As a little girl, I remember looking out on the patio, where they met with Grady. I could not hear the words they spoke, but I saw the tired and pained look on his eyes. Of all the people that visited him, the NA group alarmed me. Later I watched as they removed his patch from his leather vest and a tear roll down his face. Two weeks later he died. The sickness that stole his manhood, his family and his life, also robbed him of his posse, his group, his support....
Last night I looked into her eyes; they were cool blue. Her hands were clasped in a no non-sense manner, but the sharp rocking of her head betrayed her. She was no cool and matter of fact deep down inside. I knew I could have my way, interrupt her and cause her to falter. I wanted to scream out. Tell her and the rest of them that they are sell outs. I was impressed how she handled being the spokesperson of the group. Her thoughts were organized and she did not stutter. I trained her well.
The meeting was brief. It was basically to official inform me that I was excommunicated. Twelve years of friendship, of heart to heart sharing, of quarrels, and make up, of frustrating misunderstandings and the sweetness of knowing that above all else, they know....gone.
I made a single choice. Isolated as it was, it grew and grew and grew. Other choices were made for me as a consequence. I was forced into a box and shipped out. My best friends, my sisters more then sisters, the main characters of the novel yet to be written feel like I betrayed them. But reality is... they betrayed me.
My mother once told me that a friendship is only as strong as what can break it. I don't want to admit that the sisterhood was broken because I made a single choice they did not agree with. I wish they could be happy for me, even if they might have their reserves. Instead, I was meant with opposition and was told "we can no longer be friends, we are officially divorced". The finality of the meeting and the unwillingness to discuss was a dagger to my heart.
I wonder, did they feel like murders during their holy quest to righteousness? Because I feel murdered.
As I step into a new season of my life, I meet it with a depression that I would never wish on anyone. So after the meeting, I buried my nose in his chest and I had a long hard cry that wet his shirt. He drove me home and stayed until late. I wish no one would ever have to mix the joy of young love with the despair of broken sisterhood. But I will survive.
Am I making a mistake?