I met her at a girls prayer group that both our parents forced us to go to. She was nice, I was nice. We hit it off pretty well within the group, our interests were unison at the time, and our experiences were complementary to one anothers’.
Both of us being naturally shy, it took multiple introductions and forced activities to stimulate our bonding. One day, I joined her table at which she resided singularly, drawing elves and such of the fantasy realm. That was our real start after the prayer group, the first time I really talked to her. From then on we were partners, teammates, in sports, art, music, and even crime. We went on to eventually form the posse “Castle Joseph” with my sister and her best friend. Many a good times prospered under that reign. The four of us attended everything together, and were even known by the name Castle Joseph, though not many knew the origin of the title (of which is a long and irrelevant story). Our kingdom reigned a good four years or so. It’s hard to remember a season so hazy, blurred by the speed of time.

Along our seven year journey, we both underwent personal trauma. A boat called A ship called “Ana” had already cast off by the time I met her. ‘Ana’ - anorexia - sailed my dear friend near to death. Soon after our first meetings, the hospital consumed her and her family’s time and money. The few visits I had before the doctor banned non-family friends, I chose simply be present, I was too shocked to say much. She was so grey, her skin thick and clammy, her platinum hair had lost it’s shine, as did her big, blue eyes, as if she were already dead. I didn’t say much, just left my hand on her leg to let her know I was there.

I discovered almost at that moment that I was a rescuer. I’d always been drawn to movies and games, media, that involved a damsel in distress. Ever since I was real little, I played the hero, the savior. Then that happened. I found my arms were her safe place, that I was the only one who could get her to eat, at least according to her completely useless parents who let me take over her life at such a crucial part.
After the whole endeavour, we were practically inseparable, and everyone knew it. I can honestly say that we were together at least three days a week for the next five years. And that’s not counting classes together, or the times I spent weeks straight at her house.

As if that wasn’t enough to get us into emotion and psychological trouble, there was my half of the story. When I was thirteen, I realized I had attractions toward my own sex, and a special hatred for the other. She was the first and only person who knew for a long time. She accepted me. She loved me anyway. She wasn’t afraid of me, or to sleep in the same bed as me. She trusted me.
If only I hadn’t trusted myself.
Over the years, we eventually started developing feelings for each other. It took her a lot longer to admit it. It didn’t help that I was practically dragging her out of that pit of denial, if there even was one in the first place. I know she loved me as a friend, to death, but any love further than that was out of hurt. The holes in her heart left by her parents, the figurative and literal scars from a man that raped her. I was the replacement. She tried to shove me into holes I wasn’t formed to fit into, and I did the exact same to her.

I often caught myself thinking of her as a mother, asking her mature question she didn’t have the answers to, going to her in pain or in insecurity. All this because my own had emotionally caved under the pressure of caring for eight abandoned kids, in turn, figuratively abandoning her own; my biological siblings and myself.

Both she and I shoved each other into corners we shouldn’t have been in, and it eventually escalated to the physical realm where we became fused at the soul. We were in every sense the fulfillment of Aristotle’s definition of friends: one soul in two bodies.

What goes up must come down. We became as close as two childish teens could have gotten, after that, we just started killing each other. The last year of our relationship was overflowing with woe and tears, blood and anger, codependency, exclusiveness, pushing, manipulating, and a whole lot of circles as we tried to figure out what to do. Always the illogical circles.

Finally I broke it off. It was almost a year after I knew that I had to do it. We cried hard that day. She kissed my nose sweetly, and I distinctly remember how wet our faces were. We went to really good places that following summer. Good places with our families, our friends, and God. I saw her a lot, and it hurt, but the beauty of closure does not often come without pain.

Since then I have found the beauty in myself, God’s beauty in me. The open fissures ache, but the task of welding them together has literally challenged and changed me in every area of my life. The love that has come out of this deep wound will forever outweigh those seven years lost. Love for my Creator, my family, my truest friends, and my individuality. I will never forget my broken friend and will forever be thankful for the person she has helped me to be.