I had been sitting with a close friend of mine on our university campus in an outside patio, feeling confident and indignant despite being unprovoked. In a few short minutes, it would be the first time that Madeline (my soon-to-be roommate) and I could spend time together beyond a simple hello, and we were planning to discuss our expectations for the year ahead. I had been carefully preparing, debating how I might best present myself with an aura that could effectively intimidate Madeline.
I had just spent my first year at Chapman University living with women who seemed to have a knack for preying on the weaknesses of others, and used them to manipulate and bully. I had spent a year with rumors swirling around my home about my sexuality, receiving the silent treatment, being yelled at, and feeling a constant need to walk on eggshells. Righteously angry and unwilling to compromise, I hoped to show Madeline that intimidating me was impossible, and I was uninterested in the façade of pleasantries. I was determined to never again be taken advantage of, and perhaps even more intensely determined to avoid situations that might lead to conflict in any way, shape or form. Our meeting seemed like the opportune moment to establish my dominance within our relationship.
When Madeline arrived at our table, she was exactly the girl I expected, and the complete opposite of me: bubbly, exuberant, and sweet. We walked together to a popular coffee shop just outside the borders of campus, and her demeanor quickly changed in response to my deliberately hostile tone. As we chatted over coffee and tea about our past and how we hoped to see our future, it became increasingly clear that the year ahead might prove difficult. She was relaxed about her expectations for a roommate, while I had clear and distinct boundaries I demanded her to follow. The contrast between our styles, beliefs, and attitude was stark: we were polar opposites. She left our conversation apprehensive of a friendship with me, and I left knowing that I had accomplished my goal.
However, as time wore on, our relationship began to shift. It was about a month into living together, and Madeline was the last one home. The anniversary of my mother’s passing, September 27, was nearly over. I was sprawled on the couch, tissues crumpled on the floor and my laptop open to a photo album entitled “Mom and I.” All day had been a transition from the bed to the couch and back again. My face was tear-soaked and swollen, and I was having difficulty focusing on anything in front of me. Outside our apartment I could hear Madeline struggling to fit her keys into the lock, and the crash of heavy bags falling to the floor as she worked to open the door. Swinging our front door open, she shouted “Fall Haul!” and bounced over to me on the couch. She embodied everything I wasn’t in that moment, and perfectly provided the light to my darkness, the energy to my lethargy. Out of her bags, she began to describe each item one by one, all pumpkin-flavored, and all for me. First the pumpkin eggnog, then the pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin pop-tarts, pumpkin yogurt…a seemingly endless array of treats that reminded me both of the things I love, and how loved I am.
Madeline’s gesture softened me, and I sobbed violently into her arms. She allowed me the space to cry when I needed to cry, and she brought me joy on a day that might otherwise prove to be the worst of my year. Although uncomfortably new at first, it was our differences that allowed her to see past my walls and care for me in ways that others hadn’t. And in fact, this was not the only time that she had done exactly that.
At this point, Madeline and I were clear and established friends. It was not uncommon for her and I to stay up talking in the middle of the night, or joke with each other while brushing our teeth. But everyone has secrets, parts of their past that hurt more than others. It’s only ever a select few that get to see the vulnerability there, the wound that others or you had left behind, undressed and raw without the layers that normally serve to hide the ugliness. Without meaning to, I showed Madeline the shameful pieces of my past.
I had tried to shake the feeling I had that night, a feeling of dread that only comes over you when something, sometimes seemingly out of the blue, reminds you of that thing you wish you could forget. Someone close to me had described her experience with suicidal ideation, and it was simply more than I was prepared to handle. I paced wildly around our living room, ran on the treadmill in our apartment gym, and drank copious amounts of wine. This is the state that Madeline found me in. Pushing open our front door, she looked at me, paused, closed the door behind her and came to sit beside me. She reached out her hand to meet mine, and we sat silently, her palm resting on top. It was a comfortable silence, the type of silence that doesn’t need words or interaction, because it speaks already of what we couldn’t say.
The round, gold clock that sat on the side table ticked, while the fan overhead buzzed and swayed. The cars passed noisily just outside our patio door, and there was music drifting in from our upstairs neighbor.
And we remained silent still. And this was enough. Because what Madeline didn’t say was, “Don’t worry, God’s got this,” or “It’ll all be okay,” or even “I’m sorry.” All I needed in that moment was for someone to sit in the mess and the hurt with me, and she saw that for what it was.
She was never the friend I wanted, expected, or thought I needed. But, it is our differences that create a constant and beautiful tension between the known and the unknown, the familiar and the unfamiliar. Our friendship is dynamic, continuously shifting into territories I haven’t explored in other relationships. She challenges me to view things from a different perspective, and to appreciate the little things in life.
I suppose now I’ll always have to expect the unexpected, especially in friendships.
A Composition of Self by Alexis Rivera 