I'm a reasonably decent sort of human being by my own standards, on a good day, when not being visited by the black dog.
That said, I hate it when people describe themselves as a "nice" person - I prefer to make my own decisions in that regard. I will know if you are a nice person or not, based on how you treat me, and how I feel I want to treat you. I can think for myself, maybe too much, but allow me the time and space to do so and if I am still in your life after a while, you can safely assume that I think you are a nice person.
Despite not being remotely religious, I do unto others as I would like done to me. And frankly, if people want to talk about me behind my back, who am I to stop them? I'm not sure I am actually THAT interesting. Not any more.
When I was 15, I hung around with the same girls that I had always hung around with in secondary school, but we were joined by some of the lower sixth form boys who were also an established group of friends. We did our first major drink-till-you-puke sessions, partied most weekends, either in someone's house, or in better weather, out in local parks, coastal areas etc.
We were far from what would now be considered "Chavvy" - middle class Grammar School pupils embarking on teenage explorations into adult behaviour - but politely and without disruption to anyone around us. We just had a lot of fun.
I needed that fun, more than anything. As previously documented, my grandparents were tumbling in a style I had only previously seen the Christmas Santa brought me a box of "Domino Rally, Action Alley" - my mum was wading through the treacle that losing both parents in less time than it takes to gestate a baby causes, and I was keeping all my grief well and truly bottled up in an attempt to just. keep. going.
I had a younger brother, still do in fact, who was barely old enough to even understand what dead meant - and I was trying to be strong for him, and for my mum, and did not dare to crack, be seen as vulnerable, or do anything other than keep a stiff upper lip.
I channelled this into various outlets, getting drunk at the weekends on diabolical products that I wouldn't even clean my loo with nowadays, self-harming, pristine and not too deep slices across my forearms that I would carefully wrap in toilet roll and cover with long sleeves, a paracetamol overdose at school, (I took 10, and all they did was walk me up and down the cloakroom to ensure I didn't fall asleep... Never even told my mother. Seriously!), binge eating chocolate like it was going out of style, all the while, forcing down my own grief, keeping it buried, for the sake of those around me, who had enough to deal with and didn't need me falling apart all over them.
I survived only because of that group of friends. Knowing I would see them at lunchtimes, and the weekends, and that we would be able to drink and laugh and be able to just forget about the whole grim reality of my existence, was vital to me. Just to be a 16 year old girl and not have to think about what I had lost, what I was holding in, and another bleak week coming up where I would pay no attention in class, care less about the upcoming exams, concentrating on just getting through the day until I could go home and lock myself away in my room, alone, pretending to do homework when really I was just staring at the wall, wishing Jason Donovan would climb out of the poster and make everything all right. He witnessed every tear I shed. It's no wonder he turned to cocaine.
Admittedly, during those drunk times, I did do some of my falling apart. Alcohol is a dangerous partner for the grieving - but in my case, did at least allow me to get to the point where the shutoff button overloaded and the grief made a dash for the escape hatch. My group of friends were kind and supportive, and would mop my tears, try and make me laugh, bring me back round to enjoy the evening.
Fast forward 20 years. The Internet is alive and kicking and Facebook is stealing all of our spare time. One side effect of Facebook is of course, the ability to connect with people, and over the last few years I have reconnected with a fair few of that group of people. One or two I have not, for various reasons, but I suspect the majority of those I haven't were those that fell on the side of a division that occurred in the group during the uni years, which I was only an indirect part of, and I won't detail here because it isn't my story to report - but in the fallout of it, I was firmly inclined towards the side of one of the two members - those that were inclined to the other side of the situation, are all those mysteriously not sending me friend requests, nor do I feel that inclined to do it to them. I know when I am not welcome. That's fine. I am sure most of their memory of me is somewhat tarnished, as I was such a hideous mess for most of the time we all hung out together.
I'm not that person any more, not that it matters.
So, Facebook. A number of the people I had hung around with in that time and I have reconnected. We began to share old photos, reminisce about the "good" old days - and I remarked to one of the girls in a private message about how that group had pretty much kept me alive during that time, everything was such a hideous explosion of teenage angst, adult grief, spontaneous father appearances and just drama everywhere I looked, went, whenever I woke up...
I assumed that the response would be "Oh, well glad it helped" - but what she actually replied was the last thing I would ever have expected.
"Oh, was that all real? We thought you made it all up."
I took a "Like Button" to the face at 90 miles an hour. But the thumb was tucked in.
I didn't reply for several days. I couldn't for the life of me understand why ANYONE would have thought that! I know that teenagers make up stories for attention and to seem like they are more grown up and experienced, but really? 3 dead grandparents and the return of an absentee father? Being visibly absent at school due to funeral attendances? Bit of an elaborate and expensive way to fool your mates!
"Oh how we laughed when she finally revealed she had hidden her grandparents in a coal bunker for a year just to make sure they didn't get spotted at the shops and spoil the amazing story! She's such a gas!"
All this time, I never had one inkling that they felt that way. Not one. It was like she had taken my memories, pulled the rug from under them, and laughed as they crashed to the floor, irrevocably smashed into a million tiny pieces. To be fair, other than those evenings, most of my memories of that time are not good, and I don't mind THOSE ones being smashed up, but these were not THOSE memories. These were my sustenance during the blackest period of my life. The happier moments in amongst the gloom and doom. All broken. All of them.
I began to question all of those times, was I really their friend at all? Did they only pity me and let me tag along as the person most likely to get steaming drunk and make an absolute asshat of herself for their entertainment? I was really angry, briefly. Then sad, and disappointed, and hurt.
But the more I thought and unravelled those times, and remembered them, and the value they held for me, the less the anger and hurt of the revelation smarted. If they actually really did not believe me, they never ever ever let on. They continued to support me regardless.
It doesn't bear thinking about how it would have affected me if they had actually called me out on it at the time. That was my lifeline. The fact that they had been discussing me behind my back - well, in that situation, I dare say no-one would want to handle it alone, without the mutual support of the others in the group, so it would be natural for it to be discussed when I wasn't involved, and yes, it was kind of bitchy, but if it was happening to someone other than me, would I believe that someone could be so unfortunate? I don't know. I have never been in those shoes where I am supporting someone through that situation - so I cannot say.
They did me a huge favour. They stuck it out even if they didn't believe me, they put up with me when I was at my most distressed, my most over-dramatic, my most angst ridden and at the time, my lowest depths.
Eventually, I did write back. I thanked her. And that was all.
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